2008-06-17 - 11:44 a.m.
Just now, a guy who works near me offered me a salt-and-pepper-flavored pork rind. I took one and ate it. I don't eat pork rinds often, but when you eat one, you're instantly reminded that you've got something in your mouth that was once an animal, with bones and the ability to smell. It's heavy: not with weight, but with familiarity.
Which reminded me of my dad. On fishing trips, he'd stop at some little store out in West Virginia and buy a six-pack of Cokes, a six-pack of Schaefer beer, a bag of ice, some worms, and a bag of pork rinds. He'd usually have a beer in the car, tucking it between his legs, fiddling with the push-button radio, trying to get a country station. There was no seatbelt-wearing. He drove slow anyway.
He'd offer the pork rinds around and sometimes we'd eat one. I learned to like the barbeque-flavored ones, though I never got myself to like the straight, unflavored kind, the ones that tasted like puffed-up bacon fat. Which is, of course, what they are. My mom would say, eww, gross, and we'd sometimes say, pork rinds again, but Dad loved them. They were his fishing-trip thing to do.0 comments so far