when i was a kid, about twice a month, my mom would make fried bologne sandwiches with mayo and mustard on wheat bread. we'd have shasta strawberry soda and bbq potato chips. not only did we get to have soda, but potato chips too. I can still remember the smell of the bologne frying in the pan. it would fill then entire house. i always begged her to let me help, but she said i was still too small and i might burn myself.
when i was a kid it was one of the best dinners. it was a treat. i would put my chips in my sandwich and squish it until it was flat again. it would make it a crunchy, yummy, bbq bologne sandwich. the strawberry soda would stain the wheat bread pink between sips and bites. my spoiled brat of a little brother would lick off all the bbq flavor from his chips, then he would eat the bread and refuse to eat bologne.
when my mom began working nights as a custodian and my dad was on the road hauling freight, my mom taught me how to make them. which was a big deal, not only did she trust me not to burn the house down cooking, but she trusted me with the recipe for mom's special fried bologne sandwiches.
when i got older, much older, twenty years older, i realized my mom cooked the bologne because it was old and we were too poor to throw it out. she dressed up the ready to be thrown out lunch meat and made it something special, even though the show was to ensure we didn't get sick.
with age comes wisdom, knowledge and expierence
funny how the very same things we crave shatter our own youthful illusions...
Location
Land Of the Hippies, OR