While a tiger might seem a reach to sell Frosted Flakes, Satan selling pork products make even less sense, especially in 1949, when prayer still existed in public schools. I get it; it’s “deviled” ham, ground and spiced. But I don’t like my ham ground. I like it in thin peppery deli slices, like the ones I purchased this morning.
Deviled eggs, yes. Deviled ham, no.
Canned kipper, tuna, oysters–these I’m fine with. I can see their bony spines. I know it was one sardine I’m eating, not a grind of the worst parts of the pig, processed from 1000 swine into one little can.
Cracked.com reviewed several potted meats, referring to the “coating of newborn-esque vernix” that covered the moist meat (shudders). I hope the reviewer was compensated generously.
I know some of you eat Spam (ground pork shoulder–mostly) but I fear it’s full of hooves and tails. Maybe that’s why Satan makes sense for deviled ham; he has cloven feet. Jesus certainly couldn’t be the pitch man; he never even tasted pork because he was Jewish. And you can’t fashion a newborn manger Jesus out of deviled ham. These could use a little more paprika.
I saw this today and thought it looked like a pretty good representation of today’s world, at least in the USA.
You can’t say what you really feel today without threat of cancel culture, and the media shames you if you don’t cowtow to the issue du jour of the social justice warriors, regardless of the idiocy of the demand. Take Henry Winkler, for example. People lost their freaking minds when he posted this a few days ago.
Somehow, in this twisted, brainwashed land where tolerance is demanded but yet everything is offensive, Winkler’s statement was perceived by some idiots as horrifying. Nature is horrifying? Fishing is horrifying? Some vilified him for “traumatizing the fish.” Do these same people vilify fishermen? Is it okay to fish if you’re not a professional fisherman? What are the rules these days? Where do people think FOOD comes from? What about Native Americans? Let’s cancel them. I’m pretty sure they spent all day hunting and fishing. God, what if your grandpa fished? Think about it. What if he didn’t catch and release like Fonzi? Then what? What if he ACTUALLY KILLED IT AND ATE IT? Murderer!
Guess what? You must pay for the sins of your fathers! Take your burnt offering to the wood nymphs and offer reparations for their deeds. Just think, your very lineage, your great-great grandparents who could have simply gone to the General Store and purchased couscous and tofu burgers, chose instead to learn a skill and go fish in nature, where humans have dominion over beasts.
We have a nation of snowflakes, poised to find offense at every turn, and he who screams and cries the loudest with the biggest toddler fit is rewarded by every media outlet in the system. America has lost its might, its reasoning skills, its spine, its balls. For God’s sake, let the man fish. It’s not like he smoked Parmesan cheese or sniffed children.
Oh, Henry, you warm, loving human being. God bless you for enjoying nature and sharing your enthusiasm. Bless you for not looting and rioting and burning cities down like so many others right now. God bless you for not sitting on your ass, collecting unemployment checks while restaurants fold because of lack of servers. God bless you for your smile and your kindness. Let the harsh words of the misinformed fools roll of your back. Fish, Henry. Fish your bippy off.
It’s April 1983, and Terri Garlitz is basting lamb during San Angelo’s annual Lamblast, while “Buffalo Hunters” look on. The event takes place at the Goodfellow Air Force Base on Lake Nasworthy, with its can’t-miss infamous leg of lamb contest, as well as games and beauty contests. The Cole Younger Band is coming down from Abilene to start the cookoff with a bang, so everyone, head out to the San Angelo Coliseum for both country and western dancing. Bring your aviators, fringed jackets, and cowboy hats. Yee-haw!
P.S. The Cole Younger Band currently has 14 monthly listeners on Spotify, so they’re evidently still kind of a big deal…
You cannot tell by the expressions on the faces of these short-haired ladies, but they were truly in the presence of not only higher education, but higher decoration. So much is left to the imagination! Is that a tree on the left? If so, is this a Japanese painting of a willow tree at a stream? Is it prairie grass? Helter skelter? Kilroy was here? Is it simply the crayon chaos of a toddler? No matter. Patty, put more parmesan on the pizza.
These fellows presumably were denied the scrawled ambience of the former picture, but instead had a tableside jukebox. Or its it a phone? I can hardly tell.
Does this booth have a phone as well? Who were folks calling? Maybe in days of yore, before Instagramming your brunch, you called everyone you knew one by one, to describe the way the yolk ran out of the poach as your fork tine punctured it?
All I know is, this little frosh is eating away her cares with a nice serving of dessert! Sometimes it’s sad to be plaid.
The diligent ladies here are manning (or womanning) the production line at Wisbech in Cambridgeshire in 1934. In my home, we eat canned green beans about once a week. A couple times a month, I’ll buy the fresh ones and spend an hour snipping the ends and chopping them into reasonable bite sizes, then simmering them in beef broth for several hours. They taste better, but it’s not really worth the labor or the four minutes it takes my men to consume them. We always eat the thicker Italian cut beans, as they are heartier and easier to stab. However, when the holidays roll around, we buy the French Style beans to make green bean casserole because America.
But these British lasses would never have celebrated Thanksgiving and probably never had a green bean casserole in their lives. In Texas, we don’t eat many casseroles; that’s more of a Midwest thang. But I love a good casserole, from spinach to broccoli rice to sweet corn. And I never pass up a side at Thanksgiving. I am an equal opportunity consumer. I don’t even care if the cranberries are cut into a slab of congealed jelly or fresh berries with orange zest and ginger. Either way works.
What about y’all? Are you picky? I’d eat any and all of these sides.
Who’s the most interesting fellow here? The obvious one in dark frames, or the guy taking a pull of his cigarette? It’s quite the crowded counter. Tiny bottles of soda were available for rationing through an entire meal. Honestly, how we did we ever do that? You might also notice that what appears to be a box of Kleenex or napkins is actually a NAB, a square of salty or sugary carbs to compliment your beverage. Of course, NAB is short for Nabisco. And why not indulge? It’s a mere nickel, or as Gary Gulman calls them, “quarter impersonators.” Might I suggest not pairing Oreos with Coke? The sugar crash will be atrocious.