When I was heading into eighth grade, my family moved back to Ohio. I had no friends and not much to do, so I was talked into volunteering to help at the food stand at the county fair for my Grandma’s church. It meant I got into the fair for free, where if my hammer skills were solid, I could win a cigar – seriously, it was the early 90’s. They’d even light it for you.
I had no time for smokes, though, because Grandma Eunice’s church stand was hopping. The go to was a greasy pork patty sandwich. Now, if you’ve never been around a middle school boy, they can eat at a level unprecedented among all ages and genders. My mom used to buy .49 cans of Chili Mac to keep me from bankrupting the house. I’d eat 2-3 a day in addition to regular meals. Probably why I’m fat now, but I digress.
My grandma liked to talk to strangers (that gene skipped me) and wound up messing up several orders. I ended up eating five of the greasiest pork patty sandwiches you’ve ever seen. The first three were good, the fourth was tough and Grandma guilted me into eating the last one. “We can’t throw away that sandwich, just eat it, you’re a growing boy!” The ride home was four miles, but over a road that looked like it belonged on a Bond movie. Up, down, up, left, down, right, up and repeat. I made it about 80% of the way and violently puked out of the window. Six pounds of non-FDA regulated swine meat ejaculated from the depths of my gastric system. To this day, I’ve never eaten a pork sandwich or worked at the fair. My dreams of being a carny lie shattered on the ground. It may have been the best thing that ever happened to me.