Don’t tell me what tripe is

Handwritten page of a diary dated May 2, 1988

Europe is still good. Food is still sketchy. My dad has decided it’s soooooo entertaining to make me taste a bite of stuff before he will tell me what it is. Like today in Yorkshire I got to the table and he had ordered me this thing that looked like a corn dog with gravy. He said it’s not gravy it’s mustard sauce and you love mustard. So I took a bite and the texture of that corn dog about killed me. Then he said it’s not a corn dog. It’s tripe sausage. I said what’s tripe? He just laughed and told me to look it up, but I’m kind of thinking I’d rather not know until it’s exited my body for good.

Well this is another meal where I’m grateful they have french fries here. And these British guys, they call them CHIPS, which is weird, but I’ll give them this — they know how to make them a lot lot lot better than we do in the middle of Illinois. I should take some lessons and go back there and become the French Fry GOD. People would come from miles around to worship at my French Fry Temple.


Original image:
Published in: on February 23, 2012 at 11:50 am  Leave a Comment