07\27\25 - Mystery Meat

Growing up, we’d often have spam, bologna, and hot dogs. In high school, I’d hear from the lunch table all about how either the food was full of unwanted scraps from chicken, beef, and pork, or mystery meat like raccoon, possum, or armadillo. I would never embarrass myself by revealing that we hardly ever went out to eat and that Mom would often cook something as strange as mystery meat for us. I took equal amounts of pride in our family’s resourcefulness and shame in feeling that our dinners differed from others’.

Regardless, it’s often what I’d have for a snack or dinner. There were a few times in high school, especially those long weeks when my father had a stroke that left him incapacitated for a while, that hot dogs and bologna were the only things I could fashion together to get through the days. I wouldn’t dare fry spam on the stove. When Mom wasn’t at work, she stayed at the hospital to be with my father- I was grateful to have a few friends who let me ride around with them to get away from things for a while. In all of that, these tubes of mystery meat- one of many hallmarks of the poor and lowly (have you seen the price of Spam these days? Good Lord, have things changed!)- were a constant companion- and a constant reminder of my place compared to everyone around me.

Later, when I stayed from couch to couch in college, I would take hot dogs from the cafeteria and bags of popcorn from student events on campus and stash them away in my backpack. Stale popcorn and old hot dogs quickly became a staple for me.

I'd carry cooked foods around with me. I could never be sure where I would fall asleep, and I needed to be ready to leave and find somewhere else to spend my time if things got too dangerous for me to remain. That was a fact of life.

One day, as I sat at the quad with one of my classmates. They mentioned wanting to go to the food court. In those days, students who lived in the dorms were afforded these generous meal plans that allowed them to exchange a meal ticket three times a day for full access to the cafeteria or a specific meal at the food court. I told them I packed a lunch, but would be more than happy to sit in the air conditioning, share a meal, and talk about our upcoming meeting, where we would draft up some mock legislation.

We were in an obscure yet prestigious group, our college’s delegation of Oklahoma’s collegiate mock legislature. In those days, I took electives in political science and even earned a minor in it. I wanted to learn government, political philosophy, civil procedure, and everything necessary to one day lead my kinsmen to the best of my ability. Going this route, including involvement in our own student government, introduced me to many folks still achieving great things stateside and at the national level. In all of that, I observed a marked difference between my upbringing and theirs. While many of my older colleagues in this group were down-to-earth and incredibly understanding, some of my peers- including from my own delegation- lived radically different lives than I did- and it showed.

Anyway, a few minutes later, my buddy brings a box of 18 chicken wings, a large drink, and other sundries- the luxury of having a meal plan from living on campus. Sheepishly, I produced a small, torn bag of stale popcorn and two dried hot dogs wrapped up in old napkins. My companion asked if I genuinely liked eating mystery meat.

I replied that no two hot dogs taste the same, so it's always a surprise.

I must confess that I felt some way about it, but I honestly, figuratively, and literally could not afford to have shame in my survival. We sat in silence, and, after our time together, I never heard from my friend afterward. Of course, having the same major and being involved in some of the same groups and circles, we shared classes and meetings, but I suppose that’s just how it is sometimes. I quickly learned that some folks stick to those from the same station. I'm not going to make a value judgement of my previous statement- that's simply how many of us are conditioned. It is, as the kids say, what it is.

I get it.

Eventually, I stayed at the United Methodist Children’s Home across the street from where I currently work. Originally an orphanage, a program was developed for at-risk teenagers and college students to have temporary housing as they planned for their next steps. After my experience with the United Methodists, I received the privilege and honor of staying there before I could manage to pay for a semester in the dorms. During that time, I worked at the Wesley Foundation (the Methodist college ministry) as a student intern, yet between paying for classes every semester and not knowing how to cook, popcorn and hotdogs remained familiar companions, and the microwave quickly became my new best friend. I was fortunate to have a small kitchenette, but I did not want to risk messing with the gas stove.

Once I entered the dorms, I lived in the upperclassmen area until I joined a fraternity. I volunteered to stay on our fraternity floor and serve as a liaison between the university and our brotherhood- I’d serve as floor leader and keep my brothers accountable and out of trouble. With that came the perk of not being harassed for burning my 100th bag of popcorn since they were for everyone. Even still, I’d find succor in packages of 89¢ hotdogs. I didn't have enough money for a fancy meal plan, so I stuck with the smallest packages, which afforded me one meal per day. I would go to the cafeteria and stuff my backpack full of fruits or get a sandwich or two to eat later. Even with my housing and shelter secure, I remained in this survival mindset.

The summer after my father passed away (the weekend before I graduated from college), I left my parents’ home to stay in town to make my way through grad school. Even after earning the most prestigious grad assistantship and sharing an apartment with one of my fraternity brothers, my diet was, yet again, hot dogs, bagged popcorn, and (then) menthol cigarettes. I would try to cook something, but it never turned out well. Instead of eating, I figured the (then) $3.75 pack of smokes I invested in daily would do the trick- I had bills to pay, after all. When gas station food wasn’t quite cutting it, there was always hot dogs and popcorn to fall back on.

After grad school and all of the opportunities, honors, and prestige my intellectual prowess (and stubbornness) afforded me, I enrolled at seminary- working part time as a supply pastor at a small rural church, then appointed to be a senior pastor of a congregation two towns over. Still yet, with a big, empty house and a full kitchen, the microwave, hot dogs, and bagged popcorn remained ever-faithful to me. I struggled to learn the fundamentals of cooking, and, with the arrival of the pandemic, eagerly began to learn the basics.

Even still, I would constantly find myself with food poisoning- the result of trying too many things too quickly; I initially thought of cooking as simply and only following directions- anyone who has spent an hour over a hot stove knows better- some things you simply can’t rush.

These days, back in my hometown, and often spending my unaccounted time tending to my widowed mother, I try to make something new. I will try a new recipe or method for a dish a few times before I post it to social media- but I’m not ashamed to share what I cook- even if it's sometimes mystery meat.

I get feedback and comments about my choices of seasoning, lack of fresh produce, or the low quality or unhealthiness of my dishes. They used to upset me, but I don’t take these criticisms to heart anymore. I think that folks are inclined to believe that because I have a lot of education or work in the field I do, that I have access to a lot of resources that I’m simply not using. In other words, I think that people think that I either know how to prepare healthier foods, what they are, or that I have the money to buy them- that’s not the reality for me. I often prepare a meal based on what I have available, and I generally don't have many of the same staple ingredients as everyone else.

Most of the time, I'm working with mystery meat.

Much of the money I earn goes to bills, and what doesn’t go to bills goes to paying back the student loans accumulated over four degrees or other financial obligations. I’m incredibly blessed to be given things such as my crockpots and air fryer, which really help me in cooking what I can. Regardless of that, I don’t see the harm in having spam, bologna, or a hot dog once in a while- these mystery meats played essential parts in my survival and my life.

One of the fascinating things about having a relatively large digital footprint and presence as a Millennial is the language of memes. Often, folks will encounter a hotdog meme and send it to me. I’m a ‘hotdog guy’- a “glizzy goblin” if you will. Folks jest quite a bit- I suppose I look like someone who enjoys hot dogs- someone who enjoys mystery meat- I don’t know.

These things have defined who I am and what I’ve been through. I’ve not always had great things; I may never have the greatest of things,  but I can say with confidence that I truly understand what it is and how it is to be judged and treated as such for having so very little.

It's taken me a while to believe and understand that there isn't shame in eating mystery meat.

 After all, no two hot dogs taste the same, so it's always a surprise.

So for dinner tonight, I present an homage to classic- a 100% all-beef hotdog with Whataburger spicy ketchup and a simple generic yellow mustard.