Okra Boy

All of the fried okra eaters I know (myself, I don't like it one bit) say that the best fried okra in town comes from the Wal-Mart deli, so we go there for Karston. This afternoon when I was checking out, the clerk Bessie said, Oh, he's the okra boy! Whenever we're near the deli counter, Karston says Okra okra okra, sometimes quite loudly, until he gets some. Since the okra is already weighed and priced, I let him eat it right away, and I pack juice so that he can wash it down. Today, Karston even told me that his okra would be hot-hot, so he would blow on it (puff, puff). Sure enough, that's what he did, even in the checkout lane when Bessie spotted him as a regular, the okra boy. Okra boy is a dubious honor, but at least Karston asks for and eats a vegetable.

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