Tag Archives: family

94. Camping (Not That I’m Happy About It)

14 Apr

Disclaimer: Everything I have to say about camping in the South is based on my personal experience way back in the 1970’s. Here goes:

When I was in fifth grade, I wrote a scathing expose on camping and got to read it in class. Everybody thought it was hilarious. I can’t remember what all I said, but the gist of it was: I hate camping. I really hate camping. Also, camping sucks. Which is why I hate camping. So much.

This was the first time I truly realized the power of a number 2 pencil and Trapper Keeper-compatible loose leaf paper. My highly unscientific hypothesis was: People like to laugh. I can make people laugh. Therefore, people will like me.

I wish I had a copy of my essay on camping, but it has most likely disintegrated by now, considering how many times I read it to a captive audience. (By “captive” I don’t mean “fascinated by” so much as “prevented from fleeing.”)

Here in the Pacific Northwest, people see camping as a way to loosen the shackles of society, commune with nature, catch a rare glimpse of a star-filled sky, and sleep in tents. That all sounds great (apart from the sleeping on the ground aspect), but unlike any camping I’ve ever experienced.

Our campsite looked kind of like this,
only smaller and with plastic fruit lights.

When I was a kid, my dad would hook our pop-up camper to the trailer hitch on the car and away we’d go to the KOA Campgrounds in uber-exotic Wiggins, MS. Once we’d parked in our assigned spot, we’d set up camp. This involved popping up the camper and erecting a tarp cover to shade the picnic table, complete with a snazzy string of plastic fruit lights. (My mother never met a place she couldn’t decorate.)

My first order of business was scoping out the nearest bathroom facilities (some things never change). If we were lucky, there’d be a sketchy looking building with toilets and showers fairly close to “home.” One of the stereotypes of Southern folks is that we don’t have running water. Well, I’m here to tell you we do. In the wilderness, no less.

The ones in Wiggins, MS,
were slightly less grand.

The next item on my agenda was chasing squirrels. Not for supper. Just for fun.

One of the selling points of the Wiggins campsite was that it featured a lake with sandy beaches. Since I’d always associated sandy beaches with oceans, I once tried to teach myself to surf using the lid of a Styrofoam cooler. I made a valiant effort, but, alas, it was not to be. Turns out that surfing requires, well, surf.

Me, Jenna, and her creatively named doll, "Denna."

I can’t remember what all we ate when camping, but I do know that our food was cooked on my dad’s trusty propane Coleman Stove. As it turns out, a propane stove can be quite useful in a crisis. When Katrina knocked out the electricity at my parents’ house, my dad used his to cook up ham and eggs, and more importantly, coffee. “Eggs?” I asked. “Where are you keeping eggs?” My dad: “In the cooler.” Me: “Of course.”

Seeing as I’ve never been a fan of dirt, insects, public showers, and propane-tinged food, the only thing that made camping remotely bearable was when we brought along our portable color TV. My dad claimed that my sister and I were the only people in the entire history of camping who couldn’t stand to leave the TV at home. What? Other folks were content to miss an episode of “Mork and Mindy”? Seriously?

I do understand why people might choose to stay at campsites to economize while traveling on vacation. But, y’all, the campsite WAS our destination. I still can’t fathom how cramming four hot, cranky, occasionally TV-deprived people into a pop-up camper constitutes a vacation. Now that I think about it, maybe my dad was trying to give us an idea of what Hell might be like so we’d do our best not to wind up there.

Somebody ought to
buy me this.

Every once in a while, I’ll hear people in Seattle planning weekend camping trips. They make it sound quaint, enticing, blissful even. Which starts me thinking, “Maybe it would be different without the scorching heat and 1000% humidity. I’ve long-since cured my TV addiction, and it would be nice to see actual stars again.” I might just be persuaded to try again, if it weren’t for this one thing: I hate camping.

Did you go camping as a kid? Would you voluntarily go now? What’s the one item from civilization you’d find it most difficult to part with?

Photo Credits, Flickr Creative Commons: Camping sign by Susan Hunt, Bathhouse by Amy the Nurse, TV by Eric Albee

I Love Not Camping luggage tag by Anne Taintor available here.

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87. Pigs in a Blanket (aka Piggies)

17 Mar

My greatest accomplishment as a Southern Culture Ambassador has been converting Seattleites into piggie lovers. It was with great trepidation that I first showed up at my book/brunch club with a tray of piping hot piggies. I thought surely my sophisticated, erudite friends would scoff at the prospect of eating lil smokies and American cheese wrapped in store-bought, fresh-from-the-can crescent rolls. Lo and behold, not only did they not scoff; they scarfed. I might’ve even come home with an empty tray (and by “tray” I mean giant faux Tupperware container). I can’t remember, seeing as I was so stunned.

I don’t make piggies all that often due to my aversion to coming in contact with what can only be described as (squeamish folks might want to skip ahead) lil smokies juice. But when I do show up with a container of piggie deliciousness, I step aside quickly lest I be pounced upon like Pepé Le Pew’s long-suffering, would-be lady friend.

(Hmm. I’ve never thought about it, but the folks at Looney Tunes seem to endorse stalker behavior. But then they also encourage playing with TNT and running off the edges of cliffs, so it’s all relative, I suppose.)

So what do piggies taste like? Well, folks, they taste like hugging seldom-seen but always-cherished old friends. Like recalling collective memories that lead to hysterical laughter. Like dancing to “I Will Survive.” Like carefree college days. Like nostalgia. Like home. Also, meat, cheese, and bread – three of my favorite food groups.

My sister is the designated piggie maker at our annual Christmas party. I think she does it partly for the powerful admiration piggie making elicits. Mostly, I think she fears that if she didn’t make them, we might go piggie-less. The horror!!

I must confess that her self-appointed position of Piggie Maker in Chief has led to fights on more than one occasion – almost always in the refrigerated section at Kroger. But then, if you can’t make a scene in public, what’s the point of fighting?

This year, we decided to nip the Annual Angry Kroger Confrontation™ in the bud by orchestrating a fight in the car on the way over – role-playing style. (Of course we’ve never been to therapy. Why ever would you think that?)

It went something like this:

Jenna (playing me): Jenna! WHY are you buying so many crescent rolls? You don’t NEED that many crescent rolls!!

Me (playing Jenna): If I don’t buy eight thousand cans of crescent rolls, people will STARVE TO DEATH!

Jenna (playing me): Just get three cans! You don’t NEED more than three!

Me (playing Jenna): I’m getting four! I ALWAYS get four!

Jenna (playing me): WHAT-EVER! Get what you want. FINE. I don’t care. FINE!! WHAT-EVER!!!

Pause to represent the deafening silence that is our ride home from the grocery store, which will be followed by a private cooling off period/sulking time.

I’m delighted to report that it worked. We managed to go a whole visit without fighting once. We’d almost done that one time before, except that an observation that we hadn’t had a fight led to a heated argument. About what, I cannot recall.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at a going-away party for two of my favorite people in Seattle who are now two of my favorite people in Boston (despite the fact that they up and left me for better jobs. The nerve!).

Our host Jenny, who’s always generous with comfort food and hospitality had put out quite a spread, the star of which was a tray of piggies! (And by “tray” I mean cute serving dish.) I quickly popped one into my mouth and two thoughts immediately sprang to mind: 1. That’s one dee-li-ci-ous piggie! And 2. There are five left. How many can I get away with eating? A quick glance into the kitchen assured me that more were on the way. Yippie!

So long, lil smokies. Nice knowing you.

I’ve often toyed with the notion of making a fancy version of piggies, but can’t break from the “don’t fix what ain’t broke” school of thought. When I tasted Jenny’s piggies, I prepared myself for a paradigm shift. There’s no way that was a cresent roll from the plastic-wrapped-cookie-dough-and-canned-items-claiming-to-be-biscuits section of Kroger. But they WERE! However, the lil smokies had been replaced by lil smokie-sized chicken and apple sausages. Yum! Also, they were cheese-less, which is usually a deal breaker for me, but I have to admit I didn’t miss it. I know! Shocker!

One might argue that Jenny’s version weren’t technically “piggies” and ought to be called “chickies” or somesuch. I hate to break it to y’all (and hope I’m not reveling trade secrets), but the Holloway girls’ “piggies” would more accurately be called “cowies” or “beefies,” neither of which sounds terribly appetizing, although not as bad as what Geoff mistakenly calls them: “Puppies.”

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80. Community Cookbooks (The Braille Version of Food Porn)

26 Feb

In a world of celebrity chefs, popular food bloggers and recipe sharing sites, y’all might be surprised how many Southerners still consult rinky-dink, fund-raising cookbooks put together by their local church or community organization.

Not even the Baptists consider perusing food porn a sin, nevertheless, you will find none in the pages of these DIY spiral-bound cookbooks. What you will find is good, old-fashioned recipes handed down through generations of Southern cooks. While some folks had the good fortune to work alongside grandma, learning how to make fried chicken or caramel frosting, many Southerners (myself included) did not. With these books we can at least learn how to make SOMEbody’s grandmother’s famous chicken and dumplings.

In “Florence Favorites” compiled by folks at the First Baptist Church in Florence, MS, you’ll find recipes like:

Mama Hazel’s Texas Nut Bread
Tristin & MeMaw’s Cookies
My Mamaw’s Oatmeal Cookies
Granny’s Rolls
Aunt Eloise’s Coconut Cake

And, of course, you can’t put out a local cookbook without adding at least one of these gems:

Recipe for Happiness (Page 82, if y’all are following along)

2 heaping cups of Patience
2 handfuls of Generosity
1 heart full of Love
dash of Laughter
1 head full of Understanding

Sprinkle generously with Kindness. Add a dash of Faith. Mix ingredients well. Spread over a period of a lifetime and give large portions to everyone you meet.

Contributed by Cindy Godfrey

I think her portions might be a bit off. What Southerner only adds a dash of laughter? What Baptist only adds a dash of faith? I think Cindy should have added a caveat: Your results may vary.

The amaretto's thataway!

When my sister was flipping through the book, she noticed a page where one of the recipes had another recipe glued on top of it. Obviously, a post-printing correction. But what could have gone so wrong that every copy had to be corrected by hand? They used industrial strength glue that couldn’t be peeled off, but if you squint, you can see that “Tropical Fruit Slush” covers a recipe for “Amaretto Punch” contributed by Janie Cook, who is obviously a heathen trying to sneak demon liquor into a Baptist cookbook! The nerve!!

I love how these cookbooks have 8 or 10 recipes with minute variations for Southern staples like corn bread or pecan pie. Have they no editors? At least the Baptists filtered out the racy Southern recipes for “Better than Sex Cake” or the dessert folks call “Sin,” which turns out to be the exact recipe of the dessert my family calls “Chocolate Stuff.”

Lazy Man, take note: THIS is a peach pie!

Sometimes the recipes don’t offer much in the way of explanation, such as:

Lazy Man Peach Pie

1 stick butter, melted
1 cup flour
1 cup sugar
milk (to form dough)

Stir peaches into dough (part of juice). Add brown sugar and cinnamon. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes.

The person who contributed this one was indeed a Lazy Man, but I suspect he might be a Drinking Man, as well.

The original Bells Best features a section toward the back cryptically called “Men’s, Microwave.” It ranks just about “Salads” and “Vegetables.” Probably the sections are in alphabetical order, but it seems a little suspicious to me.

Best I can tell, “Men’s, Microwave” features recipes contributed by men, along with three microwave recipes that nobody could figure out what to do with (Microwave Fudge, Hamburger Vegetable Medley, and Microwave Rice).

The men’s recipes include such delicacies as: Hobo Casserole, Deer Meat Supreme, Fried Crappie, Dump Cake (which tastes better than it sounds) and, inexplicably, Quiche.

A couple of years ago at Christmas, my nephew Jackson gave me a cookbook called “A Child’s Plate” that was a fund raiser for his kindergarten. One of the main recipe contributors was my sister, Jenna, who included dishes we learned from our mom and our two wonderful sisters-in-law, Karen and Kay. I have to say that I’m proud to see our family’s recipes printed in an actual cookbook. Even if it is one of the low-rent, spiral bound kind.

Photo Credits: 1. My paltry collection of community cookbooks, 2. “Devil’s Punch Bowl” by Aura Beckhofer-Fialho, Flickr Creative Commons, 3. “First Prize Peach Pie” by Alanna Kellogg, Flickr Creative Commons, 4. The cookbook that made my family famous.

Do you have any community cookbooks on your shelf? Which ones? Do you still use them?

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73. Makeup AKA Putting One’s Face On

19 Feb

Photo by Jaymi Heimbuch
Flickr Creative Commons

Here in Seattle, women brazenly go around showing skin in ways no Southern lady would dare. Would y’all believe that Northwestern folks consider it perfectly acceptable to be seen in mixed company with a naked…face?

I will pause here to give my Dixie readers time to recover from shock and/or faint.

Ok, then.

Yes, folks, I’ve personally seen bare-faced women in places you would never expect: parties, fancy restaurants, shopping malls, even CHURCH! I reckon they are not familiar with the 11th Commandment: “Thou shalt not be seen without makeup in any public place, most especially not in the house of the Lord.”

Occasionally, exceptions can be made for things like early bird Black Friday sales (seeing as there are so few menfolks around). And you can also forgo makeup when dropping kids off at school or giving a friend a ride to the airport, but only if you don’t expect to: A. Get out of the car (or truck) or B. Run into someone you know.

Even so, there are some Southern ladies who stand on ceremony, showing up at Kohl’s before 4:00 a.m. in full makeup.

“Full makeup?” My non-Dixie readers might ask.

What? You didn’t know there are different levels? Ok, here’s a primer:

A bee-you-ti-ful makeup collection
from KeirasLuckyCharm blog.


Full Makeup includes, but is not limited to:
Moisturizer
Foundation (aka “Base”)
Concealer
Powder
Blush
Brow Pencil
Eye Shadow
Eye Liner
Mascara (two coats, minimum)
Lip Liner
Lipstick
Lip Gloss (optional)

Half-ass Makeup includes:
Foundation
Powder
Eye Shadow
Mascara
Lipstick
Blush (optional)

No Makeup consists of:
Foundation
Mascara
Lipstick (In a pinch, Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers will suffice)

Why is there still makeup listed in the “No Makeup” category? Pray that you never find out.

After 8 years in Seattle, I’ve started to assimilate. These days, I’m appearing in public more and more often without a stitch of makeup. But you won’t catch me returning to Mississippi without a fully stocked makeup bag in tow.

Mom with my sister, Jenna,
on her wedding day.

If you are not a member of my immediate family or a very close friend, you probably never saw my mother wearing anything less than full makeup. She thought of makeup like some folks think of American Express cards: Something you don’t leave home without.

No matter how much pain she was in or how exhausted she felt, she never went ANYwhere (including doctor’s appointments or emergency room visits) without “putting on her face.” Also: praying for a close parking space.

It probably isn’t standard operating procedure, but when my sister and I delivered Mom’s burial outfit (a tasteful cream-colored pant suit) to the funeral home, we brought along a selection of her Chanel makeup. Oh, and her eyelashes.

When we handed them her shoes, we were told that people are generally buried without them.

Not Patricia Holloway. She wore heels.

What item of cosmetics would you not be seen in public without?

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71. Two First Names (A Story about Billy Joe and Bobby Sue)

17 Feb

Or Betty Jane...or Bobby Earl...or Linda Sue

Practically all the new parents I know in Seattle have saddled their newborns with two middle names. And not short, easy-to-remember names either. More along the lines of Rasputin Marlowe Fabian Jones (or more likely Jones-Smith) for a boy. Or Josephine Emily Prudence Smith for a girl. I’m not sure how they come up with these, but I suspect the formula goes something like this:

(Literary reference) + (Ancient ancestor) + (Favorite flower)

Or perhaps:
(Seldom-used old-timey name) +
(A virtue) +
(Open a book and point)

Sure, these lofty monikers may look great on the birth announcement, but perhaps parents should consider how many times their child will have to spell these names for call center operators in far off lands.

Southern parents traditionally prefer to keep things simple: two first names, no bonus middle one. Some popular choices include, Billy Ray (for a boy), Peggy Sue (for a girl), or Willie Jean (undetermined).

Yes, this is a stereotypical Southern trait, but it’s one that happens to be true. In case you are wondering, the South also features the largest concentration of folks named “Bubba” in the known word. Many a “Bubba” has passed as “Richard” or “William” for career advancement purposes or when living above the Mason-Dixon. But when he comes home, everybody still calls him “Bubba.” (Sorry, Bubba, we just can’t help it!)

I’m not sure how the two-first-names tradition got started. Maybe way back when there was a Southern couple who had a name they just LOVED and wanted to give it to all their children (as in “This is my brother Darryl. This is my other brother Darryl.”) But they figured it was best to give each kid an extra first name so everybody would know which one was currently being hollered at: Bobby Joe, Billy Joe, or Bubba Joe. Just kidding. Bubbas hardly ever have two first names.

My sister’s best friend is named Mary Bess (though my father – who’s known her for 20 years – always calls her “Mary Beth.” Which is actually pretty good, seeing as he’s liable to address folks named “Frank” as “Johnny” or “David.”)

Anyhoo, Mary Bess fell in love with and married an amazing guy whose last name for the sake of anonymity we’ll call “Tammy.” Before she had kids, she held on to her maiden name and when asked “Why?” (because Southern folks think everything is their business) she’d say, “Who wants to be a girl with three first names?”

One of my other Mississippi friends had the good fortune to meet and marry a girl with the best two-first-name name I’ve ever heard: “Mary Love.”

If y’all take a notion to start calling me that, I won’t mind a bit.

P.S. Please don’t make the mistake of addressing a doubly named person by a single name. A “Lee Ann” will not answer to “Lee” or “Ann.” Or if she does, you might not like what she says.

Does your family tree feature doubly named folks? Feel free to name names…

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68. Funeral Food: Love in a Casserole Dish

9 Feb

Photo by softestthing
Flickr Creative Commons

Most Southern ladies of a certain age keep at least one casserole in the deep freeze at all times. You never know when somebody will up and die, so it’s best to be prepared. However, if you’re momentarily casserole-less, not to worry: grieving Southerners always welcome fried chicken, even if it’s store-bought. I’d like to put in a plug for one (or more) of those chicken nugget platters from Chick-fil-A (unless somebody dies on Sunday, when all the Chick-fil-As are closed). I’m still grateful to the kind soul who delivered one of those when my mom died.

I should mention that funeral food isn’t actually served at the funeral. You bring it to the home of the deceased, so the grieving family members and the people who drop by to pay their respects have something to eat. When Southerners lose a loved one, they rarely lose their appetite, but almost always lose the desire to cook.

Of course, you needn’t only bring savory sustenance. Sweets are an essential part of a Southern mourner’s diet. And for the love of all that’s holy, do not make funeral sweets with Splenda, people! Grief and dieting go together like…like…ok, they just don’t go together AT ALL.

Photo by Chris and Jenni
Flickr Creative Commons

If you want to bring over some meat-flavored vegetables, that’s great. But a salad probably isn’t your best bet. No, not even a congealed “salad.” Especially if the recently departed had been hospitalized for any length of time before their departure. Nobody wants to be reminded of institutional gelatin, even in the best of times.

In case you’re in a quandary about what to bring, consult this handy guide:

Banana pudding: YES!
Photo by Jason Meredith
Flickr Creative Commons

Great Southern Funeral Food:
Casseroles (anything made with cream of something soup is most welcome)
Fried chicken
Chicken ‘n dumplings
BBQ
Lasagna
Potatoes (preferably mashed or au gratin)
Homemade mac ‘n cheese
Bread
Ham (spiral sliced preferred, but not required)
Chili or hearty soup (Not chicken noodle; no one’s getting better anytime soon…)
Deviled eggs
Deep-fried anything
Homemade sweets of any variety (remember, no Splenda!)

Suitable Southern Funeral Food
Cold cuts and sandwich fixings
Egg/potato/chicken/pasta salad
Store-bought sweets (think Sara Lee, not Little Debbie)
Ice cream

Crudité: NO! P.S. Where's the dip??
Photo by Robyn Lee
Flickr Creative Commons


Ill-advised Southern Funeral Food
Green salad
Crudité platter
Fruit basket
Low-cal frozen entreés
Tofu of any variety
Chewing gum

If you can’t get over to the home of the deceased right away, don’t despair. In fact, I’d recommend avoiding the rush and swinging by with snacks a few days later. Trust me, the bereaved will appreciate a fresh supply of comfort food.

When my mom died, I can’t remember eating much else but cold fried chicken and some kind of cake (caramel, maybe?). But I do remember my relief at not having to think about fixing something to eat.

I don’t know much about funeral customs for non-Southern folks, but I will always be thankful for the ginormous basket of cookies my decidedly non-Southern friend Karen sent over when I got back to Seattle after my mom’s funeral. I reckon everyone knows that while food isn’t a panacea for grief, it does serve as a small island of pleasure in an ocean of pain.

This one goes out to my friend Beth, who just lost her Aunt Sue. Hugs to you…and lots of homemade Dixie delicacies, darling.

What’s your all-time favorite funeral food?

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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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48. Being Neighborly.

2 Nov

Boy, did I witness Southern hospitality in action when I was in Memphis helping my sister with her new baby, Eli. The folks in her neighborhood were kind enough to set up a feeding schedule for the adults (me, Jenna, and Shawn). Every other night, someone from Jenna’s subdivision took over dinner duties, bringing us homemade meals that were ready to heat and serve. There are few pleasures in life better than eating a home cooked meal that you didn’t have to cook yourself. Especially after a few days of hospital vigils fueled by fast food.

My sister had major complications shortly after coming home and had to go back into the hospital for several days, and her neighbors shifted into high gear. Not only did they keep the meals coming, they also helped me in my new role as single mother of two. One of her neighbors kept Eli for about four hours each day so I could get some work done (or sometimes just a shower and nap).

I should also mention that Jenna’s not-so-nearby friends showed up with food and to help out with the kids, too. But I was really floored by the concept of neighbors who were so, well, neighborly. That just doesn’t happen here.

Off the top of my head, I can tell you the names of three of my neighbors: Ruth, next door; Vern, two doors down; and Bill two doors down on the other side. I’ve never actually met Bill, but Geoff has talked to him quite a few times. I think he got to know him when we needed to park a concrete truck essentially in his yard in order to repair our retaining wall. But I digress.

When I’ve been incapacitated, none of my neighbors has brought me so much as a donut from Safeway. And, to be fair, I have not made deliveries to their doors either. Now that I think about it, Geoff did pass out plums in the years before the invention of Plummy Yummy.

The sad truth is, Geoff is far more neighborly than I am. If he sees somebody struggling with an unruly couch, say, he’ll go out and help them. But then he will also run off people trying to pee in our yard or smoke crack in the driveway. Actually, he’s not so much neighborly as vigilant. I should note that his office window faces the street.

Even though we don’t often interact with the neighbors, we know them by pet names such as “Bandana Boy,” “Little Crazy Guy,” “Grill Boy,” “Purple Smoking (not crack) Lady,” “Sunshine Boy,” (note: only one of these boys is actually a juvenile) and my favorite, “Greenwood Man.” Geoff also names the squirrels, but that’s a whole nother story.

One time Walter, who used to live next door, dropped by to let me know that he’d hit my parked car. I thought that was right neighborly of him.

This one goes out to my sister’s neighbors:

I’ve always wanted to have a neighbor just like you.
I’ve always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.

So, let’s make the most of this beautiful day.
Since we’re together we might as well say:
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?

If so, bring over more of those chocolate-covered peanut butter balls. Thanks!

Are your neighbors naughty or nice?

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47. Petit Fours Like You’ll Never Find in Paris

4 Oct

petit fours -Brandi Korte

I don’t know how I stumbled upon the topic of petit fours with Geoff (I mean, it’s not like I EVER talk about sweets), but here’s another example of Dixie and Non worlds colliding:

I’m explaining to him that petit fours are little cakes with icing poured over them. About this big (imagine my hands making the universal 2 inch square symbol). And he goes, “Oh! They sell those at Whole Foods.” Me: “WHAT??” See, I have searched the internets more times than I care to mention trying to find petit fours in Seattle, and he’s telling me I overlooked Whole Foods. I would have hopped in the car immediately, but it was well past Whole Foods’ closing time. Ok, maybe not, but I was already in pajamas.

So the next day I set out for Whole Foods in Ravenna, giddy because I was moments away from petit four bliss. As I perused the bakery case, I encountered lots of lovely, lovely baked goods, but nary a petit four in sight. I made no less than three trips around the entire bakery area. No petit fours ANYWHERE. What they did have, though, were a ton of yummy looking bite-sized desserts. The price was a foreboding $18.99 a pound, but then how much could these really weigh? I got a tiny key lime pie and a wee cheesecake and they worked out to about two bucks each. Yes, a little steep for bite sized dessert, but you’d just have to see how cute these things are.

The next day, I was near another Whole Foods. Ok, it was maybe three miles out of the way, but who’s counting? Again, no petit fours. Ack!!

Meanwhile my sister calls to tell me about these awesome petit fours her friends ordered for her baby shower. (My sister’s two requirements for any shower thrown in her honor are petit fours and punch. It may not get more Southern than that. Especially if the punch is the lime sherbet variety. Alas, this is not Jenna’s favorite.)

I tell her about my wild petit four chase and tell her we’ve GOT to get petit fours when I go down to Memphis to help attend to the baby for whom she was recently showered.

Geoff has a client on the eastside, so he swung by Whole Foods to check out the PF situation there. He comes home and says, “Ok, they have a whole bunch of petit fours. They’re all different kinds of bite-sized desserts and they’re $18.99 a pound.” Me: “Yeah, I saw THOSE, but do they have any that are pieces of cake about this big with icing poured over them?” Him: “Uh, no.” Me: “Then they’re not petit fours!” Him: “Well, the sign says ‘Petit Fours.’” Me: “The sign lied.”

Fast forward to me in Memphis. I got the name of the petit four place from Jenna’s friend Tricia. I found their website, which was…somewhat off-putting. Some of their cakes were worthy of Cakewrecks. I would love to link to the site, but now Google warns that the site might harm my (or your) computer.

Nevertheless, Jenna and Tricia vouched for the deliciousness of the Kay Bakery petit fours, so I ordered a dozen. Ok, a dozen and a half because I was determined to bring some home to show Geoff. Not for him to TASTE, mind you, because I knew he would hate them.

kay bakery petit four


If the website put me off, the actual bakery did not do much to assuage my misgivings. But the guy showed me the petit fours, and while they weren’t exactly square, I could tell right away that they were honest-to-God petit fours. Hallelujah!

And they were as good as promised. Yay!

Epilogue: Geoff’s response upon seeing them: “Those aren’t small! They’re not petit fours; they’re grande eights!”

Some folks have no appreciation for the finer things in life.

Where’s your favorite placeto get petit fours? Have you ever attempted to make them yourself?

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46. The Andy Griffith Show–Whistle While You Watch

28 Jun

Before “Splash,” before “Apollo 13,” before “Happy Days,” an adorable, six-year-old Ronny Howard charmed Southerners (and Yankees alike) as Opie Taylor on “The Andy Griffith Show.” He’s maybe the first and last non-Southerner to emulate the accent without causing native’s ears to bleed while screaming “The horror! The horror!” Or maybe that’s just me. Even now, I’m nostalgic for his “Awww Paaawww…” I have never actually heard a Southerner refer to their father as “Paw,” but who cares? Opie can do no wrong. (In case you are wondering, I believe fathers in the South are most frequently called “Daddy” pronounced “Dead-E.”)

For some reason, Southerners got into the habit of calling Andy Griffith “Andy Griffin.” (Hey, maybe that explains why I can never remember whether the infamous D-lister is called Kathy “Griffith” or Kathy “Griffin.”) I, for one, always wondered why the show was called “Andy Griffith” rather than “Andy Taylor.” Yes, I have since figured it out.

Growing up in the boondocks, I was always a little jealous of the town folks in Mayberry. Where was our bullet-less deputy? Our lovable drunk? Our chatty barber? Sure, as a teenager I wanted my MTV like a good Gen-Xer should. But when I was little, I wanted my Aunt Bee. (Although I must say my aunt Tommie was infinitely more fun. Especially when she switched the contents of her all-day giant sipping cup from Coke to wine coolers, due to the “New Coke” debacle.)

The most lasting lesson I learned from Andy Griffin was Barney’s motto: “Nip it! Nip it in the bud!” Of course it took more than a few non-nipped situations to make me realize the wisdom. But these days, I am quick to get out the scissors. There’s a reason one of my favorite things to say is “Goodbye.” (However, I should note that this is also one of my least favorite things to say.)

After a decade and a half living as a Southern ex-pat, you will not likely find me whistling “Dixie.” But I still do a mean rendition of the Andy Griffin theme song. It’s almost as good as this parrot’s.

Who’s your favorite Mayberrian?

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