63. An Audience–Preferably Live, but Whatever…

1 Feb

Photo by Paul G.
Flickr Creative Commons

Seeing as storytelling is part of most Southerners’ DNA, we’re always on the lookout for folks who will listen. Preferably folks who haven’t heard our stories before. Seven or eight times. Or more. But who’s counting? Oh, right: our listeners.

Just when you get going about the time you almost got shot by your mother (accidentally, of course) or how you ran over somebody’s mailbox (again, by accident) you spot it: that glazed look. The one that says, “I’ll listen to this again, but then I’m going to tell YOU about that time I found a snake in the closet.”

Perhaps that’s how Southerners got the reputation for being so hospitable. “Hey! So glad to meet you! Come sit by me, and let me tell you about the time…”

So…imagine my joy when I discovered that WordPress featured my blog on “Freshly Pressed.” Hits! Hits! Hooray!

I’m thrilled to welcome my new readers and subscribers. Thank you for sharing your insights, stories, ideas, and last but CERtainly not least, compliments.

And I’d like to give a virtual hug to all my friends, relations, and even a few strangers who’ve been with me from the get go.

As a Southern girl, I ought to be more coy and genteel, but I’m just going to come right out with it: If you like my blog, please let folks know. You needn’t take out a billboard or hire a sky writer, but a tweet or Facebook post would be nice. (And, again, thanks to all y’all who’ve already shared my site with friends!)

Thank you for reading!

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62. Krispy Kreme–Kalories Be Damned!

31 Jan

Photo by Anne Brink
Flickr Creative Commons

Donut eaters tend to fall into two camps: those who like the cake variety and those who prefer the glazed kind. Guess which ones Southerners tend to prefer. Hint: glazed. And where’s the best place to get a glazed donut? Krispy Kreme.

When I was growing up, the closest Krispy Kreme was on the Gulf Coast, three hours away. I wouldn’t say we traveled there just for the pastries, but if you’ve seen the “beaches” in Gulfport, you’d know we weren’t there to frolic in the non-existent surf. Looking back, I can’t recall why we ever went to the coast. It’s not like we couldn’t get tacky souvenirs and sunburns at home. But I digress.

I can’t remember eating my first Krispy Kreme, but I’m pretty sure the heavens parted and angels sang in chorus. Biting into that melt-in-the-mouth confection of fat, sugar, and dough, I may well have swooned. After that, all other donuts might as well have been rice cakes. Ok, not really. But I sure did love Krispy Kreme.

Photo by Lori Federico
Flickr Creative Commons

The best thing about Krispy Kreme is their neon “Hot Now” sign, when it’s on. Seeing as donuts are typically made long before sunrise, where else am I ever going to get a hot, fresh one? Ok, yes, I could make one myself, if I could ever figure out how to dispose of used cooking oil.

After I left Mississippi, they opened a Krispy Kreme in Jackson, where you can not only get donuts hot and fresh, you can watch them being made. The donuts float along a little river of oil, travel through a waterfall of icing, and ride a conveyor toward a Krispy Kreme worker ready to box them up. If I recall correctly, they’ll even let you pluck your own donut off the conveyor. It’s like a low-rent version of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Sadly, no oompa loompas.

Photo by Scott Ableman
Flickr Creative Commons

Fast forward to 1999 when Krispy Kreme infiltrated Hollywood. Everybody on every TV show or movie was eating Krispy Kremes. It was driving me mad because I was living in Seattle with nary a Krispy Kreme in sight. I even went so far as to send an email to KK’s headquarters asking them when they would: A. Build a Krispy Kreme in Seattle or B. Lay off the product placement already. They sent me a courteous reply saying they had no plans to open a franchise in my area anytime soon. ACK!

So I left Seattle (not solely over the Krispy Kreme issue, but it did factor in…). When I came back in 2002, lo and behold there was a Krispy Kreme within driving distance. Hallelujah.

I now live just a few miles from a Krispy Kreme, and while I will occasionally swing by for an original glaze, I have to say my infatuation with them has been steadily eroding over the last few years. I’m now inching closer and closer into cake donut territory.

Sadly, the nearest Top Pot is fifteen minutes away…

What’s your favorite Krispy Kreme variety?

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61. Mud Riding (Filthy, Low Budget Entertainment)

27 Jan

Photo by Andrew Barron
Flickr Creative Commons

I’ll begin this with a caveat: I’ve never actually been mud riding. But I do know folks who have.

If you’ve never heard of mud riding, it’s a fairly simple concept: take one pick-up truck, add people, find some mud, drive around in it. Isn’t that messy? Heck, yeah. But some of the best things in life are – ribs, for example. I, myself don’t see the fun in slinging mud into every nook and cranny of my vehicle. Especially knowing that I’d eventually have to clean up the mess. I’m pretty sure the folks who were eager to pile in the pickup on Saturday night are none too keen on pitching in at the car wash on Sunday morning. But somehow the trucks do get clean. Sure, you’ll see an occasional truck-shaped mound of mud on the road, but they’re really the exception.

Photo by lostinthesparks86 Flickr Creative Commons

I couldn’t tell you how mud riding got started. I reckon it just took one person to get their truck stuck in the mud and think, “hey, this is cool.” And they told their friends, and they told their friends, and so on.

Probably girls have been known to go mud riding, but I think it’s mainly a boy sport (and I use the word “sport” very loosely). Call me sexist, but I think the desire to revel in filth rests on the Y chromosome.

If you’re tempted to try mud riding but don’t actually own a pick up, I reckon an SUV would do. I would not, however, try it with a Volkswagen Beetle (old or new) or any sort of four-door family cruiser. And whatever you do, resist the urge to take someone else’s vehicle out for a quick trip through the local mud pit. If you’d like to remain on speaking terms with them, anyway.

In fact, if you’d like to try mud riding, the best thing to do is find someone who’s already going and tag along. That’s what most people do, which I reckon is why they call it “mud riding” and not “mud driving.”

Have you ever been mud riding? Would you do it again?

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60. Groom’s Cakes (Even the Ones in Poor Taste Still Taste Good)

20 Jan

Bee-u-ti-ful groom's cake
by maggie valley club

I just recently found out that groom’s cakes are a Southern thing. Here’s how it happened:

Me: What kind of groom’s cake are y’all having?

Bride, groom and everybody at the engagement party table: Huh?

What? People get married without a groom’s cake? Seriously? The bride gets the venue she wants, the flowers she wants, the music she wants, the photographer (and the 18 million pictures) she wants, the wedding cake she wants, and so on, and the groom can’t even get a lousy chocolate sheet cake?

C’mon people!

Supposedly, in the tradition’s early days, the groom’s cake wasn’t eaten at the wedding. Slices were packaged and sent home with single girls who would put them under their pillows to induce dreams of their future husbands. Right. Like a Southern single lady with post-wedding blues is going to let a perfectly good slice of cake go to waste? Never gonna happen.

These days, the cakes are tailored toward the grooms tastes and/or interests. I’ve never actually witnessed first hand a cake shaped like a Lazy Boy recliner, TV remote, or bottle of Jack Daniels, but surely they exist. As far as flavors go, well, they don’t go far: nearly every groom’s cake I’ve encountered was chocolate.

Steel Magnolias: The movie that launched
a thousand red velvet armadillos

“Steel Magnolias” features the beat-all, end-all groom’s cake: an armadillo-shaped confection featuring a red velvet interior. Yum!

I think the groom’s cake is an excellent addition to any wedding reception (but then my motto is “the more cake, the merrier”). However, clearly, not all grooms ought to have free reign at the bakery, as evidenced by the ill-conceived collection posted on cakewrecks.com.

Did you have a groom’s cake at your wedding? What kind?

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59. How to Sound Southern: Accent the First Syllable

19 Jan

Photo by Tom Hynds, Flickr Creative Commons

I’ve never been particularly drawly, even less so having lived outside the South for lo these last 16 years. However, my Dixie tends to slip out around midnight, when I’m too tired (tarred) to add a “g” to the end of every word. You’ll also hear a drawl if I’ve had one drink too many (or maybe that’s just a slur). And if you hear me chatting with my Mississippi peeps on the phone, you might think you’ve happened upon an extremely low budget remake of Steel Magnolias. (I’ll be the one playing Ouiser.)

Considering my non-drawliness, I was surprised when Geoff called me on my pronunciation of ordinary, everyday words. He said, “Say I-N-S-U-R-A-N-C-E.” It took me a few moments to figure out what on earth he wanted me to say. (I can hardly ever spell things aloud, which is why I have a hard time around small children.) When I figure it out, I say, “INsurance.” He says, “It’s pronounced inSURance.” We argue about this for as long as it takes him to pull up some bogus pronunciation tutorial on the Internet that agrees with him.

Once he’s on a roll, he gets me to say words like HALLoween, THANKSgiving, TEEvee, UMbrella, and JUly (which sounds like JEWly).

I had never before noticed that folks in Seattle had such freakish pronunciation. teeVEE? thanksGIVING? Seriously?

Of course, I immediately consulted my Southern friends to assess their pronunciation. Sure enough, we tend shift the emphasis to the first syllables of certain words, Merriam Webster be damned!

I can’t tell you why we do it anymore than I can tell you how folks manage to stretch my name into three syllables: KEE-EE-UM.

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58. Chicken Fried Steak (The Culinary Equivalent of Sweatpants)

17 Jan

Photo by goldbirds, Flickr Creative Commons

What could be better than a tender, fire-kissed slab of steak? Hello! A battered and deep fried slab of steak. Before you start thinking that Southern folks dunk a big ole T-bone into tempura, I should say that the sort of steak that’s chicken fried is actually cube steak. I couldn’t tell you why a pounded-flat piece of beef is called “cube.” I, myself, have learned to live with the mystery.

When dining in the South, you’ll rarely see a chicken fried steak served without its three bffs, mashed potatoes, gravy, and biscuits. However, when it comes to gravy, there are two distinct camps: white gravy folks and brown gravy folks. Both argue that their version is the only “true” Southern gravy. I really don’t see why it matters. I mean, has any Southerner ever turned down gravy of any kind? (Apart from my brother’s dyed-green Christmas gravy, which accompanies his dyed-red mashed potatoes.)

For me, there’s no better comfort food than chicken fried steak. So it’s probably for the best that you can’t really get “authentic” chicken fried steak around these parts. Case in point: One of my friends from Mississippi was passing through town, and we went to the Icon Grill where I’ve enjoyed many a delicious meal. But…Ricky opted for the chicken fried steak. I think I warned him “I do not think that word means what you think it means…” Sure enough, his plate arrived, and we both stared at it going “hmmmm,” not to be confused with “mmmmm.” It didn’t really resemble any CFS I’ve ever encountered, besides which it was served with chow chow. Even if chow chow is supposedly a Southern delicacy, I’ve never actually seen it in person, much less tried it. I should mention that I greatly enjoyed my meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

Photo by the delightful homesicktexan.blogspot.com

Some Southern restaurants serve not only chicken fried steak, but also chicken fried chicken, which sounds like it was named by the department of redundancy department. But no! These are completely different dishes (except that they’re both fried and are also both chicken). Regular fried chicken is served on the bone whereas chicken fried chicken is a boneless breast that’s been pounded flat in the manner of the above-mentioned sirloin. However, I should point out that it’s not called cube chicken. I don’t think it has a name it all, so let’s call it Tweety.

If any of my fellow Southern expats know where to get a good chicken fried steak in Seattle, please let me know. And for all my MS peeps, I’d love to hear about your favorite CFS joint. Caution: if you say that you, yourself, make the best CFS around, I will show up at your place for dinner (aka supper). Not today…not tomorrow…but someday…

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57. Western Wear (Boots, Bolos, and Beyond)

16 Jan

The Holloway ladies: rocking the Urban Cowboy look.

I am a sucker for a man in a western shirt. Although, I must admit that I prefer a guy who wears said shirt ironically. He’s a few steps beyond the “all hat and no cattle” types. More like “no hat, no cattle.”

During the blessedly short-lived Urban Cowboy phase, I had it all: hat, western shirt, Wranglers, belt, boots. Only thing missing was a lasso and possibly some spurs. Today, if you checked my closet – once you got past the stampede of dust bunnies, store receipts, and discarded tags – you’d find one imitation western shirt, three cowboy hats (two pink, one purple) and four pairs of cowboy boots (if you count Frye harness boots, which I do).

Dior "cowboy" boots,
a bargain at $1032!

As most Southerners know, a little western wear goes a long way. Boots and Wranglers? Yes. Just don’t go adding the hat, bolo tie, gi-normous belt buckle and fancy embroidered shirt unless you’re actually participating in a rodeo or perhaps a strip club act. And ladies, please refrain from wearing shirts declaring your status as “rodeo queen” in rhinestones. That’s just tacky on a number of levels.

If you plan to sport western wear, try not to look like you just walked out of the dressing room of your local Cowboys R Us. At least one or two of your items needs to appear lived in (and not in that pre-distressed Old Navy sort of way). If you don’t have time to wear in (or out) your gear, try shopping at Goodwill.

This probably goes without saying (but when has that ever stopped me?): don’t go around sporting designer cowboy duds like a diamond-encrusted bolo tie or these Christian Dior “cowboy” boots. That’s a good way to get yourself mugged or worse…mocked.

Do you regularly sport western wear? What’s your favorite accessory?

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56. Waffle House (Kind of Like IHOP without the Pancakes)

15 Jan

Photo by gingher, flickr creative commons

On the ride home from the airport to my dad’s house, I’m always astounded by the number of dining establishments that have cropped up over the years. When I was growing up, you could count the nearby restaurants on one hand (and have fingers left over.) If I recall correctly, there were three: Sonic, the locally owned Chuck Wagon, and Waffle House. For some reason, we never went to Sonic. Perhaps Baptists are offended by girls delivering food wearing roller skates, seeing as roller skating could be a gateway to dancing.

On many a Sunday evening after church, the congregation would re-congregate at the Waffle House. I reckon Baptists are in favor of breakfast for dinner, but who isn’t?

Don’t let the name fool you: the menu at Waffle House isn’t limited to waffles. But in general, my advice is to order whatever food the restaurant’s named after. That’s probably your best chance for a decent entrée. But, hey, you’re a grown up. Order whatever you like. I’m not the boss of you.

The cool thing about Waffle House was that it was the first place I ever encountered a jukebox. To this day, I still get a little goosebumpy when I happen upon a working jukebox. Unless said jukebox is in a 50’s themed establishment, because I have a hate-hate relationship with 50’s music. Hello! I’m nostalgic for the 80’s! Hint, hint, restauranteurs.

Waffle House was an occasional treat as a kid, but when I hit college, I developed a deeper relationship with the place. Two reasons: it was cheap, and it was close by. Also, did I mention it was cheap?

Yep, pretty much how I remember it... Photo by Angela Layana, Flickr Creative Commons

When “dining” at Waffle House, I always enjoyed hearing the ancient waitresses hollering out orders for hashbrowns that were “scattered, smothered and covered.” I’m going to have to look up what that means. Ok, according to the Waffle House site, the options have expanded from the original “scattered” (spread on the grill), “smothered” (with onions) and “covered” (with cheese) to include: “chunked” (with ham), “diced” (with tomatoes), “peppered” (with jalapeño peppers), “capped” (with mushrooms), “topped” (with chili) and “country” (with sausage gravy). You can even order them “all the way” (with all available toppings) though I imagine that would have you running all the way to the bathroom.

I seem to recall ordering chicken fried steak and eggs, but sadly that’s not on their current menu. You can still get t-bone, rib-eye or NY strip, but really, what’s the point of steak if you’re not going to deep fry it? Just kidding. Sort of.

One other distinguishing feature of Waffle House is that they used to offer a slice of pecan pie topped with your choice of A. cheddar cheese or B. a scoop of butter. Do y’all remember that? Or was it a nightmare induced by watching Paula Deen before falling asleep?

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55. Kenny Rogers (For His Music, Not Necessarily the Roasted Chicken)

14 Jan

I am not ashamed to admit it: I heart Kenny Rogers. My first real memory of the silver-haired sensation was from a road trip with my dad when I was around nine or 10. I don’t know why we set off for a 6 hour round trip to Oxford, MS, and back with only one cassette tape. Clearly, I was not in charge of the music back then. Lucky for me, the tape was my mom’s “Kenny Roger’s Greatest Hits” and not something from my dad’s copious Anne Murray collection.

The thing about Kenny Rogers is that he really makes you feel for the characters in his songs. How can you not despise that cold-hearted, runaway wife Lucille? Or that trampy, taking-love-to-town Ruby? Or those sadistic Gatlin brothers for taking turns with Becky?

Then there are the love songs. Swoon! Who wouldn’t want to be his “Lady”? I mean, he’s your night in shining armor and he loves you! And you decorated his life by painting your love all over his heart. He told you one day if you were his girl, he would change the world with his little songs. And he’s so glad he stayed right there with you through the years!

I’m not saying Kenny can do no wrong. There was that unfortunate “Islands in the Stream” incident in which he and Dolly sung about riding it together, uh huh/making love with each other, uh huh. Two words: Nuh uh!

My mom adored Kenny, so much so that she saw him in concert every chance she got. Then walked on air for days afterward. She did not, however, replace her Magnum P.I. poster with one of Kenny. Some things are sacred, people!

I have long espoused the theory that my stereo’s cd shuffler (and now my ipod shuffle) is possessed. Many a time, it has played exactly the song I need to hear. About seven years ago at the height of my Internet dating madness, it played “The Gambler.” Call me slow, but I hadn’t realized that the song is SO not about playing poker. Maybe I’d have been enlightened had I seen the made-for-tv movie. Alas…

After my gambler aha moment, I made it my mission to “know when to walk away/know when to run.” Now that I think about it, I usually know when to walk away. So I suppose my mission is to actually do it. I’m also working on my poker face.

What’s your favorite Kenny song/memory?

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A Belated Holiday Post: Deep-Fried Turkey.

13 Jan

by Henry Alva, Flickr Creative Commons

As y’all know, I’m generally in favor of deep fried foods, but you’ve got to draw a line somewhere. I humbly suggest we draw it at turkey.

It would be one thing if you wanted to cut up a Butterball and batter it, but whose idea was it to just drop the whole dang turkey in a vat of boiling oil? What’s the point?

Fried turkey aficionados will tell you that deep frying produces a bird that’s moist and delicious without being greasy. I will tell you that I’ve tasted deep fried turkey alongside oven-baked turkey and the only difference I could discern was the extra hundred or so dollars spent on oil and a turkey-frying contraption.

The upside of deep fried turkey is that it frees up oven space for the requisite sweet potato casserole, dressing (not stuffing: Southerners don’t bother with actually stuffing the poultry), rolls, and green bean casserole. The downside is, well, it’s difficult to enjoy dinner when your house is burning down.

Even I, a card-carrying member of the Safety? Schmafety! Society, must confess to feeling uneasy seeing folks frying turkeys in the garage around a bunch of flammable materials. Cars, for instance. Yeah, folks know you’re supposed to fry turkeys outside, far from kids, pets, and other wildlife. But that’s also far from the kitchen. Besides which, it might be raining.

Despite all the exploding turkey stories you hear, misguided fry masters are STILL dropping half-thawed poultry into boiling oil. I don’t imagine they do it more than once, but to paraphrase P.T. Barnum, there’s a nitwit born every minute. Here’s hoping you aren’t married to one. I was going to say “here’s hoping you aren’t related to one,” but realized the odds for that are very, very slim.

Do you enjoy deep-fried turkey more than the regular variety? What am I missing?

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