As part of Funeral Week ’06, we took the extended family to a football game. Partly so they could see that Friday Night Lights isn’t exactly fiction (the high school stadium had a jumbotron, for Christ’s sake), but also to see our niece and nephew perform in the band and drill team. And to get a little aerobic workout going up and down and up and down and up and down the stairs buying junk food for the kids, who were totally into it.
Best line of the night? My brother in law, who doesn’t often stray this side of the Mason/Dixon:
Frito pie? WTF is Frito pie?
I’m such a Yankee… Frito Pie? Weird.
I grew up in Hoosier land so I get the high school sports stuff. My high school basketball gym sat three times the number of people in my home town and was bigger than my college’s baskeball gym.
My Damn Yankee husband had never had Frito Pie or okra!
You know, Evil Dad and I met and got married in the South, and I never heard of Frito Pie until we moved to Colorado. I think it’s a southwestern thing.
I’m a “yankee” myself – well, from Joisey. Okra and grits belong in the same food category for me as brains – icky.
Total Yankee here, never hear of Frito Pie.