Crawfish Cuisiniana

This is the final report on my recent trip to Louisiana.
I noticed this sign at a gas station, and wondered whether I should go in the shop and purchase some crawfish toffee. It didn't sound particularly appealing, but neither does "gumbo," which makes me picture a little green clay guy flailing his rubbery arms screaming "help, help" as he drowns in steaming fish boil. Yuk.
I looked at the sign again. CRAWFISH TOFFEE ON TOP FISH. Oh, I get it. It's a crawfish shaped piece of toffee resting on a slab of - what? - catfish? Maybe not, today, thanks.

We got back on the road and stopped at a large produce store.  I was mesmerized by a jar of barbecue flavored pickled quail eggs.  I suppose that if you were going to develop a taste for these, you should start with the plain variety. But all I know of quail is that they make cute "quail crossing" signs for the garden, so I assume they are cute and lovable creatures, and so would have delicious eggs, made even more delicious by pickling.

Pickling is a rip. You can take anything that you would NEVER in a thousand years eat, pickle it, and suddenly it's a treat. I don't think so. Although my grandmother used to feed me pickled pigs feet, when I discovered last year that they were actually pigs feet I stopped eating them.
I have spent considerable time in Louisiana gas stations staring into jars of pickled pigs lips trying to identify different pig lips expressions. There - on the upper left - is that a smile? Wait! toward the middle, right behind the label, do I detect lips puckered as in kissing? Was this noble creature cut down in the middle of true piggly romance? I could stare at them forever, imagining the short lives of unsuspecting pigs destined to have their lips pickled and jarred, and yes - perish the thought - eaten.
As we drive into the southern sunset, I was reminded of the adage, "you are what you eat." Double yuk.