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A fried bologna sandwich was a feast when you grew up poor. You could afford bologna. A loaf of bread. Butter or lard to fry it in. That was a meal. That was abundance. A child in an Appalachian household would come home from school and their mother would have a plate waiting. A thick slice of bologna fried until the edges curled and turned crispy and brown. Between two slices of soft white bread with mustard. Maybe a glass of cold milk. That was dinner. That was love on a plate. The bologna sandwich taught Appalachian children something essential, that you could make something good from very little. That simplicity was not deprivation. That a meal made with care and served with love tasted better than anything fancy. A fried bologna sandwich was not embarrassing. It was not something to apologize for. It was what you had. It was what you made. It was what filled your belly and sent you back to school ready to learn or back outside ready to play. The beauty of a fried bologna sandwich is that it is still affordable. Still simple. Still delicious. A grown person who grew up eating fried bologna sandwiches will still make them. Still feed them to their own children. Because some foods are not about money or status. They are about memory. They are about home. They are about the understanding that the best meals are the ones someone made for you when resources were scarce but love was abundant. A fried bologna sandwich is Appalachian food at its most honest. It says I have very little but I will feed you with what I have. That is survival. That is dignity. That is love. 🏔️ #AppalachianFood #BolognaSandwich #PoormansSteak #ComfortFood #TheLostMountain