Old age brings on spurts of walking on the wild side.

Last night I had cereal with milk that expired three days ago, and this afternoon I made Momma’s meat loaf.

Before I ever bought the hamburger meat I could smell and almost taste it, and daydreamed about a cold meat loaf sandwich for lunch tomorrow.

White bread.

With Miracle Whip.

First I had to find Momma’s recipe.

None in her recipe box, so I checked out a couple of the gazillion recipe books I’ve bought over the years.

Some called for bread crumbs, then I remembered Momma used saltines, and an egg, and of course a chopped yellow onion.

I had everything except the crackers then found three two-cracker packs that came with my chili from The Grill.

That worked, along with a little milk, salt and pepper, then like magic it was almost ready. I didn’t forget strips of bacon and ketchup on the top though I did have to thaw some FFA bacon.

Ah, bacon. That’s why one of the Lioness Club’s recipes said to “put fat on the top.”

After 30 minutes, the smell was wonderful. When the timer went off at 45 I decided 10 more minutes would make it perfect.

Once it set up, I cut me a slice, or two.

Yum, but 45 minutes would have been perfect.

That’s what happens when you don’t cook often.

Or go roller skating. Drive a go-cart. Go water skiing.

Dance in New Orleans after one drink at Pat O’Brien’s.

Walk up the side of Clingmans Dome in the Great Smokies.

Ride a mechanical bull, or ride horseback from Hennessey to Waukomis along the Chisholm Trail.

Those were my fun, young and dumb adventuresome days in my fifties.

Yes, young.

Nowadays my idea of walking on the wild side include cooking, wearing my pajamas to get the morning paper, or changing the light bulb above the kitchen sink.