Just about when you've forgotten you roots, along comes a bag full of okra from a friend, and you figure as long as it's deep fried and breaded you can enjoy it instead of having to pretend to like the greasy, snot-like drippings of having it presented on your plate in a boiled condition like you used to suffer through when visiting relatives in the mid-west or poor folk transplants here in Stockton about 35 years ago when you used to buy bags of groceries for the family that had just a little income and too many kids and lived in a hovel downtown, and that gets me thinking about how far away and long ago that seems and how painful that memory is in more ways than one.
Lord, forgive my ingratitude and selfishness.
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