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.


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

Just french fries for me

Handwritten page of a diary dated April 20, 1988

trip has been good. Well mostly. Sometimes we’re “TREATED” to a dinner in some little town along the way and I worry about what we’ll be forced to eat. European people eat some stuff I wouldn’t even serve to my worst enemy back in our neighborhood. And believe me he deserves it.

My eyes first saw the french fries and I was relieved, because at least I know what those are and no one can ruin french fries too much. But then they bring out this platter and my stomach starts to churn.

This is the whispering conversation I had with my mother:

“What are those things?”
“There are lemons on the plate so it’s probably just some kind of seafood.”
“Are you sure because they look like some kind of dead things Buster dug up from our yard and dragged onto the back porch.”
“If it’s bad just take a few bites. It won’t kill you.”
“Are you sure? Because it would cost you a lot to ship my dead body back to Illinois.”

I mean I understand being nice but my mom believes in taking it too far. When I grow up I plan to find a nice way to weasel out of taking ANY bites of things that look like that. Maybe I’ll say “Oh I forgot to tell you I’m a vegetarian. I’ll just fill up on french fries and salad and bread.”


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Published in: on December 11, 2011 at 5:17 pm  Comments (3)