When my grandmother was alive and lived in Texas, there are two things I looked forward to most when visiting her: the Fruit Pie she’d make us and have sitting on the counter as soon as we arrived, and our visit to Half-Price Books. I could get lost in that store for hours on end, and often did, and she would bring a book and patiently wait for me as I sat on the floor, debating about exactly how many books and magazines I could conceivably lug through the airport. I love that store. Although they have a number of locations, I’m sad that none are near us here. But on the other hand, it would be a very dangerous prospect. Dangerous indeed.
One of the cookbooks I bought from there was The I Love Elvis Cookbook, a treasure trove of sinfully decadent concoctions that The King would love. Page after page of things that aren’t good for you, but taste so good you make ’em anyway. Once in awhile. Back at my grandmother’s house, I remember vividly reading the recipes out-loud to my aunt, and she stopped me when I mentioned Chicken-Fried Steak. “I love Chicken Fried Steak,” she said, a big smile spreading across her face.
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