When I was a little girl, Granddad had a job at the sawmill. He’d farm during the day, and he worked second shift at the mill. I spent a lot of weekends with him and Grandmother. Now, Grandmother and I would sit up and wait for Granddad.
I don’t know what he did when I wasn’t there, but when I was, he brought home a treat. It was often a moon pie and a coke. As an adult, every time I see them in the grocery store, I think of my granddad.
So moon pies became a comfort food for me. My husband and children all know that I can be bribed into just about anything with a moon pie and a coke. DD#1 brought me one just a few nights ago, in fact. They know that if I am sad that treat-ful combination will lift my spirits. No matter how bad it gets, a moon pie will help.
But here’s the funny thing. As an adult, I don’t really care overmuch for moon pies. And yet I buy them. And I eat them. And each time I remember the man who thought I was just about everything. And I thought he walked on water.
I’m submitting this post to Southern Fried. Why don’t you submit one too?