-
RSS
Ding! Dong! Ronald is dead! Who’s Ronald? Well, since June 19, 1974 until just a few days ago, Ronald was me. My name is R York Funston, just as my father’s name was R York Funston, and as his father’s name was R York Funston. The grandfather I never knew was Raymond; the father I didn’t know long enough was Richard; and inheriting the short end of the nominal stick was me, Ronald.
I get the whole family tradition thing - it’s good we had at least one of those before everyone died - but I think my parents could have looked a little harder in the R chapter of the baby name book before settling on one most often associated with a fast food clown.
They as much admitted their own guilt by addressing me as York from the instant I made my appearance in the delivery room. My own parents were ashamed to label me with the name they had chosen.
I now love my middle name, but even that was a beastly burden to bear as a young child. I can assure you that I have never eaten pork with a fork on a stork, but all my classmates delighted in accusing me of it. I envied my dully designated friends, like Brandon and David and Jenny, for their anonymous appellations all through elementary school.
It wasn’t until the middle of high school, when blending in mystically transforms from status quo to stigma, that I began to understand this glorious gift I had been given.
And yet, unbeknownst to most, I was still secretly shackled to the shame of that first name: Ronald. It would rear up at the most unexpected and inopportune times: the first day of class, the doctor’s office, and the DMV, when those in authority and not in the know would read it aloud off the attendance sheet, appointment list, or driving record, reminding the room of my avian dining past.
It took thirty-two years of epithetical angst, but I finally had enough, and when the new name came to me, I marched down to the Court and changed into it.
Royal.
But that’s so weird?! Yes, but so is York, and I like them both very much, thank you. My friends may suddenly choose to believe that I now like to toil with a coil of foil on the soil till I’m all aboil, but having been so recently ennobled, I am above such peasantly pranks.
In tribute to this new title, I have devised a drink worthy of my majestic moniker. A mix of flavours I adore, it is simple and straightforward, just like its namesake.
The Royal York
- 2 jiggers of Maker’s Mark bourbon
- 1 pony of maple syrup
Shake with ice and strain into an old-fashioned glass over ice cubes.
2 Comments
-
Support Barack Obama
I’ve just realized that I’ve never had one of these. How is this possible? I’ve downed a couple of Zonkey Bombs but I’ve never had a Royal York? WTF?
…and I want your cocktail shaker.
How is that possible? One Royal York, coming right up sir…