Fried Bologna Sandwich
Current mood: Sentimental
This morning I woke up with an overwhelming craving for a fried bologna sandwich--really, a fried bolony sammich...You know, like the ones your grandmother use to make--burnt around the edges and in the center, placed between two pieces of Wonder Bread with yellow
mustard smeared on both pieces. To top it off, you had to have an ice cold glass of granny's syrupy sweet grape and cherry-mixed Kool-Aid, with a hint of lemon. Yea, just to think of this ensemble of tastes, textures and smells made me think of my Granny, Dorothy Clark-Alexander...So as I pulled out all my ingredients, I thought about the fact that I don't eat bologna or Wonder Bread, and I don't drink Kool-Aid. However, all of these items were here in my house. Why? My husband is a self-described "country boy," from ...Louisiana. He grew up farming, so there is nothing that grows in the fields we pass, when we take our rode trips, which is foreign to him. He can tell the difference between crops, type of crop, neatness and wealth of the farmer, and the tools used for cultivation--even when the land is barren and dry. Therefore, as much as I would like to keep only wheat bread and health foods in the house, he's a man who likes his meat, sugar, and Wonder Bread. But, I digress...
Nevertheless, this morning my craving overwhelmed me--no, I'm not pregnant. Perhaps it is because it's so close to Thanksgiving, and I'm thinking about my Granny, who has gone on to glory. My Granny was no ordinary granny. She kept it too real. You could discuss anything with her; no topic was taboo. She was loving, nurturing, funny, and fierce. Granny didn't take no $@!&!! She was the granny of neighborhood. She was the babysitter for everyone, their children and then their children's children. She was the one who the single mothers came to, with children in tow, when they needed a night out just to be relieved of the trials of single parenthood. She was the one who married women came to when their husbands were acting a fool. Without judgment, she advised, counseled, consoled, and encouraged women--and now that I think about it, she did this for men as well. Many of my uncle's friends called her mama and discussed their women-related trials and tribulations with her. And I'm not ashamed to admit, I was always nearby listening to her carefully crafted words of wisdom. I was always nearby to see many-a burden lifted and tears turned into laughter from the recipients of Granny's presence. Yes, that's what it was; it was her presence.
So, as I prepared this unhealthy ensemble of tastes, textures and smells, I looked forward to the memories it would ultimately invoke. I looked forward to being once again in the presence of Granny. I looked forward to my Fried Bologna Sandwich.
