We often hear the adage about Real Men so my comment is about Real Women.
My dad sired no sons, so he included his daughters in everyday life. One of my first memories when I was around three, was standing in the front seat of his Chevrolet coupe with an arm around his shoulder, saying, “Let’s go get some of those bones with meat on ’em.” We were headed to Fountain Heights and he obliged by ordering us some barbecued ribs.
He often took my sister and me on a stomp through the woods on the pretense of squirrel hunting, but it was mostly an opportunity to get outside and acquaint his girls with nature and an occasional squirrel or rabbit kill. These little varmints he’d skin and par boil to get the wild taste out, then roll their parts in seasoned flour and fry them in the skillet. My sister and I obligingly tasted them, even though it was like gnawing on a rat leg.
But one culinary delight has stayed with me. On occasion he’d peel open a couple of cans of sardines, open a sleeve of saltines, slice an onion, and we’d wash it down with a frosty bottle of coke. Now, one of our sons, my husband and I retreat to the porch with our cans of fish packed in olive oil, crackers, onion, cocktail sauce, and Diet Coke. Those slimy little minnows even remind us of smoked oysters when dredged in cocktail sauce and lunch disappears in minutes, with a quick cleanup of cans and paper plates disposed in a Walmart bag.
So my theory is, if it’s true that Real Men eat quiche, then it should also be said that Real Women eat sardines.