Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Earl has become interested in baloney. Or rather bologna, the American style sausage. He’s recently read about fried bologna sandwiches and apparently has never had one. I’m surprised since he’s regaled me with tales of his mother’s southern cooking and how everything was fried. As for my upbringing, bologna sandwiches were part of an occasional supper, especially when payday was the day after tomorrow and the good stuff had all been eaten.

There are myriad recipes on the Internet for this delicacy, but they all have two things in common. First, you must remember to slit the bologna slices before frying them or they curl up into a cup formation that defies a comfortable fit between two slices of bread. Second, you must use the most processed white bread on the planet. The condiments you slather on the bread can reflect your personal preferences.

Yesterday, Pat, Frank, Earl, and I went to lunch after kayaking. It was Earl’s idea to go to Pauly’s, a great hangout in Benton Harbor that has wonderful bar food guaranteed to make you want to nap afterwards. You know, probably similar to what Earl’s mother used to fry up.

We’d never noticed it before but there was a bologna sandwich on the menu. In the end, Earl didn’t order it, as we can never pass up a heaping serving of Pauly’s wings, the best in town. We also didn’t order the fried pickle, but maybe next time we’ll do both the pickle and the bologna, washed down with a side of wings and a cold brew.