This beautiful Sunday afternoon is winding down. I sure have enjoyed today.
Tootie was feeling the same, until she got into trouble while munching on a wooden clothespin. The little wiener kid found it in the basket. The two words that our Toot hates to hear me say is, "Bad dog." She hangs her head low and tucks her tail between her short legs.
That girl sure knows how to pout when I spout.
We both enjoy making up. She and I make up with Paul Baby whether he is exercising the lowest and loudest reach of his bad boy voice or humming his happy tune, "Good Girl" in a higher register.
This is the week of my party. Rain is in the picture.
I received word, via facebook.com, that; some of the family is under the weather.
I decide that we may entertain inside of the little blue house at the end of the road.
The matriarch of this family serves up heaping helpings of love and laughter, a button popping amount of good food, tasty dishes and best wishes.
Inside or outside, it doesn't matter, wieners will be heaped high on the platter. The crock pot will be brimful of zesty barbeque to satisfy those who dislike cheap chicken and pork wieners.
Every time I think about hot dogs, I travel back down that long, long road to my childhood. I am reminded of my school days at the former Meridian Street School. They were so special and precious to me.
I, especially, loved lunch hour and the extra goodies that, the late, Annetta Lee Young, my forever friend, brought to school to share with me. Mary Lou wasn't too keen on the contents of my own lunchbox. "Same old stuff day after day," I complained, as kids will.
My dad, the butcher, sure did cut a lot of big center cut pork chops from his pigs.
More than several of them landed in my lunchbox bone in and bone up.
Mom thought that skinny me needed to eat the cold catsup laden toughies.
A stray dog that passed below the window of Mr. Whittington's room ate well when my friend and I sent a few or more within his reach. Long strong string sure does come in handy when working from a second floor.
We allowed the greasy bread to free fall, but noticed no takers. One day Mom gave me a break. There would be no more chops until after the next butchering day, months away.
I asked her if I could eat my lunch in the canteen at the YMCA. I couldn't believe that she said yes, two times in one week. One time I said that I was going to run away from home after a water fight with my brother, Johnny. Both said, "YES!"
The word that came from another friend, the uptown girl was, "Emma Brown serves great beefy hotdogs covered with sauce, yummy chili and good French fries." That made me lick my chops. The ones that buddy-up with my jawbones. I don't want to confuse you.
Soon, this country girl and the city kid feasted on the aforementioned fare and washed the food down with a soda. The cost fifty cents total, each. Imagine that.
Lovely Emma didn't receive a tip, but she sure received praise from me.
I ordered the same lunch items every day for a while, until I began thinking about the homemade lunches that I had cast aside earlier. Besides my piggy bank's slot was suffering from too many stabbings, and the fact that, I broke it. The stash dried up!
I told mom to look up my lunch pail, because I missed her lunches. The next noon hour, at school, I shook that Macgregor plaid covered metal box. I could hear Nance's milk moving about in the thermos. What was inside of my little dinner box?
Dad brought home a few mixed chops from Lynch Brothers Grocery Store and a long string of red Coney's hotdogs. Guess what she plopped in that bread?
It's funny how our attitudes and appetites change as we age.
I would give anything to see the cook in the faded apron, cooking chops in her old iron skillet on the coal range, again. I would snap one up, bone in, just because.
I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by email at firstname.lastname@example.org.