BOB KORNEGAY: Bologna definition is pure baloney

It has two definitions.

Bologna: 1. A city in Northern Italy. 2. A seasoned smoked sausage of various meats.

Definition number one? No quarrel.

Definition number two? Baloney!

I won’t argue the descriptive terminologies. They‘re apt definitions. It’s the name that raises my righteous Southern hackles. Perhaps the Italians get by fine calling it Bologna, but somehow I can’t believe it would appear (or taste) the same under any other moniker but Baloney.

Growing up, I’d often ask my mama what we were having for a particular meal. If her reply was, “sandwiches,” I needed no further details. I knew the meat that would be inserted between two slices of white bread would be baloney. Even now, when asked by someone what kind of sandwich I’d like, it’s hard not to reply, “Baloney, fool. What do you think sandwiches are made of?”

Foreign though its origins may be, baloney is a wonderful concoction. Think about it. A sandwich constructed with anything else as its foundation is a complicated mess. One must actually study over it. Afterward, he must amass all the various building materials: lettuce, tomato, pickles, relish, mustard (400 different kinds of mustard alone to choose from), and an assortment of breads that boggle the mind. On the other hand, a baloney sandwich needs but three basics: baloney, white bread, and a generous glob of plain old mayonnaise. Anything else and a baloney sandwich ain’t a baloney sandwich. It‘s a mortal sin to disguise the unique, delectable flavor of all those varied ground-up animal parts with anything else. That’s probably in the Bible somewhere, though I can’t say I’ve actually read it yet.

I like baloney even when it comes in those thin little slices you buy “off the rack” in the cold cuts section of the meat department. I absolutely adore baloney when it comes custom-sliced right off that giant log wrapped in its classic red rind. If it comes from a log that resides in some little out-of-the way country grocery, so much the better.

The best slice of baloney I ever ate was purchased years ago from a sweet old lady who ran an off-the-beaten-path country store somewhere in the vicinity of Reliance, Tennessee. I was aimlessly riding around in the East Tennessee hill country looking for a trout stream someone had turned me onto. I was following his directions with my usual pathfinder’s affinity. Okay, I was lost.

I came upon the little store about noon, eight hours away from the four a.m. powdered doughnut I’d hastily devoured for breakfast. I stopped and entered and there she was, an endearing white-haired angel who greeted me as if she’d known me forever. And there IT was, a huge half-log of old-fashioned baloney tucked away in the corner of an old glass-fronted meat cooler.

“Help you, Sugar?” the angel asked.

“Yes, ma’am, if you please. Tell me how to get back to Chattanooga and hack me off a piece of that baloney. And while you’re at it, slice me off a hunk of that hoop cheese over there.”

“I’ll shore do it, young fella. How big a slice a meat you want?”

I took a dime from my pocket and held it upright on the counter between my thumb and forefinger. She winked at me, obviously realizing this wasn’t my first time ordering custom-sliced baloney.

Back outside, I parked my truck beneath a shade tree near the store, consuming my glorious noontime repast with a handful of soda crackers and a cold, bottled, Royal Crown Cola.

Ah, Heaven!

Following the angel’s directions, I later found my way back to Chattanooga with little difficulty. I also found that little creek I’d been looking for, topping off what has to be one of the more perfect days I’ve ever spent.

By the way, If you’re ever fishing for trout and they won’t take any of your artificial bait offerings, try a little piece of leftover hoop cheese. It works.

I can’t say the same for baloney. “Leftover” and baloney never fit together in the same sentence.