The above link is to celebrated food writer Colleen Rush’s article on meat pies. I won’t steal any of her pictures or thunder to make this post look any sexier. You gotta go there alone… but prepare yourself! First grab you a towel to mop up all that Pavlovian drool before it gets on your keyboard.
I’m sitting here stupefied by my craving for a meat pie after reading that article and lusting over those pictures. If you asked me a question right now I could answer it after a few minutes but you’d hardly understand me, my central Louisiana accent would be so thick. Somehow those five photos of crispy golden fried dough and the unseen succulent spiced meats within have triggered a reversion to my primitive reptilian Rapides Parish brain. This is the part of my brain that thinks it’s a great idea to start a bonfire with a quart of motor oil or dive into a gravel pit lake without first checking the depth. In short, its the teenage, no-think brain. Great for absorbing beer and playing pool and stealing first kisses. It is the meat pie brain. Enjoy!