Tag Archives: life

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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93. Fried Pickles–Chips, not Spears

12 Apr

Ever since I moved to Seattle, the 5 Spot has been one of my favorite restaurants. Along with their eclectic selection of American comfort foods, they feature special regional menus that change every few months. And it’s not just the menu that changes, y’all; they redecorate the whole restaurant (including the bathrooms). You’ll find all manner of kitch from the featured region like Mardi Gras beads and masks for New Orleans or the particularly impressive donkey and elephant paper mache mobiles for the Washington, D.C. theme. (I couldn’t resist the Marion Barry Cakes – pancakes covered in marionberry sauce and topped with candied macadamia “rocks” and a sugar crystal butter ball. Dee-Lish-Us!)

What does any of this have to do with fried pickles? Well, I’m getting to that. But first let me tell you about what goes on in the restrooms. Or one of the things, anyway. As soon as you walk in, you’ll hear a bad radio drama that will sound vaguely familiar. It will probably take a few moments to figure out what this is supposed to be, unless you cheat and look at the sign on the wall that tells you. The first few times I encountered this, I thought it a travesty that someone would butcher classics like “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” or “Charlotte’s Web.” Then I found out who was doing it: the 5 Spot staff. How loveably dorky!

Now to the fried pickles. Many years ago, I spotted fried pickles on the 5 Spot menu. “Hallelujah!” I shouted (inside my head), and promptly ordered a batch. Imagine my surprise when what arrived at my table were not crispy, delicious, deep fried dill pickle chips. No, folks, these were spears. Spears!! After a few mishaps such as this (I can’t even talk about the Fried Catfish Incident), I’ve learned not to order anything the 5 Spot tries to pass off as “Southern.” (With the exception of the fried chicken from their regular menu. It’s actually pretty good.)

If you’ve never had Southern-style fried pickles, you might be wondering why spears would be so appalling. After all, they’re still pickles. They’re still deep fried. Yes, yes, but spears and chips are worlds apart when it comes to pickle/batter ratio. In my mind, there’s no such thing as too much batter. I’m still waiting for the restaurant that will sell fried chicken, minus the chicken. Don’t get me wrong. I like chicken, but I LOVE the battered and deep fried skin.

Good news: They DO sell fried chicken skin.
Bad news: In Malaysia

Given the popularity of boneless, skinless chicken breasts, this ought to be a no-brainer. I mean, what do they do with all the leftover skin? It’s 2011, y’all. How is it possible that nobody has invented chicken rinds?

Some of the best fried pickles I’ve ever had came from Kismet’s, a little hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant in Brandon, MS, of all places. If you like regular fried pickles and ranch dressing, wait till you try their version with Greek seasonings and feta dressing. Yum!

I wish I could tell y’all where you can get some tasty fried pickles around here. Alas, I do not know. The ones at The Counter are semi-decent, emphasis on “semi.” After a quick search, I found folks on Yelp raving about the fried pickles at The People’s Pub. Just when I was starting to get my hopes up, I learned that they serve SPEARS. Sorry, Seattle Yelpers, but y’all don’t know what’s good!!

Photo Credits, Flickr Creative Commons: Chips basket and pickle spears by Robyn Lee, chicken skin by Phil Lees.

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92. Wearing Curlers in Public

1 Apr

I can count on less than one finger the number of folks I’ve seen sporting curlers between here and Los Angeles. I’m not sure if they even sell curlers here, though you could surely find some on Amazon. Is there anything they WON’T sell?

In the South, you’re likely to encounter ladyfolks wearing curlers in the grocery store, Walmart, the dentist’s office, or most commonly, the mall. Whenever I encounter a be-curlered person, I wonder: “Where are you going later that’s SO FANCY? And why wasn’t I invited?”

Surely curlers aren’t some kind of ironic fashion statement. Yet. In fact, many ladies attempt to cover them with a jaunty scarf. Not that they’re fooling anyone. Nobody’s head is shaped like that. I hope.

The best I can figure, wearing curlers in public is all about multi-tasking. How else can you shop for kitty litter and get your hair done at the same time?

I’m probably not qualified to comment on curlers, seeing as I’ve never used them myself. But since when has that ever stopped me?

As far as I know, there are two types of curlers – hot rollers and, um, room temperature ones? I believe that hot rollers work faster, so the kind you see in public are the latter variety.

Yes! They sell these on Amazon!

You’ll find quite a few styles of room temperature rollers. I’m most familiar with the spongy pink foam ones with a plastic snap contraption that holds them in place. All of the other varieties require bobby pins or clips of some sort. Actually, I think there are some rollers that claim to stay in place all by themselves, but those are probably marketed by the same folks who tried to sell us the specialty tape that would magically hold one’s boobs up. (Don’t waste your money.)

I don’t know how long one must wear rollers to achieve the desired amount of curl. How do you know when you’re done? Are there directions on the curler packages?

You’d think that the roller thing would have phased out back in the 80’s, once The Perm Generation started up. But perhaps they’re making a comeback. Hey, if parachute pants can do it, anything can!


While many folks use curlers to preempt bad hair days, this technique has been known to backfire. Back in high school, my mayonnaise-hating friend Sandy decided to optimize the curling power of the pink foam rollers by sleeping in them. She might’ve even started off with wet hair. She showed up at school the next day with WAY more curls than she’d wanted/aimed for/thought possible. The look was reminiscent of a certain Saturday Night Live character so naturally, she earned the nickname “Rosanne RosannaSandy.”

Do you now or have you ever used curlers? If so, have you ever worn them in public? If so, why??

Photo credits – Flickr Creative Commons: Blythe doll in green curlers by Squirrel Junkie, Red-headed Blythe by Aimee Ray

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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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86. Toothless Joe, Darlene Sardine and other Nicknames.

11 Mar

I probably should have saved my Bubba commentary for this post, but I’ve never been big on planning ahead. I mean, if a project is due Friday and I finish it Wednesday night, then die on Thursday, that would have been a waste of my time.

In the South, nicknames are so common, you could go your whole life knowing a “Junior” or “Sissy” and have no idea what their real name is. One day, you might happen upon an obituary for “William Henry Anderson” that reads suspiciously like the life (and death) of…dear Lord, that’s “Skippy.” Who knew? Better grab a casserole out of the freezer and head on over.

Southern folks are saddled with nicknames for any number of reasons. For the sake of brevity, I’ll discuss the top six:

The correct answer to Bubba's Oodles Question.


1. Earned nicknames
Beware: any time a person does anything whatsoever, there’s a good chance they’ll be saddled with an unflattering nickname. And even if you are a hermit who withdraws from society altogether, you can still earn a nickname like “The Hermit” or “The Unabomber.” My dad has a brother whose adolescent voice change was so pronounced that he’s been called “Squeaky” ever since. One of my best friend’s nicknames was inspired by her bowling technique: “Gutterball Gertie,” which we’ve shortened to “Gert.” Also, when we were playing the game Oodles, her brother Bubba (who now goes by “Tommy”) shouted a spectacularly wrong answer that earned him the nickname “GANT!”

2. Appearance-based nicknames

If you know someone by their nickname before you meet them face to face, you might be in for a surprise. Most likely someone known as “Red” will have hair of that hue, but if someone’s called “Tiny” they’ll likely be a future contestant on “The Biggest Loser.” Back in my headbanging/tie-dye wearing years, my aforementioned friends’ father dubbed me “Hippie Kim,” which I’ve always secretly (till now) liked. My favorite nickname which wasn’t meant to be ironic but became so is my friend’s step-cat “Boney.” Boney’s a Seattle native, but I suspect he has a Southern heritage.

My friend's step-cat "Boney."

3. Rhyming nicknames

Future parents of the world, please do your kid a favor and give him/her a name that’s less likely to lead to playground altercations. I realize this is an almost impossible task, considering how creative kids are, but at least don’t make it easy for them. Try avoiding anything that rhymes with an unpleasant word, i.e. “Darlene Sardine,” “Grody Jody,” or “Phlegm Jim.” Also, you might want to steer clear of choices like “Chuck,” “Mitch,” or “Bart,” just in case the “Name Game” rears its ugly head again.

4. Code names

Considering how females like to go on ad nauseam about the men in our lives (past, present, and future), we use code names so our friends can keep them straight. Which is particularly helpful when one has a run of suitors who happen to share the same first initial, “J” for example. Hypothetically. This isn’t so much a Southern thing as it is a female thing, but it was a category I didn’t want to overlook.

Guess who "forgot" his wallet?

Here are a few I’ve heard and/or coined both above and below the Mason-Dixon. “Hurt Foot,” “The Fireman,” “The Eddie-ot,” “My Stalker,” “Toothless Joe,” “Stupid Boy,” “Dutch Treat Bob,” and my favorite “Bill (I can’t pay the bill) Bill.”

I don’t remember which one of us started calling my sister’s college boyfriend “George” based on his resemblance to a certain Seinfeld character. It used to drive Jenna nuts, but after they FINALLY broke up, she, too, started referring to him as “George.”

5. Random Nicknames

We call my friend Karen “Nooker,” but I’m not sure why. Supposedly it’s the shortened version of “Nanook of the North,” which does little to enlighten me. There was a guy in high school that Sandy called “Dirt Dauber,” apropos of I know not what. I’ve personally known a “Dirty D,” “Mutt,” “Gopher,” and, wait for it…”Squid.” Check out my blogging buddy Renee’s Mardi Gras adventure in which you’ll discover how her friend’s baby came to be known as “Snake.”

If you're over 60, you may call me this.
However, I prefer "Darlin'."

6. Generic Nicknames

“Honey,” “Dear,” “Love,” and “Sweetheart,” (HDLS) are not necessarily used in a romantic or familial context, which you’ll quickly learn should you venture into a restaurant, clothing boutique, or beauty parlor. Here’s a brief etiquette primer:

1. Never call anyone who’s clearly your elder “HDLS.”
2. Never call the person who’s serving you (waitress, hair dresser, etc) “HDLS.”
3. Men under 60: Never call anyone you aren’t romantically involved with and/or related to “HLDS.”
4. Do not get uppity when an elderly person calls you “HDLS.”

Which brings us to my biggest nickname pet peeve: “Mama” and “Daddy.”
I have no problem with children using these names however they see fit. Also, I think it’s perfectly acceptable when talking to one’s children to refer to one’s spouse as “Mama” or “Daddy.” Example: “Go ask Daddy to wash the dog; she’s been rolling in dead stuff again.” But for the love of all that is holy, please DO NOT call your spouse or anyone you’re romantically linked to “Mama” or “Daddy.” It’s just plain creepy.

What are some of the best nicknames you’ve heard?

How did you come by your nickname (surely you have at least one)? Please keep it PG, people.

Thanks for reading, y’all.

Love, “Kimi-san,” “Hippie Kim,” “Kimbo,” “Lil Kim,” “Hollywood,” and “Pierre.”

Flickr Creative Commons photo credits: “To Bubba from Stinky” by Fushia Foot, “Honey Bears” by wabisabi2015, “Hello My Name Is” by Kris Beltran.

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85. Divinity (the candy, not the state of being)

9 Mar

Ever since I wrote about pralines, I can’t stop thinking about that candy’s brother by another mother, divinity.

This was one of the very first things I learned to make, but seeing as I haven’t attempted it in probably a quarter century, I’m likely a little rusty on the topic.

If I recall correctly (and my sister will surely let me know if I do not) making divinity was something we’d do to pass the time between church on Sunday morning and “training union” (AKA church) on Sunday night. Perhaps it turns out better if you make it on the Lord’s day. Also, when it’s not raining.

If you’re wondering how the candy came to be known as divinity, try a piece. If you still can’t tell, well, I just can’t help you.

How to describe divinity…It’s sort of a sweet meringue confection that just melts in your mouth. The ethereal quality is balanced by the pecan half on top. That ideal sweet/savory combination that Southerners invented. Ok, maybe we didn’t invent it, but we’re firm believers. Who else would put salt on watermelon or use soft serve ice cream as a dipping sauce for French fries? Tell me I’m not the only one.

You used to find divinity at Stuckey’s, but I don’t remember if it’s any good. Besides which, from what I hear Stuckey’s are disappearing more quickly than Charlie Sheen’s rational thoughts.

I haven’t encountered divinity or anything like it between here and Los Angeles. Does it even exist above the Mason-Dixon?

I’m sure you could find at least one or two recipes for divinity in any Southern community cookbook you happen to have lying around. But in case you don’t have one, I went to the trouble of googling for you and found Paula Deen’s recipe “Mama’s Divinity.” This will be the one I try next, except I will leave out the pecans in the candy and just put a pecan half on top. (P.S. Can y’all believe there’s a Paula Deen recipe that doesn’t start with a “sticka butter”?)

If you’re not the DIY type and aren’t in the vicinity of a divinity seller, you can always mail order from Savanna Candy. I haven’t tried their version, but it was the best divinity photo on all of the interwebs. Believe me, I looked.

Photo: Divinity by Savanna Candy.

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84. Mardi Gras (“Throw Me Something, Mister!”)

8 Mar

Throw me something, mister!

Laissez le bon temps rouler, y’all. At least until midnight tonight. You’d think that in the South Fat Tuesday wouldn’t be that big a deal. I mean, what distinguishes it from Fat Wednesday, Fat Thursday, or Fat Friday? In a word: beads.

Pop quiz: Which city hosted the first Mardi Gras celebration in North America? If you answered “New Orleans,” you are A. wrong and B. obviously not from Alabama. Yes, folks, the good people of Mobile, Alabama, got the party started years before New Orleans was even founded. They gave birth to the tradition, and then New Orleans came along and turned it into a juvenile delinquent with a substance abuse problem. Not that they’re bitter.

Is there any place more fun than New Orleans on Fat Tuesday? I think not. If your idea of fun includes being jostled by an unruly mob, having beer spilled on you (repeatedly), and groveling (or worse) for some cheap-ass plastic beads. For some, this is heaven. For others, it’s hell. For me, it’s a little of both. Yes, folks, I’m willing to dodge a little vomit in hopes of catching a doubloon. If anyone wants to trade one for the giant pair of granny panties I caught one time, please let me know.

The last time I celebrated Mardi Gras in New Orleans, I was in my 20s. If I were to do it again, I’d want a hotel room with a balcony. Not necessarily to avoid being trampled (though that’s a plus), but to have access to a bathroom that’s been sanitized for my protection. I would rather pee on the street than enter the ninth circle of hell better known as the porta-potty. Picture the poophouse scene in “Slumdog Millionaire.” Or don’t. I still have nightmares.

Ok, moving on. Did I mention there’s cake? And costumes? And beads? And cake?

It’s not particularly tasty cake. But there’s green and purple frosting. And a plastic baby inside. If you get the slice with the baby, you win a fabulous prize: you have to procure a King Cake and host the next party. Woo hoo! Who doesn’t enjoy providing pastry for a bunch of drunken ne’er-do-wells? I’m not sure what happens if you don’t follow through. Maybe Rumpelstilskin convinces your first-born child to run off and join the circus or take up with a bunch of proselytizing vegans.

Well, I should wrap this up before Ash Wednesday rolls around.

What’s the best thing you ever caught at Mardi Gras? No STD stories, please.

All photos from Flickr Creative Commons: Bead seekers by Philippe Leroyer, Mardi Gras Beads by Mike Bitzenhofer, and King Cake by Logan Brown.

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83. Eudora Welty (Renowned Southern Tale Spinner)

3 Mar

Here is one regret I’m almost too ashamed to tell y’all about. No, it’s not the time I knocked over an elderly lady’s mailbox because I was driving like a “bat out of torment.” And it’s not the time I destroyed my sister’s sausage biscuit in a near-murderous rage. No, friends, this is far, far worse: I grew up less than 20 miles from a living literary legend, and I never once met her. But, actually, what shames me isn’t that I never met Eudora Welty; it’s that I didn’t even TRY.

I’ve been telling stories since before I could write my name. When I was three or four, I’d sit in front of a tape recorder spinning yarns or perhaps recounting my memoirs. Sadly, these tapes have long since been lost (and don’t you just KNOW they’re Pulitzer Prize material?).

One time when I was home, my dad told me he’d come across a cassette taped labeled “Kim Holloway: Keep Forever.” Of course, when he went to get it for me, it was nowhere to be found. I reckon it will turn up one of these days, and I’ll find out it’s a Duran Duran mix tape or somesuch.

Anyway, when I was a teenager, I could not wait to distance myself from the South. I planned to write Fitzgeraldesque tales featuring the foibles of sophisticated society folks. Or else I would move to London and become a pop star. Whatever happened, I knew one thing: My writing would be devoid of grits, pick-up trucks, and “Good Country People.”

Well, now. Here I am.

Sorry, 16-year-old Kim (or “Fiona” as you were calling yourself back then).

Back in the day, what I knew about Ms. Welty would fit on an index card: She was a famous writer who lived in Belhaven. She shopped at Jitney 14 (a grocery store for y’all not familiar with the now-extinct “Jitney Jungle” chain). She had a library named after her. As much time as I spent in that library, you’d think I’d have run into her at least once. Alas, you would be wrong. I was far too busy chasing long-haired boys to worry with a white-haired lady.

It’s not that I hadn’t read Ms. Welty. “The Worn Path” was assigned reading for my high school lit class, but I wasn’t altogether moved by a grandmother’s journey to get medicine for her ailing grandson. Yawn.

Since this is my blog, I’ll allow myself to interject my theory that high school lit classes do students a disservice by assigning classics that they’re not prepared to: A. understand or B. care about. I’m not suggesting adding “Twilight” to the curriculum, but if you’re planning to assign Steinbeck, perhaps opt for “Of Mice and Men” instead of “The Pearl.” And could you please stop introducing Hemingway as the person who wrote “The Old Man and the Sea.” At the risk of sounding age-ist, I think teachers should refrain from assigning material featuring elderly protagonists. Immortal protagonists are ok.

Oh, how my life might have turned out differently if “Why I Live at the P.O.” had been my first exposure to Ms. Welty’s genius. If you’ve never read EW, this is the place to start or listen to an excerpt here (caveat: If you’re not fluent in Southern dialect, you might want to read along).

Last year, I read a biography of Eudora Welty that probably ought not to have been written, seeing as how Ms. Welty guarded her privacy. Perhaps she’d consider me churlish for even reading it (I learned the word “churlish” from EW and love having occasion to use it).

Imagine my surprise upon discovering that the EW I grew up knowing – the reclusive, genteel spinster – had once been a globe-trotting socialite. Ok, “socialite” might be overstepping…But, still, Ms. Welty spent months at a time in Europe, San Francisco and New York. Though almost all of her stories are set in the South, many were written when she was far enough from home to gain perspective.

So, yes, here we are.

I would never be so bold as to compare my writing to Ms. Welty’s witty prose, but I think that one of the traits we share – apart from being genteel Southern ladies – is that we both had to leave home in order to find it.

What’s your favorite Eudora Welty story?

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82. Rotel Dip–Just Add Fritos

1 Mar

Seeing as this Dixie delicacy has come up in conversation here in Seattle twice in as many weeks, I reckon I’d better get to writing about it. (And folks think I’m not hip to the zeitgeist.)

The folks who make the dip’s title ingredient (diced tomatoes and green chilies in a can) call it “RO*TEL” but I don’t believe in adding asterisks to names. Also, for most Southerners the “dip” is implied, so I will stick to the vernacular and henceforth refer to the dip of cheesy goodness as simply “Rotel.”

Rotel is about the easiest dip you’ll ever make. Even my six-year-old nephew could do it, if he were allowed to cook with actual heat. For now, he is content with such concoctions as “Chocolate, Cheez-its and Applesauce Delight” or “Peanut Butter, Jelly, and Water Surprise.” What do you dip in Jackson’s dips? He recommends chocolate.

Here’s the recipe for Rotel: Take a brick of Velveeta and add a can of Rotel. Heat and serve. We also like to doctor up the dip with some ground beef or sausage (pre-cooked!!). And it’s best to make Rotel in a Crock-Pot so you can keep it warm. Cold Rotel is frightening, my friends. Just remember to turn the heat from high to low before guests arrive. There’s nothing worse than lifting a lid off the Crock-Pot to discover a crusty, burned cheese-like substance. Well, except being the one who has to clean that mess up.

With the pasta sauce!
Sure, that makes sense.

A few years ago at a Christmas party, I encountered Rotel in which the traditional Velveeta had been replaced by CREAM CHEESE. WHY didn’t I think of that? It would have saved me hours spent on grocery store scavenger hunts trying to determine where they’d stashed the Velveeta. You’d think they’d put it in the dairy case with the rest of the cheese, but I think store keepers have this sadistic need to remind folks that Velveeta is a “cheese product,” not actual cheese and therefore does not require refrigeration. Honestly, if I hadn’t grown up eating Velveeta, I don’t think I’d touch the stuff. And now, thanks to cream cheese, I don’t have to.

Ok, then, moving on to what all may be dipped in Rotel. I, myself, do not stray too far from the classic Fritos (though I prefer the newfangled “Scoops” variety, which greatly improves the dip to chip ratio). Some folks prefer tortilla chips, which are fine (just not as good as Fritos). There might even be some folks tempted to dip crudités in Rotel. But who invited them?

Potato chips and Rotel are an iffy combination. To my mind, most potato chips are too flimsy to stand up to a meaty Rotel, but could probably handle the cheese-only variety.

Whatever you do, don’t serve Rotel with Cheetos or any off-brand cheese puff. This is overkill. Also, Doritos should be avoided, if at all possible. In an emergency, you might could get away with the nacho cheese flavor, but Rotel plus “Cool Ranch” is a recipe for disaster.

Photo Credits: Rotel and Velveeta pic by Adam Kuban, Flickr Creative Commons, Velveeta in pasta aisle pic by Frazgo, Flickr Creative Commons

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81. Pantyhose (Preferably without Runs)

27 Feb

You don’t see a lot of folks wearing pantyhose in the Pacific Northwest. Here, there are two choices: tights or bare legs (or the ill-advised, unfortunately named “jeggings”). It’s not that they don’t sell them at Nordstrom and such places; they do. I’m just not sure WHY, seeing as I can’t name a single person I’ve ever seen wearing them. But perhaps I’m not going to the right places, such as office conference rooms or fund-raising events on the Eastside.

I, myself, have quite the collection of tights. Some of which have never been worn due to: A. not matching anything I own and B. my innate inability to brazenly wear clashing patterns and/or colors. I’m still too much of a Southerner to disobey the 12th Commandment: “Thou shalt not go out in public looking tacky.” Before y’all start reminding me of all the freakishly unattractive ensembles the People of Walmart wear, I will say that those people are heathens.

While pantyhose come in all the colors of crayon box (the 64 pack, not the giant economy-sized one), Southerners tend to stick with the basics: nude or black, almost always opting for the “control top” variety. I’m not sure how those became so popular, seeing as what most Southerners (myself included) need is a “control muffin top.” Of course, with a little ingenuity, this problem is easily solved: buy pantyhose a size “taller” and pull them up to right under the boobs. The ladies in my family were wearing Spanx before their “founder” Sara Blakely was even born. We just didn’t bother to make millions selling them. Didn’t folks already KNOW how to do that?

One day, my sister, Jenna, was in a store checking out the Spanx display, wondering if it was time for an upgrade. Next thing she knew, her homemade Spanx and her elastic waist pants had something like a reverse magnet effect and her pants ended up around her ankles. She immediately: A. looked around her to see if anyone had noticed and B. pulled her pants back up. Probably in that order. Then she went right back to perusing the Spanx as if nothing had happened – just one of the eight million and twelve reasons why I love my sister…

Abstract art?

I’ve always been curious about the “panty” function of the hose. You know, that teeny patch of cotton in crotch. Is that really supposed to be sufficient?

In the Sweet Potato Queens’ Book of Love, Jill Conner Brown tells about a time when she was too pregnant for panties and getting dressed for a party. Her husband walked in and…

Jill writes: “(He) was surprised that I wasn’t wearing anything under my tights: ‘You’re not wearing any panties?’ I just said, real offhand, ‘Oh, you never wear panties to a party,’ and kept on doing whatever. He just stood there, slack-jawed, for a full thirty seconds, considering the implications, I suppose. I had moved on, forgotten about it, and he was still standing there, gaping. ‘You don’t? Nobody does?’ ‘Nobody does what?’ I asked him. ‘Panties to a party – doesn’t anybody wear ‘em?’ He was looking sort of dreamy and clearly thought he was being let in on some big secret of all womankind: that every party he’d ever been to or would ever go to – there wasn’t a pair of panties in the room – and he was the only guy who knew.”

I beg to differ.

There are still some workplaces where women are required to wear pantyhose, which I consider a cruel and unusual punishment, especially in the summertime. I would get worked up into a rant here about how unfair this is to women, but when you see a car salesman on the lot at noon on an August day clad in a suit coat AND tie, you’ll see that everybody’s equally miserable.

I’d love to hear what y’all think about pantyhose.

Also, could someone please explain why there’s such a thing as “sandal-toe” pantyhose? Like people can’t see the seam? And what exactly are “support” hose supposed to support?

Photo credits: “I know I’m a Queen” T-shirt design available at Scribblin’ Sisters.

“Abstract art?” I saw this lovely display in the restroom of a department store in Mississippi. I was happy that I had a camera phone, but sad that the photo quality was, well, not exactly “quality.”

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