I liked to sit by him at the table, breathing in the smell of the earth from his overalls, but there were often things on his plate that had me racing to the cereal cupboard for a replacement meal. I was not one for squirrel, or gizzard. Gravy poured over anything never appealed to me. It didn’t present the horror of a church potluck, but it was close. So I grabbed a stool to reach the bowls from up high, and something Kellog’s from the variety packs my Grandma so generously kept stocked in the very attainable bottom corner cupboard. And I was saved.
We carry emergency food in the car. Mostly crackers. Mostly for me. Dominique will often brave the local cuisine as we drive from state to state. Gas stations are sometimes the only source. Somewhere in the indistinguishable fields between Colorado and Nebraska, we pulled over. After gratefully using their bathroom, I knew I would be finishing my Wheat Thins. Dominique looked behind the glass and settled on the deep fried gizzards. (Of course they had gizzards! If my grandma could so easily show up with her root-beer floats, my grandpa was certainly not going to be outdone. And there they were – gas stations gizzards.)
I kept driving with the box of crackers neatly tucked between my legs. Dominique ate his gas station gizzards — and really enjoyed them! The smell of earth seeped through the windows. Rueben and Elsie smiled in the rear view.
