So when I laid me down to sleep, even now after some fifty years, I have pause to think. Yes, I still think of that oddity of the FDA; the dreadful can of Spork. How you call it a quality meat and also a mystery meal. I try to sleep seems I can’t. All I do is see in my minds eye a movie the one about a bunch of seed pods and how the people they were changed; it’s then I do awaken in a cold, cold soaking sweat with the name of that dreadful thing upon me lips the name that word comes quivering echoing in my head; Spork . Could this be the source of the infection of which Hollywood envisioned in all its movies of the dead?.
Now my saga it goes on for after many years, a childhood terror once forgotten now come rushing back, for life goes on and choice must be made; O dear god I hate Spork, no matter how its made, I still wonder where went Sparkie that friendly little dog Oh so many years ago. Then comes again that word and sight: Spork the meat within a can.
So as we learn:
Life goes on memories fade and then: well they then do blur.
When I was then much older, I found out one day that my mother, yes, my sweet dear mother may have had a functioning dysfunction.. This one thing I did discover about my dear sweet mother helped me realize just why and how she could enjoy such a horrid treat; O dear lord I swear it was not meat, even now I shudder when I think of Spork. But I digress:.
It was Twenty years ago perhaps a little more she and my sisters they made pies. Not one or two but twenty plus, then into the freezer they were packed for the different seasons perhaps, or a special reason…. Back then a cook of sorts she was, at least that’s what we all thought. For to me no connoisseur, these pies well they were good, quite passable you see. That is until well read on you’ll see.
Then the day it came that changed my mind forever; she had baked an apple pie; while I was out that day at chemo therapy and Oh it smelled so good. So she cuts a slice for me and with a smile she hands it over, then for her self she cuts one. So we proceeds to eat.
As anyone who know the chemo patient must eat slow for nausea is ever-present so it was for me. Yes, chemo therapy plays cruel tricks, one must watch how one does eat. So carefully I cut my first bite savoring the smell, awaiting the savory taste to come from all the flavor to my tongue. Now inside I closed my mouth. As I began then to chew, the crust delighted all me senses, then I sensed a slight difference ,my taste buds began to sense an awkward oddity; a taste, a bitter thing, among the pleasures sensed tastes and smells. Just one, one small bite no more; out it comes, now mush upon the plate. And there in plain view for all to see even my dear sweet mother is the blue the green that hairy thing with white tendril’s. Looking at her I grab my drink, I rinse, and spit. Then ask her very gently, as one talks to a wee small child, mother does your pie taste alright. I in shock with great surprise at what she say next ; Oh yes it’s great and she takes another bite. But mother look at mine! It’s filled it’s covered with this mold! No it’s not, she says, as she turns to look at me, don’t be silly, now eat your pie, its real good you’ll see.
I slowly pulled the pie plate to my side then carefully I started looking at it wondering if, slowly now across the table with my fork slowly I lift up the edge an inch, lifting up the crust yet a little more, I see to my surprise these multi colored rings of green shaded with a multitude of blue growing there inside, with filaments of white like hair now waving at me in the air, now mother dear please stop! Now take a look right here, please just tell me what you see? Ooh! wow she says, That stuff looks like hair, now ain’t that pretty, I like those colors son, but my piece is fine, it’s so tasty to, then she does what I do not expect, she takes another bite; now the count is three.