There are few people for whom I hold complicated, uncomfortable feelings of vague horror, disdain and even disgust while simultaneously thinking of them as an essential, integral, wonderful part of how I got to be where I am now. A few exes and a sprinkling of roommates fall into this category.
So does the late, great Jimmy Dean. (He died June 13 at age 81).
The country singer/TV personality/sausage-maker churned out products that seared my ears (“Bumming Around,” “Big Bad John”) and left a pool of wet, musty tasting, questionably-sourced griddle grease on my palate (Jimmy Dean Formed Breakfast Sausage Patty, No MSG; Jimmy Dean Super Stuff Sausage ‘N Gravy Filled Biscuit Breakfast Sandwich).
Yet the spot in my heart for ol’ J.D. is as soft, large and unmanageable as a sweaty fistful of uncooked Jimmy Dean Breakfast Sausage Gravy Chub. And I’m not alone.










TOPICS: Eat to the Beat, Kathleen Willcox