Back in the day, the closest thing we had to The Food Network was either “Julie” Childs French-frying up something or Grandpa Jones answering the begging question, “Hey, Grandpa, What’s for supper?” on Hee Haw.

Truly, it was the alpha and omega of foodstuffs.

Julia would be basting a hare, and Grandpa would be roasting a rabbit.

Julia would be toying with a Danish and putting sauce on something (not barbecue sauce, to be sure) while Grandpa would be stirring stewed tomatoes and boiling a hog jowl.

Thanks to the work of those lard-trained pioneers, today the culinary cat is totally and forevermore out of the bag. The Food Network, only one year shy of 30, is all food all the time.

A word: Bliss.

I don’t like everything they cook up — Eat a cod stomach? Whoa there, buddy … I don’t know where that cod stomach’s been — but I appreciate that an entire network is devoted to one of life’s simple pleasures: Eating.

I call it The Eating Network.

Saaaaa — LUTE! (Hee Haw again. I’m sorry…)

Our generation didn’t have The Food Network when we were children, not on television. Just as well: We’d have thought all fancy food was only black and white.

But we had something better. Some of us were lucky enough to live the food network.

You remember your food network, don’t you? Back before you had to buy and cook the stuff as a grownup? (Being grown up is so dumb and stupid.) Back when all you had to do was eat it?

Life was grand …

This is my food network, in Dillon County, S.C. Why couldn’t we have had reality television then, with scratch-and-sniff (and taste) screens?

Frances Rogers’ “Berry Good Cooking Show”: Her husband, Mr. Jimmy, worked at the Esso gas station. Every shirt he owned — including his Sunday go-to meetings  — had his name on it, in an oval on his pocket. The house was little and white and the kitchen inside it was tiny. But from that oven and the love of Mrs. Frances’ hands came homemade strawberry cake that made you want to skip supper and go straight to dessert. Sometimes white icing, sometimes strawberry. Served with a smile.

Muh — All Fried Chicken, All the Time: My neighbor and the mother of 12, Muh never met a chicken she couldn’t fry. They would scoot around the yard playfully all week, the chickens would, not knowing as the sun set Saturday that a few of them were a daybreak away from meeting their maker. She’d wring their necks, then fry their necks. Saw it 100 times if I saw it once. Colonel Sanders wishes he had this kind of game.

Neil Moody’s Pastry Shop: Son of Muh. (One of several.) A big boy, Neil joined the U.S. Armed Forces and they made him a … cook? We laughed, then realized someone in Army Intelligence wasn’t as dumb as he looked. Neil learned from the master — his momma and sisters. He was much more valuable to our fighting forces with a spatula in his hand instead of a bazooka.

His specialty was chicken and dumplings, which back home we call pastry. (Muh handled the chicken end, Neil the dumplings.) I can see him rolling them out on the kitchen table, thin as tissues, and cutting them into triangles. Gracious.

An Army — and America — runs on its stomach. God bless the USA. Thank you to the many caring hands that keep us all cooking.

Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu