RUSSELLVILLE—Shortly after watching Arkansas Tech beat the cow fuck out of Southeastern Oklahoma State, I walked around the Tech campus a bit and then to the former Aikman house, where I spent probably half of my junior high and high school life, where Aunt Jean fried some of the best chicken ever fried and Uncle Bob made hot tamales and boiled shrimp and crawfish that combined to highlight the culinary wonder of my youth. I was out for 39:51. I don't speak much about Bob's tamales, but they were by far the best I have ever tasted. I mean, much, much better than any other tamale, which to me are in general a kind of ordinary, somewhat bland thing. The recipe remains in the family. My cousin Crutch said he has made them a few times. They, however, take literally hours to prepare. In the heart of the depression, my maternal grandfather, who had also mastered the recipe, turned down an opportunity to make them for a restaurant in Nashville. Granny told me years ago that the extra money he was offered would have made a significant difference, but that Pop said, to paraphrase, "Fuck it. No way. I don't care how much we can make. I'm not spending the rest of my life rolling up goddamn tamales."
QUESTIONS OF THE DAY
Why is it that people have won Pulitzer Prizes for news photographs taken with cell phones but that the results of photographs of people robbing banks are invariably as blurry as two motherfuckers? Don't banks have enough money to buy cameras worth a fuck?
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