"I hate the smell of fried bologna," she said as she picked up a fork and flipped the slab of pink meat on the stovetop. "It turns my stomach."
"Well, you don't have to cook for me. I know how to heat up a skillet."
"Yeah, I know. But I want you to want me to want to cook for you," she wore a wry grin as she flung her arms out in a move that implied "ta-da!" The fork flew from her right hand, and she stooped to pick it up then flipped the meat again.
"Weird. You eat mustard and bologna sandwiches don't you?"
"If they have enough mustard," she replied. "It's not the same though. Something about the smell of cooking bologna makes me think about how poor we were when I was a kid."
"They do say that smell is the strongest sense where memories are concerned."
"Yeah. Dad liked fried bologna biscuits. Them mom would cook eggs in the leavings, so they tasted like it too. Ugh. I did like mayonnaise sandwiches though."
"But you don't eat mayonnaise now."
"Nope, not now. It reminds me of how poor we were when I was a kid."
Part autobiography, part fictional vignette. I hate the smell of frying meat. It really does make my stomach turn. And we did eat mayonnaise sandwiches. The conversation, however, is made up.
Created: Mar 16, 2011lucylking Document Media