Trailer Park Vignettes: “Recipe Rejection” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

After his unexpected encounter with Marcy DeVry from Millenium Meal Services, Incorporated, T. C. Lincoln still felt slightly insulted by the visit. Not only because of the contrast between his own dining preferences, and those of the company representative, but also as a result of something she had carelessly observed while conducting her campaign for participants.

 

“You’d really refuse chef-quality meals in favor of eating canned ravioli or boxed macaroni and cheese? That’s a pity, sir! Our service is here to help enrich the lives of disadvantaged people in Ohio! And I do think that you would qualify!”

 

With his face stinging from the judgmental comment, he stumbled into his kitchen, and threw open the cupboard doors.

 

“Canned ravioli? Boxes of mac ‘n cheese? What the hell did that lady think I was? A damn misfit who can’t cook for himself?”

He began to take inventory to prove that this falsehood would not stand up to scientific scrutiny.

 

“Let’s see here... I’ve got two cans of Chef Boyardee Beefaroni, a can of Hormel Tamales, and a can of La Preferida Spanish Rice, a jar of Ragu Double Cheddar Sauce, a partial case of Maruchan Ramen Noodles, six cans of Armour Vienna Sausages, two tins of Brunswick Kipper Snacks, a jar of Herdez Medium Salsa, a can of Mary Kitchen Corned Beef Hash, a can of Great Value Sausage Gravy...”

 

That last item caused him to wrinkle his nose, because he always made his own gravy, in a square, Lodge skillet from Tennessee. The recipe he followed was one handed down as a cultural treasure, via his mother who was a daughter of Mountaineer country. So, the presence of such a pre-made concoction among his household goods must have been a mistake.

 

Patiently, he continued to take stock of what was on hand in his elevated pantry.

 

“A half-bag of Giant Eagle Basmati Rice, Clover Valley All-Purpose Flour from Dollar General, Famous Dave’s Sweet and Spicy Pickle Spears, Hapi Sriracha Peas, a bag of BBQ Fritos Corn Chips, and a can of Fritos Jalapeño Bean Dip. A single package of Act II Butter Lovers Microwave Popcorn that must be several years old... Cheez-It Crackers, Reese’s Peanut Butter Filled Pretzels, and a squeeze bottle of Daddie’s Brown sauce from the United Kingdom. And in the back, Jiffy Cornbread Mix...”

 

Having looked over his shelf-stable eats, he moved to the refrigerator and freezer. He hoped that the foodstuffs waiting there might offer some form of redemption. But the random roster of groceries did not ease his embarrassment.

 

“Tiffe’s Pickled Okra from Louisiana, Old Wisconsin Hot Sausage Sticks, Oscar Mayer Bologna, Great Value Pepper Jack Monterey Cheese, Armour Sliced Pepperoni, Mt. Olive Candied Jalapeño Slices, Bell-View Hoagie Spread, Old South Pickled Eggs, Vlasic Baby Kosher Dills...”

 

The shaggy loner cursed softly to himself while moving to the upper chamber of his tall, General Electric appliance.

 

“Stouffer’s Beefy Mac, Totino’s Hamburger Party Pizzas, Totino’s NXTLVL Buffalo Chicken Pizza Rolls, Nathan’s Famous Thick Sliced Battered Onion Rings, Great Value Breaded Okra, one pound of Sugardale Bacon, Giant Eagle Pork Neckbones. Pillsbury Grands Southern Style Biscuits. And a roll of Bob Evans Hot Breakfast Sausage...”

 

Lincoln hung his head in shame. With the products on hand, he could snack freely while drinking his beverage alcohol. But the possibility of making an actual meal plan was more remote. Much like his daily routine and household habits, there was no obvious sense of order in effect. His collection was random and unorganized.

 

“Damn that woman from the county services! I guess she was actually right on target!”

 

When the reclusive contrarian had been part of an actual family, his approach to making purchases had been more practical. He would acquiesce to the desires of his second wife, in particular, who preached a philosophy of dietary restraint, and good health practices. They ate foods that were low-fat, low in carbs, sugar, and salt, and light on the palate. She favored sipping wine in the evening, instead of beer and bourbon. Her care for the home environment was laudable. But as a son of Appalachia, the old hermit chafed at this constant mode of supervision. Occasionally, he would make a detour from the accepted paradigm, by deep-frying potatoes and seasoning them with Valentina Salsa Picante. Or cooking up chicken breasts in bacon grease. These rebellious incidents always ignited arguments in the kitchen. And sometimes, nights of sleeping on the couch.

 

In modern times however, there was no such oversight in effect. He could do as he pleased, at a time of his own choosing. That sense of liberty was empowering, but also caused him to stumble. He would drink throughout the afternoon and evening, before finally succumbing to the amount of booze in his bloodstream. Every sunset found him face-down, in bed. Or on the floor in his living room. Occasionally, even outside on the front porch.

 

While standing at the sink, he reflected on a question posed by his well-intentioned visitor from the previous day.

 

“Tell me, Mr. Lincoln, what are you having for your supper tonight? Some kind of microwave bowl from Walmart?”

 

As he reopened the refrigerator, reassurance in the form of leftover beans with ham met his eyes. The crockery insert from his slow cooker sat waiting, next to a case of Miller Lite.

 

“A MICROWAVE BOWL FROM WALMART? HELL NO, LADY! I’LL BE FILLING MY BELLY WITH SOME OLD-SCHOOL VITTLES OF THE HILLBILLY VARIETY! MAYBE WITH A PAN OF CORNBREAD OR BISCUITS ON THE SIDE!”

 

Though his intent was pure, he knew that this crude feast was likely to be sidelined, as fatigue and drunkenness took hold. With vertigo and grogginess sapping his energy, he would often turn to ordering delectable pies from a local pizzeria, in a nearby township. It was always easier to sit on his wooden bench, swooning from inebriation, while waiting to be fed. That dichotomy was part of the reason why his cupboards were perpetually full, and his bank account was empty, by contrast.

 

Still, that reality did not matter. Because he was alone and in charge of his own humble domain.

 

“Beans or freezer treats... or a pizza delivery. It don’t matter a damn bit to me! I’m on the downhill side of life, so I can ride easy, no matter what. My doctors, my ex-wives, and that lady from Millennium can all take a hike!”