Fried Chicken Gizzard and Cheddar Cheese Sandwich

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Well, I Never….”

Long, long ago when I was a but child-bride, I yearned to please my handsome husband so I dreamed of concocting hearty breakfasts, luscious lunches, and delightful dinners.  This wasn’t to be.  We had wisely married while still in college so were in possession of two things money couldn’t buy, abject poverty and true love.  We were just scraping by.  After about two weeks, about all we had left in the refrigerator was a half-loaf of bread, mustard, a couple of lonely, frozen chicken gizzards, and an old, dry sliver of cheddar cheese.  I fried those chicken gizzards up nice and hard, sliced them as thin as possible, added the slivered cheddar cheese and sat down with My Darling to enjoy the amazing delicacy.  It was the worst thing I ever tried to eat.  The piquant taste of overdone gizzard slathered with mustard was not a good companion taste for the dried out cheddar cheese.  I was never tempted to try that combo again.

Twenty-five Dollars

Twenty-five dollars doesn’t sound like enough to change a life, but for me it was.  I was the second of five children and desperately wanted to go to college.  Fully understanding my family’s financial situation, I knew they couldn’t help me.  My older sister was in her fourth year, an exemplary student and model of decorum, she’d

“It’ll Grow Back”

I’m sure the hairdressers among you, as well as victims of bad haircuts, can relate to this sad story.  This is my sister Phyllis, over at Anchors and Butterflies.  Note the beautiful blonde hair.  Wouldn’t you just love to have hair like that?  Well, many years ago, in a land far away, she was home from college for the weekend, complaining that she needed a haircut, bad.  A person could be forgiven for thinking that she meant a bad haircut  I was just the one for the job.  I got right to work.

Like all jobs skillfully executed, hair cutting looks easy enough.  I’d watched it plenty of times and knew just what to do.  I wrapped her wet head in a towel and dragged a comb through her hair, despite her fussiness about a mole and her ears.   I kind of parted and pinned and got started.

I did pretty well at first, then took a wild whack on one side, getting it really short. When I tried to make the other side match, it looked awful.  It was a mess of gashes and ridges.  Her scalp shone through in spots.  It looked like I’d used rick-rack to cut a pattern. I felt horrible, but started laughing.  For some reason, I still thought I could save it, but the laughing gave me away.  She jerked the towel away, speeding to the bathroom to look.  When I didn’t hear anything, I dared hope she liked it.

“Wah!  Boo Hoo Hoo!  I’m gonna kill you!”  She came flying out of that bathroom gripping her hand mirror and hairbrush headed In my direction.. She chased me around the house three times before Mother got her stopped.  Fortunately, I had a good start or I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.

Mother tried to calm her with some worthless reassurances like, “It doesn’t look that bad.” and her old favorite, “It’ll grow back.”  Personally, I’d as soon have my teeth bashed in as be reassured, “It’ll grow back.”

Phyllis left later that day puffy-eyed, wearing a scarf.  Mother had scraped up ten dollars for her to get her hair repaired, reassuring her all would be well. Phyllis skipped her classes the next morning, hunting up a “good” hairdresser.  He told her he had seen worse haircuts — but couldn’t remember when.

I would like to have included an after picture, but there wasn’t one.

Poverty, One Thing Money Can’t Buy

Learning to get by was the best thing that ever happened to me.  Growing up on a farm, the second of five children, I learned responsibility, despite my best efforts not to.  We were all needed, just to get back.  With stock to feed, hay to make, gardens to care for, there weren’t too many idle moments.  That was before helping Mother in the house,

Doo Doo Bossier

In college, I suppose I was just a bit slow to catch on when Bud and his cousin Freddie kept talking about a guy in one of their classes named “Doo Doo Bossier.”  I was always hearing, “Doo Doo did so and so.” or “Wait till you hear what Doo Doo did now!”

Never Gonna Keep Up

Repost

Having attended a tiny rural high school, fearing I could never compete with those from large urban high schools, I was sensitive about my educational shortcomings. Expecting to be labeled a bumpkin and hustled back to the farm “with my own kind,” in my mind, I had gotten to college with little to recommend me but a good vocabulary, a love of