James Etheridge

It is the dead of winter in North Georgia and that means Comfort Food Season. Yesterday was cold and wet, so Jackie and I went with our old standard, a big pot of Peggy’s Original Recipe Chili. I posted as such on Facebook and a long thread ensued of folks sharing the hearty dishes they were preparing for a perfect January day to stay indoors. Two things that were not mentioned at all were fried bologna or Spam.

A friend posted a thread a couple of weeks ago about fried bologna. It was titled “Fried Bologna Yay or Nay.” The responses were more yays than nays. I really am in no position to say one way or the other due to the fact that I’ve never had fried bologna. As a matter of fact, I had never even heard of fried bologna until sometime in the mid-Nineties. Every workplace has a company jerk and the one where I worked at the time weighed about three hundred pounds. He would sit at his desk, eat a whole family-sized bag of Lay’s potato chips and stare at you while you worked. His nickname was Flubber. Flubber was an obnoxious know-it-all who talked in a droning, monotonous voice. He never shut up, except for when he was stuffing junk food in his face. One day he started talking about fried bologna sandwiches. “Fried bologna?” I asked incredulously. “Oh, yeah,” he droned and then proceeded to pontificate about his preparation and frying techniques. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. All I could think of was that if you wanted that much cholesterol, why not just load it in up in a syringe and inject it?

Don’t get me wrong. I love bologna. I grew up eating bologna. Oscar Mayer on white bread, heavy on the mayo. I still love them. Every now and then I still get a craving and pick up a pack in the sandwich meat aisle. Since they don’t make Colonial anymore, I’ll get a loaf of Sunbeam bread. For some reason, these cravings seem to come in the middle of the summer. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that when I was a kid I mostly ate them for lunch during summer vacation. Even today, the taste of a good ol’ bologna sandwich brings back happy memories of my childhood.

Jackie is just the opposite, due to the fact that growing up, she and her sisters carried sack lunches of bologna sandwiches and Fritos to school. As a result, she developed a serious aversion to both and can’t stand the sight or smell of either. I’m not much of a fan of Fritos either, but I do love my occasional bologna sandwich binge.

During one of these benders, I made a sandwich and dropped the lid to the mayo jar on the floor. I had the sandwich in my left hand and bent down to pick up the lid with my right. Maggie, our whippet, saw her opportunity and took about half of my sandwich with one bite. I stood up, looked at my half eaten Oscar Mayer, shrugged and said, “Well, you might as well finish it.” I fed her the rest of the sandwich and made myself another, being careful not to drop the lid to the mayo jar.

I’ve never had Spam, either. People look at me like I’m from Pluto when I tell them that. When I was a kid, I camped a lot while in the Boy Scouts and also in the neighborhood woods with my friends. I saw a lot of other guys eating cans of it, but somehow I never tried it. From what I’ve been told by several people, I’m not missing much.

I posted in my friend’s thread that I had never eaten fried bologna or Spam and was told by several people that I “ain’t Southern.” Nothing could be further from the truth, because I had mountain oysters once. If you don’t know what mountain oysters are, Google them. I was at a friend’s house, helping him work on his Volkswagen. Around noon, I walked into the kitchen and my friend’s mom and her friend were sitting at the table. On the counter were two pork chops on a plate. I asked my friend’s mom if I could have one of the chops for lunch. She looked at her friend, smiled and said, “Sure, go ahead.” I put it in the toaster oven, warmed it up and ate it. “That pork chop was pretty good,” I said. “Can I have the other one?” The two of them fell out laughing. “What’s so funny? I only asked if I could have another pork chop,” I said.
“They’re not pork chops.”
“What do you mean they’re not pork chops?”
“They’re mountain oysters.”
“What the hell are mountain oysters?”
She told me. I turned green, ran out the back door gagging but managed to keep them down. So don’t tell me that I ain’t Southern. They looked like pork chops. They smelled like pork chops. They tasted like pork chops. I ate one and asked for the other. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t pick up a pack at the farmer’s market or order them off the menu in a restaurant. But, it just goes to show that some things are all in the mind.

Speaking of which, when I was about fourteen, one of my cousins from Florida came to stay with us for the summer. He was a picky eater, as were his brother and sister. They all hated bologna. The first week he was there, my father was making lunch and asked my cousin if he wanted a sandwich. “No, I don’t like bologna,” he said. “This isn’t bologna, it’s center cut ham,” said my father. My cousin ate one, loved it and ate center cut ham sandwiches the rest of the summer. My aunt came to pick him up at the end of August. The first day she was there, he went into the kitchen and started making himself a center cut ham sandwich. “James David, what are you doing eating bologna? You don’t like bologna.”
“This isn’t bologna, it’s center cut ham.”
“Ah, it’s bologna.”
He picked up a piece and smelled it. “Ewww, it is bologna!” he said, threw it down and wouldn’t eat it. My father and I just looked at each other and shook our heads.

You can take one look at me and tell I’m not a picky eater. I’m pretty much willing to try anything within reason once. I’m sure if I tried fried bologna I would probably like it. Spam, I’m not so sure about. But the way I look at it is that I’ve made it this far without either one, so why bother? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Again, some things are all in the mind.