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Patsy, if I remember right, would have beaten out Boyd Frompke for salutatorian had she not gotten herself knocked-up junior year. Apparently old Patsy showed up at all the county dances religion with her kneecaps showing and wantonness flashing in her eyes. My mother desecrated the kitchen with her cooking. I grew up believing that spaghetti was pink and came, quite naturally, out religion of a can. In religion fact, until the age of 12, I mistook my mother's maiden name for Boy-ar-dee. Convenience foods lined our cabinet shelves: Mary Kitchen's corned-beef hash, Armour's chipped beef, and Campbell's Bean-with-Bacon soup. The freezer overflowed with Swanson's TV dinners, Weaver's frozen fried chicken, and lima beans, the only vegetable ever to find its way onto our table. A two-pound wad of Land-o-Lakes cheese, encased in an ancient Tupperware container, could usually be found drying out behind the long-forgotten leftovers that had gone green with penicillin spores.
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