AMERICANA THOUGH MY DAD was a self-proclaimed food critic, the truth is, he really didnt know a filet from a mignon and wouldnt have recognized a gourmet meal if it had bit back at him. Fine dining was, according to his definition, truck-stop-café portions of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, hot rolls slathered in butter, and a bottomless glass of sugared iced tea. Thats how it was in the glorious precholesterol times, when no food came with a dire warning from the family doctor.
The good ol days, he called them. And when it came time to satisfy that sweet tooth, nothing was better than a cold glass of milk and a fried pie, that Deep South delicacy that has been passed down from generation to generation.
In that sense, Im every bit my fathers son.
Pick whatever lavish last meal you wish. Me, Ill take a plateful of fried pies and depart with a happy smile. They serve as a warm reminder of a more carefree time, their taste and aroma luring us back to childhood days spent anxiously waiting in Grandmas kitchen. If there is a more welcomed treat than the handheld, fruit-filled, old-fashioned fried pie, Ive yet to sample it.