Another local specialty

In addition to boudin (boo-DAN!), the locals are very proud of their homemade cracklins. I like the sound of the word cracklins. It sounds fun...crunchy and fun. And boudin was pretty good, so DH thinks he should try cracklins. So, on one of our drives through the countryside, we pull into a little gas station/convenience store/diner that has a sign out front proclaiming theirs to be "real homemade cracklins" and that we "cain't find none better."

Inside, DH orders some cracklins while I go hunt down some drinks. He takes a seat at one of the two tables to try his new food, and I decide to ask the owner what, exactly, is a cracklin. She has to actually say it twice, because I am SURE I couldn't have heard her correctly. With a quick thank you and a smile (I hope I pulled off the smile, anyway. It felt more like a grimace to me), I run over to DH before he can take that first bite and tell him to PUT THE CRACKLINS DOWN. PLEASE. STEP A-W-A-Y FROM THE CRACKLINS. DH looks at me and wants to know why. I tell him that I'm trying not to make a scene, but I just found out what they are. My yankee roots are showing, and I am so going to vomit if he eats that. He's smiling now, but I notice that he has put the food (I use this term loosely) down.

What is it, he wants to know? Pig fat. Deep. Fried. Pig fat. Pig. Fat. "Noooooo," says DH, "No way." I just smile/grimace and say, "Yes, they have found a way to fry fat. I beg you not to eat that." Thankfully, he doesn't take much convincing. With one last glance at what almost was, he carefully grabs the cardboard container and carries it to the garbage. As we leave, the owner is shaking her head, and I swear I hear her saying "damn yankees."