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On the menu for lunch… sorry, dinner… today is catfish, or, what inland Southerners classify as... Seafood.
Our mud-sucking, bottom-dwelling fish will be breaded, fried and served with ample sides of slaw, white beans and hushpuppies, and steamed to succulent perfection in its Styrofoam container for roughly fifteen minutes: the drive time back from Harper’s legendary Catfish House, just across the State line, in Kentucky.
Aside from the sarcasm, I count a half-dozen challenges in the above paragraph alone, where I can apply what I’ve learned in the past month, and possibly overcome.
I don’t know about the Styrofoam though. It gives me the heebs... that squeaky noise. I don’t have to have compassion for Styrofoam, do I?
I hope not.
Anyway, it’s an adventure. Right?
I feel like a cannibal when I eat my fellow bottom feeders but I eat them anyway. Lots.
ReplyDeleteAs for Styrofoam I learned to detest it in our trip from Hawaii to California. There was not a day we did not spot some floating in the Pacific. Food has to be exceptional for me to accept takeout in it and I confess that there are two places I know like that.
It ranks right up there with men's jockey (briefs) underwear on the list of things I do not want to see.