Shoes, Dogs, and Little People

Yesterday, I went to Cotton Patch Cafe with Melanie, aka, Girlfriend/Brown-Eyed Girl/Mellie/Mommel. The restaurant is sort of knock-off of Cracker Barrel–lots of fried chicken, sweet tea, and buttered rolls. They had one of those little cards on the table, promoting some special which included “hush puppies.”

On some topics, I’m fairly intelligent. I can converse on literature, sports, theology, politics, to name a few. But food is not one of those topics. I have a long and embarrassing history of getting it wrong. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, the brightest bulb on the marquee, a few sandwiches short of a picnic, a few bulls short of a china shop. Or as Carol Lawrence said, “You got splinters in the windmill of your mind.” Take your pick.

You can imagine my confusion when I saw “hush puppies” on a menu one day. About age fifteen, I kept staring at the words, thinking I must be reading it incorrectly. Nope. That restaurant had fries, tater tots, rice. And hush puppies. I knew little to nothing on culinary matters. But c’mon–how does a cook prepare a leather shoe for a side dish? And how much dipping sauce and butter do you need to get it down. I’m also gonna need a much sharper knife. My friends were greatly amused at my ignorance.

If this were the only occurrence, I would write it off. If only.

My dad used to bring home semi-exotic meats, usually accompanied by myths of where he had shot the creatures. Thanksgiving elicited some fabled turkey hunt ending with the giant gobbler in the center of the table. He also brought home venison (too gamey), rabbit (greasy but similar to chicken), and quail (great except for the buckshot). Of course, he hunted none of these. They were gifts or purchases from friends in the Mariposa area, real hunters. But none of the meats compared to the time he cooked up some elk.

I’ve always been (and still am) a picky eater. I was about eight when he served elk for dinner one night. To my surprise, it was fantastic! Tender and juicy, it lacked the aftertaste of venison, not as greasy as rabbit. I could eat without fear of chipping a tooth. I feasted on the first plate and was ready for seconds.

What happened next is a tale my dad told over and over and over. At each telling, he would laugh hard, sometimes till he cried. I can’t even count how many times he re-told this story. The worst part was I had no defense. Every part was true. Embarrassingly true.

Chalk that one up to childhood ignorance. The next one…I have no defense. I could plead fatigue or stress, but you wouldn’t buy it, so I won’t even try. MJ was in the emergency room again. Concussion, sprained ankle, Little League elbow, whatever it was. He was in his teens, and I was fully an adult.

Melanie and I had been there for quite a time, bored, sitting and waiting for the next doctor/technician to do their thing. I was hungry and tired. Really hungry. A hospital volunteer pulled back the curtain and poked her head into the small room. “Would you like a therapy dog?”

Clouded by hunger, I eagerly replied, “I’ll take two.”

Clearly confused, the woman stared at me. Melanie, wise to my ways and before I asked for them with ketchup and mustard, just shook her head. “These are actual dogs. Animals to make you feel better. You pet them.”

I quickly and deftly recovered. “Nah, we’re okay here,” I replied to the volunteer. She disappeared.

“I knew she was talking about real dogs,” I offered to Melanie and MJ. “I just thought she could bring some food along with the pets. I mean, people do get hungry here,” I pleaded. “Food for the stomach, food for the soul.”

Yeah, nobody there bought it either.

I’m still working through all the terms. How about chicken fingers, buffalo wings, sweet pickles, and donut holes? None of these exist, at least according to the name. Living in Texas now, I have to learn a whole new gastronomic vocabulary. Places, foods, slang terms, it’s exhausting.

Food and I, we have a complicated relationship, like two chips passing in the night.