When is a grinder not a grinder?

One thing that I love about life on the Gulf Coast is the food. Growing up in New England, we love to eat. A lot. Hence my rapidly expanding waistline. And the seafood is beyond reproach, lobster from Maine, quahogs from Rhode Island, scallops and clams from my beloved Massachusetts, Dang now I'm drooling. (A little New England joke "How about a little 'night on the town' just for the halibut? Not tonight, I have a haddock') But the one food source that always got me by was the grinder. A delightful foot-long thing of beauty that had all of the basic food groups in one delicious roll. With your beverage of choice on the side (Sam Adams is God) and maybe a side of hand-cut fries, or some onion rings, it provided all of the basic nutrients that a growing New Englander needed to survive life in the state of high taxes and no influence west of I-495.

So imagine my surprise when I moved to the Sunshine State and went looking for a grinder. Of course there is Subways, the Mickey D's of foot long sandwiches. But what about a real Grinder, served by evil-tempered Europeans on wax paper and eaten at a table that hadn't been cleaned since JFK was a Senator? No dice baby. When I started asking folks where I could get a good grinder, a few wanted to call the cops. Apparently, what I grew up on is called a Po'Boy down here. Similar yes, but not the same. Here I am, a transplanted New Englander (I don't call myself a Yankee, as a Red Sox fan we have to hate someone too) trying to adjust to life in a new region that really doesn't care how things are done up north. But I need my comfort food! Well, never let it be said that this 4-eyed devil can't adjust when times are hard.

Well, I have discovered Utopia in a bun. A fried shrimp Po'Boy. A bun, stuffed with lettuce, seasoned fried shrimp, onions, peppers, your choice of cocktail sauce, tartar sauce or mayo, and CAPE COD POTATO CHIPS! Yes, there is a God! With my favorite beverage on the side, sitting on a deck overlooking the emerald green waters of the Gulf. In April. After swimming. When there is still snow in the hills of Western Mass, and the sap is running (not the latest politician to be charged with anything, Maple trees. Gotta have our syrup). Yes, I have discovered that, even though I can't run down to Village Pizza (how many places will remember what you like when you haven't been up there in years?), I can still find joy in the simple things in life. Good food, great scenery, and wonderful people. Now, if I can only show folks how to make decent baked beans. I mean really. If I'm going to toot, I want it to mean something.