Deep Fried

I was born, raised, lightly breaded and deep fried in the South. My momma cooked with a cast iron skillet on our old gas stove and could set out a platter of Fried Chicken that would make Colonel Sanders weep. We ate vegetables fresh from our garden; green onions, green beans, tomatoes, bibb lettuce (served with sizzling bacon grease dressing), potatoes, kale, collard greens, corn and peas. We’d have fried okra, stewed okra and okra with tomatoes…all of which I ate even though I would have told you that I didn’t like okra.

We ate from our garden because money was tight and our sweat and labor on evenings and weekends was cheaper than the cost of canned goods in the grocery. Besides that, it tasted better.

It was country food, although to us it was just food. We didn’t go to restaurants because we couldn’t afford it and we didn’t need to. Mom cooked better than any chef. That’s what I thought then, when I had nothing to compare her cooking to, and that’s what I’m sure of now, after eating at some mighty fine establishments all over the country.

Saturday lunch was almost always bologna. Back then we didn’t buy it in peel and open pre-sliced packages. Dad bought it in a two or three pound roll, wrapped in red plastic. We’d cut off a thick piece; put it on some white bread with a slice of tomato and some mustard. I was a happy kid. Roll your eyes if you want, but in the days before doctors were on the news every morning telling parents about the dangers of childhood obesity and scientists blamed everything for cancer, we could eat processed food and enjoy it.

Tonight I was driving through town and I passed our local Hardee’s fast food outlet. Outside, standing next to the sign, were two men…dressed more for a nice sit down restaurant than a burger and red burrito. One of them had his cell phone out taking a picture of the sign.

Kind of weird, I thought…wondering why anyone would take a photo of a Hardee’s sign…but then I saw it. The changeable reader board beneath the big corporate logo had the words that could only be found or appreciated in the south:

Fried Bologna Biscuit $1.39

Have you ever been embarrassed by something that has absolutely nothing to do with you?

Understanding the constant flow of business travelers that stay at the hotel across the street from the Hardee’s, I quickly guessed what was happening. Two men from up North, or somewhere more “civilized” than here, had found themselves trapped in East Tennessee for the night. Apparently shocked that they didn’t find goats and chickens roaming the streets or barefoot bumpkins playing banjo on the front porches, they documented their visit by taking a picture of the Hardee’s sign promoting a pure southern delicacy.

Now, I admit that when I first saw the sign a week or so ago, I cringed a bit. Much like their previous “pork chop/gravy biscuit,” this just seemed to cross the line from general fast food unhealthiness into “we have paramedics standing by.” I won’t be buying one, and I won’t let my kids either. Unlike my parents, I have been watching the Today show.

Still, I won’t suddenly turn up my nose at the memory of hot, fried bologna sandwiches from my youth. Covered in a gooey, melted slice of Velveeta cheese, it was like steak for poor people. Mom called it “comfort food,” which along with soupy macaroni and cheese and fried potatoes was a staple of our diet. It was cheap food that tasted good, and I wouldn’t trade those memories for all the Lobster dinners in the world. I doubt that those guys taking the photo, or their uppity friends who they will surely share it with, ever had it so good.