When my brother Joe travels the winding backroads of eastern North Carolina where several generations of our family lived, he often sends photos of the dishes he tries at some of the local restaurants–the ones where no part of the hog goes unused. He likes to mess around with my gag reflex. Chittlins, cracklin’ bread, bone marrow… get the drift? (I’m not sure if I mean literally or figuratively here.)
This time, the photo he sent back surprised me. I remember visiting farmer relatives in that part of the state when I was a small child. Perhaps that is why I found this photograph so hauntingly lovely and nostalgic.
Than again, maybe it’s because I didn’t find myself staring at a plate of brains and eggs. I promise that you won’t, either. Enjoy.