My sweet mother, a teacher, used to come home from school, change her high heels to house shoes, put on an apron, cut up a chicken or pound a round steak, and fry it up for supper.

The pully bone was for my Dad.

He would save the bone and let one of us kids have a chance to "make a wish" with it.


Edited by coachblalock (08/29/22 09:59 AM)
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"Filet that fish? Hell naw! I'll scale him, gut him, fry him up in grease, take him by the head and tail, and play him like a French Harp!" - Uncle Paul sometime in the 60s.