Dinner tonight was a festive salute to my white trash heritage. A friend had brought us tomatoes from her garden up in Napa, where it's actually hot enough to grow them, unlike here. Great big ones, as sweet and juicy as the buttocks that grace the header photo above. Naturally, I made tomato sandwiches, which are simply sliced tomatoes on white bread with salt, pepper, and mayo because that's the way my grannies made them. Deliciousness abounded.
But wait, there's more. This afternoon, R Man demanded a run to Popeye's for fried chicken so we had many delectable pieces left over. Well, many, until I got through with them. We haven't had Popeye's in four years, and then it was in the Houston airport. I had forgotten how tasty, tasty, tasty they are. Of course, I'll probably die tonight from excess grease and salt, but let it be known my last words were "It was worth it."
Popeye's is a cultural icon in New Orleans where it originated and the offerings here are just no comparison to those bubbling out of the deep fat fryers of the mother ship. In New Orleans, I was one with my sisters who would disdainfully drive past the one on Carrolton in order to go to the one on Claiborne because everyone knew that one was better. No, these here cannot compare to those glories, but as I was tucking into my second thigh and reaching for another biscuit, I had to admit it was still pretty damn good.