I shouldn't do this but I can't resist. Here's a taste of the novel I'm writing -- this is taken from a passage that I wrote a few months back. (I've filleted the bologna stuff out of the scene -- I'm skipping the ghosts, meth-head troubles, and the protagonist's lentil soup.)
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the idea of a fried bologna sandwich was one I found unnerving, but when she dropped the discs of Caucasian-looking flesh into the pan the burnt-weenie tang that came off as they cupped from the heat changed my mind. Lulu cracked an egg into each bologna cup, topped them with cheese slices and covered the pan…
Lulu took off the top of the pan and scootched the bologna over to one side, turned up the heat, then dropped a couple of slices of bread into the hot grease. She kept shuffling them around with the pancake flipper, then pulled them out when they were nicely browned on one side and put in two more slices of bread.
She took the crisp fried slices and spread mayo on them and sprinkled it with pepper, then laid down the lettuce and the thicker onion slices, topped them with the bologna/egg/cheese bombs and the last slice of fried bread with more mayo…
I looked down at the grim little packets of grease on the plate in front of me. I picked one up. I bit down. I dabbed at the trickle of butter, bologna grease, and mayo on my lip.
“You got the touch,” I said, and let her put some onions and cucumber on my plate. The sugar worked; the combination tasted somewhere between a salad and a pickle. And the sandwich was fantastic, pure rich degenerate trashy comfort. Hot bologna is nothing like cold. “This is mighty tasty.”