My sister Kim and I grew up in the rolling, sun-drenched hills of Brown County, the true center of Texas, home of the famous Underwood's Barbeque and Mama Gomez's Tex-Mex -- both the best in the Lone Star State.
Except Underwood's and Mez's weren't on our menu very often -- when I babysat my sister during the summer while my parents worked, I fried eggs and sausage for breakfast, and whipped up "pickled loaf" sandwiches for lunch. Or sometimes, Banquet Pot Pies. You ever had a Banquet Pot Pie? You shouldn't. No, really, you shouldn't.
They seemed delicious back in the day; Chicken, Beef, or Turkey niblets in a "sauce" and splattered into a pastry shell. I liked them all, but Kim insisted on only Chicken Pot Pie, which made absolutely no sense. It would sort of like Jethro Bodine saying, "Granny, I likes them possum gizzards, but them possum giblets -- shooo-weeey!" Makes no sense a'tall.
It was a summer day in 1975, give or take a year. We were out of pickled loaf and Kraft American slices, so sandwiches for lunch were out. The freezer contained exactly two… Beef… pot pies. She'll never notice, I thought. I cooked both to golden brown perfection, serving them up nonchalantly to the table. Kim took one look and shuddered. "This is BEEF!" she moaned. I was eleven or twelve, in charge, and in no mood for nonsense.
"Eat it -- it's great."
Twenty minutes later, she was sitting there staring at it. "Eat it!" I insisted. "You aren't getting up from the table until you do!" Thirty minutes later she was still sitting there while I watched TV. I heard a rustling noise, and turned to see what it was. The little imp had reached around the corner and snuck the phone out of the living room into the kitchen, attempting to call our mother at work. "Nope, no appeals to the warden today," I said, mashing down the hook buttons.
Another fifteen minutes passed. "Kim, just eat it -- it's no big deal," I pleaded, exasperated. She scooped a pea sized amount onto her spoon, timidly placing the tip of the spoon in her mouth, placing at least 3 molecules of beef pot pie sauce on her tongue. There was a pause that seemed like an eternity, and then her eyes rolled back in her head, her entire body contorted, and she made a hideous, gurgling "KAWWWWWWWWYCCCCHHH" sound as she forced "the mother of all gags." She looked up at me as if to say, "well, happy now?" The Beef Pot Pie, minus a tiny pea-sized scoop, ended up in the trash.
Of course, Kim has never forgotten this story and all my kids have heard it. Kim later grew up and became a school teacher, married a great guy, and has a happy life living in the country near Brownwood.
She turned 39 on October the 9th, and she and my parents came down to visit. "Kim, I slaved away on your birthday cake for hours," I groaned. "You better eat it."
"I will! I promise. I'll have some tonight and some in the morning, too."
Mwwwwaaaa haaa haaa. Right into my clutches. "In the morning too? You promise?"
She promised.
A video speaks 10,000 words.
