Tag Archives: southern culture

103. Banana Pudding–Over-Ripe Fruit at Its Best

3 Apr

Southern banana pudding by Evil Shenanigans

One of the perks of being the child of a Southern Baptist preacher (besides, of course, having your most embarrassing childhood antics immortalized in sermons) is that folks occasionally show up at the house with food.

I would never admit to rating congregants based on the quality and frequency of their culinary gifts. But if I were to do such a churlish thing, the winner would be Donnie of the aforementioned chicken and dumplings. First runner up in the (imaginary, y’all) savory category goes to Vicky J.’s lasagna and garlic bread. However, Vicky takes first prize in the dessert category. “There’s a dessert category?” Does bacon come from pigs? (Surely, no one will argue that bacon can also come from turkey. That’s not bacon. That’s a travesty!)

Yes! We have no bananas...

Anyhoo, Vicky breezes past the competition with her banana pudding. Those of y’all who’ve never had banana pudding may be wondering how such a dish could ever win (an imaginary!) dessert contest. There’s not even chocolate in it, and nary a nut to be found. You might think of pudding as something only old folks, hospital prisoners, and people lacking tastebuds would eat. Oh, no. You’re probably thinking of banana-flavored pudding (or more often, chocolate-flavored, still no nuts).

Banana pudding is an entirely different creature. First of all, it starts with actual bananas. Not just any old bananas (or worse, new!). They should be slightly riper than you’d like with cereal, but nowhere near banana bread territory (or smoothie for Seattle folks). The other key components are pudding and Nilla Wafers.

Pick the middle one.

What makes Vicky’s banana pudding so delectable is that she has the optimal balance of ingredients. Some folks are stingy with the wafers. Some skimp on bananas. But Vicky’s banana pudding features an abundance of everything so that every time you dip the spoon, you get pudding, banana, and wafer all at once. (Anybody who eats with me on a regular basis has likely noticed that I’m a big fan of the “perfect bite.” It takes a bit longer to eat in this persnickety manner, but it’s worth it.)

When I went down to Memphis to welcome my newest nephew, Eli, my sister gave me a very important assignment (and if y’all know Jenna, you know how fond she is of giving assignments). She had Paula Deen’s banana pudding recipe and wanted me to whip up a batch and bring it to the hospital so she wouldn’t be forced to ingest institutional chocolate-flavored pudding or worse, green-flavored Jello.

One of the steps in Mrs. Deen’s recipe is to mix together a block of cream cheese with a can of sweetened condensed milk. I was tempted to stop right there and eat the whole bowl, but I feared the wrath of my sister and thus persevered.

Rather than use the traditional Nilla Wafers, Paula goes all fancy (and spendy) using Pepperidge Farm Chessmen cookies. I’m not sure they’re an improvement, but my tastebuds are heavily influenced by nostalgia, so I could be wrong. I’ve also heard of banana pudding made with Nutter Butter cookies, but haven’t tried it because I’d hate to end up on A&E’s “Intervention.”

While I’d never turn up my nose at Paula’s banana pudding, I’ll note that it IS made with boxed pudding mix (though thankfully NOT banana-flavored). I’ve tried my hand at a variety of banana pudding recipes over the years and my favorites are the made-from-scratch variety. Like my PerfectBite™, homemade custard takes a little more work, but it’s worth it. The next recipe I’m trying is from Evil Shenanigans, pictured at top.

What’s your favorite banana pudding recipe? Or if you don’t cook, where’s the best place to order it?

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102. Flip Flops–The Depth of Fashion

30 Mar

Here in Seattle, the weather is about as fickle as Mary on Downton Abbey. Will it rain? Or snow? Or be overcast? Or sunny? Or marry Matthew? Yes! Sometimes all in one day. That’s one of the first things they teach you at Pacific Northwest Orientation: Layers.

Even so, with a glance out the window, I’ll see some folks in parkas, some in sandals and shorts, and some–inexplicably–wearing all of the above. What I rarely see is people wearing flip flops. Birkenstocks? Yes. Tevas? Boy howdy! But flip flops? Not so much.

I’ve been aware of the Southern predilection for wearing those foot-slapping sandals for quite a few years now. One time my sister tried to convince me that they were the height of fashion. But I’ve seen nary a flip flop shod model making his/her noisy strut down any runway anywhere. And if one ever did, I feel sure they’d be wearing the “shoes” ironically. To be fair, I’ve never seen models in Berkies either, nor do I expect to.

What I hadn’t realized until I was home this past Christmas is that flip flops are considered all-weather footwear. At least by more than one member of my family (and y’all know who you are), seeing as they were wearing them in what I’d definitely describe as “sweater weather.”

I might’ve asked why, but I’m psychic enough to predict the answer: “They’re comfortable.” To which I would telepathically respond, “In winter?” Surely frostbitten toes can’t feel all that great (if indeed they feel at all). At least with Birkenstocks, one has the option of wearing socks. Not that I’d advise this or actually do it myself (full disclosure: I have). But at least you can protect toes from the elements and/or conceal one’s winter pedicure hiatus.

Perhaps sensing a lack in the marketplace, some industrious soul came up with a flip flop sock. Which is great if you want your feet to resemble some sort of tree-dwelling creature or perhaps a reject muppet.

To be fair, I should mention that Southerners deck themselves in all manner of fancy flip flops. These are not your typical shower shoes. You’ll find them in a rainbow of colors (alas, the ones with the faux rainbow stacked heel seem to have gone the way of pet rocks). They’re embellished with rhinestones, flowers, “pearls”, you name it. Still, y’all, they’re flip flops. Lipstick, meet pig.

Perhaps I’m not giving flip flops a fair shake due to a childhood trauma. When I was 10 or 12 years old (or possibly 11), a girl named Natalia came to live with us for the summer, for reasons that are still unbeknownst to me. Natalia loved two things: her flip flops and Phil Collins’ cover of the Supremes’ classic “You Can’t Hurry Love.”

My sister and I were not overly fond of Natalia. I can’t remember exactly why, if the two aforementioned character traits aren’t reason enough. Also, she was a tattle-tale. Anyhow, I’ve come to associate that relentless “flap, flap, flap, flap” noise as the sound of Natalia (read “doom”) approaching. And I feel the urge to dash away quickly lest I be further aurally assaulted by that dreadful song, which is, of course, now playing in an endless loop in my mind.

Sorry, y'all, I don't.

Do you wear flip flops? If so, why?

Images from Etsy: Flip flop sign by Expressions of Kim (another Kim, not me), Flower flip flop by Petal ‘n Pearl Boutique, Crystal flip flop by All Things Glamorous, “I Do” flip flops by Bridal Flip Flops.

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101. Cream-of-Something Soup

27 Mar

I don’t know whether or not anyone has ever heated up Campbell’s cream-of-anything soup and actually eaten it straight. In a bowl. Maybe with some bits of saltines (or oyster crackers for the fancy folks). I, for one, have never done this. Nor have I witnessed it or even heard urban legend-ish tales about people who’ve done it. See, where I come from, cream-of-whatever soup isn’t actually soup. It’s an ingredient. I mean, you might as well dig in to a bowl of flour or down a shot glass of butter.

So how did cream-of-something soup become such a Southern staple? In a word: casseroles. I’m pretty sure casseroles existed before canned soup, but I can’t imagine how. Surely folks didn’t make homemade soup and then toss some combination of chicken and pasta or green beans and crispy onion rings into a 9 x 13 Pyrex dish to make a casserole. I mean, if you’re making homemade soup, well, wouldn’t that be considered a meal unto itself? And now that I’m thinking about it, how on earth did folks make green been casseroles before they started selling those onion rings in a can? Maybe some of my more seasoned readers can shed light on this mystery. I’d hate to have to do research, and by “research” I mean check Wikipedia.

If you’ve ever been to a dinner on the ground (or the non-denominational event known as a “potluck”), you’ve likely seen all manner of casseroles, most of which involve chicken. If there’s anything Southerners like almost as much as fried chicken, it’s casseroled chicken. But we don’t stop there. We’ll happily eat casseroled vegetables, too, as long as there’s cream-of-something soup involved (and also meat of some sort). And, of course, there are dessert casseroles, but thankfully, they’re mostly soup-free.

I can see now that the topic of casseroles is far too broad for one blog post (seeing as I was about to expound on the sweet potato casserole marshmallow vs. crunchy pecan topping dispute), so I’ll stick to discussing only those involving cream-of-something soup.

One time, a friend was telling me about one of her relatives who became quite indignant upon arriving at a potluck and discovering that someone had “stolen” her recipe for chicken and rice casserole. I said, “You mean that same chicken and rice casserole that every Southern person has known how to make since birth?” She said, “Precisely.”

For the benefit of folks who don’t have the recipe embedded in their DNA, here is my mom’s version, which she credited to one of her sisters. Apparently, providing vague directions is a genetic trait.

Chicken Dinner (Geneva)

Chicken breasts

1 can cream of mushroom soup

1 can cream of chicken soup

1 can cream of celery soup

1 large onion, chopped

1 stick butter

1 1/2 cups uncooked rice

1 1/2 cans water

salt and pepper

Mix all ingredients together and place in a large baking dish. Place chicken breasts on top and pat with butter. Bake at 325 for 3 hours.

I have made this dish many times over the years, but have yet to produce anything that tastes nearly as good as my mom’s version. It might have something to do with the vague directions or my inability to wait three hours for dinner to cook. Then again, it might have to do with all the tinkering I’ve done trying to make it healthier and/or a smaller serving size.


I do not recommend:

Using 98% fat free cream-of-something soup

Using only the cream-of-chicken soup

Using only the cream-of-chicken and cream-of-celery soup

Using skinless, boneless chicken breasts

Omitting the onion

Using only ½ a stick of butter

Adding way too much salt

The last time I made this, I followed the recipe (such as it is) exactly (except for jacking up the oven temperature to 450 or so). Still wasn’t as good as mom’s, but better than any previous attempts. And for the first time ever, I had half a casserole in the freezer. It was almost like having funeral food, except nobody had to die. Yay!

I’ll have more to say on casseroles later, but I just have to tell y’all that during my time in Seattle, I’ve attended not one, but TWO casserole potlucks. Which is two more than I’ve ever attended in the South, but I reckon that’s because at Southern potlucks there’s no need to add the word “casserole” to the invitation. It’s implied.

What’s your favorite use of cream-of-something soup?

Photo Credits:
Cream of mushroom soup ad available from Bamboo Trading, Chicken casserole from Campbell’s, Cream of chicken soup ad available from A Glass Collector.

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I’m Baaaaaaaack, Sort Of.

10 Aug

When I read Julia Child’s memoir “My Life in France,” one of the passages really struck a chord with me. Julia’s referring to cooking, but I think it’s more of general life lesson that might give Oprah an “aha moment.” Although, to be fair, it’s not too difficult to elicit an “aha moment” from Oprah. Probably a gerbil could do it. Or a hampster for sure. But not a Guinea pig. All they do is sit there and stare at you. In a creepy manner.

Anyhoo, here’s the passage wherein Julia discusses serving someone a terribly unappetizing meal:

“We ate the lunch with painful politeness and avoided discussing its taste. I made sure not to apologize for it. This was a rule of mine.

I don’t believe in twisting yourself into knots of excuses and explanations over the food you make. When one’s hostess starts in with self-deprecations such as, “Oh, I don’t know how to cook…” or “Poor little me…” or “This may taste awful…” it is so dreadful to have to reassure her that everything is delicious and fine, whether it is or not. Besides, such admissions only draw attentions to one’s shortcomings (or self-perceived shortcomings), and make the other person think, ‘Yes, you’re right, this really is an awful meal!”

Oh, no, Mabel, your sweet potatoes
look very...well done.

And that’s why I won’t be apologizing for my extended absence from the blogiverse. Also, I just hate it when you start reading a new blog and the writer keeps apologizes profusely for their absence(s). Like I care. I just met you. So what if you missed the last Weight Watchers meeting/church service/whatever? I wasn’t there either!!

So welcome, new subscribers! Please allow me to offer a very brief explanation to my long-time readers. Here goes: Pinched nerve root in neck. Pain radiating down right arm and hand. Typing = Torture. Hence, no entries. On the mend now, but paying work takes up nearly all my limited typing time. Therefore, here are a few funny and/or tasty and/or tasteless distractions for y’all till I’m back for reals.

The HI-larious and insightful scribes over at Real Southern Men are offering “Twanglish Lessons,” my favorite of which, thus far, is “Cussemisms.” That is also my new favorite word, although “twanglish” was definitely a contender.

I am all about the inadvertently amusing advertising one occasionally runs across (or frequently when one lives in the South), so I just lurved Todd Pack’s recent entry “‘Used cows’ and other signs of the times.” I’m still kicking myself that I never bothered to stop and take a picture of my favorite sign right outside Jackson, MS. It was a giant banner that read “Cemetery Now Open!” Yes, folks, an exclamation point! So hurry on in, y’all!!

Ok, I may be getting too far into my English major roots, by mocking the mistakes of most likely good-hearted people, but one of my favorite sites is CakeWrecks. And my favorite types of wrecks are the appallingly misspelled or, most especially, the ones whose instructions are horribly misconstrued. Check out the cake that inspired the blog, but be prepared to spend hours on the site.

Not that I am one or either...

I realize that a Shakespeare link might permanently label me as a nerd, but this is amusing whether or not you’re a fan of the bard. And besides, if I was truly a nerd, I wouldn’t get all the amazing impressions Jim Meskimen does–from Jimmy Stewart to Harvey Keitel, George Clooney to Droopy Dog. What’s most impressive to me is how his Jimpressions so accurately correspond to the words in Clarence’s speech from Richard III. My favorite is his line by Simon Cowell referring to “such howling in my ears.” But now that I’m on the subject of impressions, I must mention my favorite improv impressionist, Kevin Spacey, as seen on Inside the Actors Studio. Even better than his impressions was his answer to one of James Lipton’s recurring series of final questions: “What is your favorite curse word?” Spacey: “Rat bastard.” Let’s all try to incorporate it into our repertoire, shall we? Ok, Baptists, you are excluded. Feel free to use the above-mentioned “cussemisms.”

And to end on a sweet note, I must direct y’all towards my delightful bloggy pal Christina’s Southern Sweet Tea Granita recipe at Dessert for Two. What’s better than sweet tea on a hot summer day? Right, iced sweet tea. But what’s better than that? Sweet tea slushie! Hooray!

Hope these amuse y’all. Stay tuned for more frequent entries in the hopefully not-too-distant future. Next up: Cream-of-Something-Soup, since it was the first runner up on the SSPL Facebook page survey. Thanks for the vote “Kim’s Sister,” or Jenna, as I call her.

What are some of your favorite web finds? (And by all means, feel free to vote for yourself!)

P.S. I am partial to funny cat videos.

Photo Credits: “Hey Y’all” sign available from SlippinSouthern at etsy; Well Done Yams by Walker Cleavelands, Flickr Creative Commons; “Heavens to Betsy” t-shirt available from SweeTee; “Math & Stuff” shot by me (rather poorly with phone); Sweet Tea Granita by Christina at Dessert for Two.

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100th Post! Y’all Say Potato; We Say Tater

17 Jun

On the SSPL Facebook page, I asked y’all to vote on what my 100th post would be and this topic won unanimously (except for the vote cast by my sister for “cream of something soup,” which I’ll get around to soon).

One day, Geoff says to me: “That’s the only thing you say that makes you really, really, really sound like a redneck.” The word in question: foil. As in tin foil. For him, it has two syllables: foy-ll. For me, there’s only one. Sadly, I do not know how to spell my pronunciation phonetically, but I’ll try: Ok, I have been trying for about ten minutes now, searching the internets even, and I can’t (or cain’t) make it happen. The pronunciation of the “oi” sound (which is consistent across other “oi” words like soil, toil, boil, etc.) does not seem to be one that’s used in any other words in the English language. Or none I can think of. Closest I can come is oh’l. But that’s not it exactly. I think it’s a sound that’s nigh impossible to pronounce unless you know it from the womb (practiced your rolling Rs lately?).

Elfi Walter painted this "pitcher" of a pitcher.

Ok, let’s move on. In the South, what you’re writing with or using to attach a corsage is a PIN. Whether it belongs to you or is atop something, it’s OWN. A PITCHER might be a vessel to pour from or an image captured via camera or a guy in tight pants hurling a ball at another guy in tight pants.

Conversely, DON and DAWN are not pronounced the same way. One is a girl, duh! Also, what you sleep uncomfortably on and how you came by that mess of fish are two different things: COT and CAUGHT.

Most people are familiar with Southerners’ blatant disregard for the letter G, but did you know we also like to change letters or drop them at random? I can’t teach y’all all the variations, but here are a few: supposably, prolly (who needs “bab”?), everbody, histry, libary, chimbly, nuCUler.

This CHARdonnay has a lovely bo-kay, for a $3 bottle o' wine.

Sometimes, just to mix it up, we add letters or even syllables where they don’t belong like misCHEE VEEous or manDENtory. My mayonnaise– (or mannaise) hating friend Sandy has a talent for adding letters where they don’t belong. I can’t figure out what the system is, but when it’s cold out it’s “nipply,” or the black-eyed peas taste a little too “hamhockly.” One of her favorite things to say is, “God bless a moogy milk cow.” And I always think, shouldn’t that cow be moog-Ly?

There are a few pronunciations that are specific to my family (or at least I haven’t heard them elsewhere) like VEE DEEo (for video), Q sin air (for Cuisinart), and CHARdonnay (for Chardonnay).

But my favorite all-time mispronunciation is “Dixie.” Let me explain: Before the Civil War, the Citizen’s Bank of Louisiana issued ten-dollar bank notes that bore the French word “dix” (for 10, which is pronounced “deece”). Folks started calling them “dixies” and the name spread such that the South became known as Dixieland.* Technically, it should have been deece-ie land, but I reckon D.C. was already taken.

*This is my favorite of the three theories on the origin of “Dixie.”

What are your favorite Southern mispronunciations?

Photo credits: Chipotle card by someecards.com, pitcher painting by Elfi Walter available at etsy.com, Three-buck Chuck by GSankary from Flickr Creative Commons.

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Stuff I, Myself, Like

16 Jun

Two of my favorite people:
My nephew Jackson and his baby brother Eli.

Tomorrow’s the day y’all have been anticipating in the manner of my 13-year-old self waiting for the release of Duran Duran’s “Seven and the Ragged Tiger” album. That’s right: my 100th post. Whee!

Now that all 8 of the votes on the SSPL Facebook page have been tallied, we have a winner…Words Gone Wild: Mispronunciation. So check back in tomorrow to read all about it.

In the meantime, I figured that now that I’m reaching a ripe old age (in blog years), I might better start mixing it up a bit. Don’t worry, I’m not even close to running out of topics, but I thought I’d rest a spell and let other folks do the work.

Pour yourself a tall glass of sweet tea and head over to Saturday Evening Porch to hear about one blogger’s mother who hated all things tacky as much as my mom did.

If you’re feeling a bit peckish, check out Hippie Cahier’s unbelievably cute and yummy-sounding dirt cake. I’m thinking it must have been invented by a Southerner, seeing as it’s neither dirt, nor cake. P.S. Hippie Cahier is not really a hippie. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

If you’ve ever A. been kept awake by monsters or B. been irritated by a sibling, you’ll appreciate Hyperbole and a Half’s scariest story post.

Stephanie at Stuff Christian Culture Likes expounds on the epidemic of PDA via Facebook that may have affected a couple near you. And if you are one of the couple’s she’s described and the post gets your dander up, well…

Tori at The Ramblings has just the solution: PROTEST! Bring your own sign and crabby attitude.

Well, that’s it till tomorrow.

Feel free to share your favorite finds from the interwebs. But keep it PG-13, folks. My dad and other Baptists read this blog. I don’t want to get myself protested.

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98. Chivalry–Blondes Prefer Gentle (As Do Brunettes, Redheads, and Blue-Haired Ladies)

13 Jun

When I moved to Seattle for the second time back in the early 00’s (can you believe we’re already into a new decade and have yet to settle on a name for the last one?), I kept running into a problem with the menfolks here: they just would not help. Now, I’m about as feminist as Sarah Palin is not, but I’m not above letting y-chromosomed folks handle the heavy lifting…or anything involving wires…or car parts. Also, insects.

Let me take you back to late 2002 when my then-roommate and I were reduced to doing something shameful and unnatural, namely, hiring a man from the back page of The Stranger. The situation was that we needed a gi-normous desk moved from one room to another through a narrow doorway. We did not have A. the upper body strength to do the job ourselves, and, yes, we did try or B. a guy who would give us a hand (or more accurately two strong hands and biceps to match). So, naturally, we turned to the back page of the stranger, bypassing the ads for paid research studies, DUI lawyers, and “massage” therapists, till we spotted just what we needed: Man With Truck. Actually, we did not need a truck, just a man would do. When we explained this and offered to cover his minimum fee, he reluctantly accepted the job. He may or may not have driven over in his truck. We neglected to check.

After a few more failed attempts at soliciting male assistance (including a potluck wedding reception at which we’d been asked to construct an elaborate electrical-cord system–we’d asked a guy nearby to help and were refused with the excuse “I’ve got to bring in the potato salad”) I was starting to lose faith in the gender as a whole. Then my mom called to tell me about how she was leaving a store and struggling a bit with her purchase when a one-armed man ran over to help her.

Let’s review: a ONE-ARMED man helped my mom with her bags. A ONE-ARMED man she DID NOT KNOW. A ONE-ARMED man who RAN over to help. I’m sorry if I sound a little biased, but Southern gentlemen ROCK.

To be fair, I should say that my opinion of men in Seattle was formed before I made the acquaintance of many kind, generous, and helpful people of the male persuasion who live here. Especially the one who lives here in my house. I guess one should refrain from making general assumptions about the opposite sex when one is on an Internet dating spree.

Where's a boy when you need one?

However, I think it’s fair to say that Southern gentleman do tend to act more gentlemanly (except when they don’t–this means you, Skoal spitters) than their Northern counterparts. I think they’re more likely to go out of their way to help folks they don’t know. Sure, guys here will hold the door for you and would most likely lend you a cell phone to call 911. But would they pull over to change a stranger’s tire? Open the car door for you? Offer to carry your groceries? Maybe not. I mean, during my time in Seattle, I’ve come across approximately 2 million five hundred and twelve rain puddles and can count on no fingers the number of times a man has thrown his coat over one for me.

Have you encountered a random act of chivalry? Do tell…

Photo credits from Flickr Creative Commons: Tire changing by Raul Lieberwirth, Carrying groceries by Amber, Rabbit by Pablo Domingo.

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97. Chess Squares, Not to Be Confused With Checker Circles

2 Jun

Yep, folks, it’s time for another installment of inexplicably named desserts. This time, I give you “chess squares.” Are they perhaps shaped like chess pieces? Why, no. They are, in fact, shaped like squares (so at least the name is half correct). Might one eat these while playing chess? One might, if one didn’t mind one’s knights and pawns covered in sticky sweetness. Besides which, I don’t know about y’all, but there wasn’t a whole lot of chess playing going on where I grew up. I could be wrong, but I think Southerners are mostly checkers-type folks. Or dominoes. Or poker.

Chess squares are super-easy to make, but hard to keep around the house for long. Unless you happen to live with one of those “I don’t care for sweets” people. But I don’t think they allow more than one of these dessert-ally challenged people per household, so surely someone will pick up the slack, in the manner of Jack Sprat and his wife (and you all know which one you are).

I took a pan of chess squares to my book club brunch here in Seattle where they were snapped up pretty quickly (not as popular as piggies, but then what is?). Now that I think about it, maybe chess squares are best appreciated amongst the nerdy set…

A chess square by any other name...

One day, I was dining at the 5 Spot, and my friend Linda ordered something called “gooey butter cake.” When said dessert arrived at the table, I thought it looked vaguely familiar. Once I tasted it, I knew why. I thought, “That’s no gooey butter cake; that’s a giant, flat chess square.” Later I googled recipes for gooey butter cake and was not at all surprised when they were almost identical to my chess squares recipe:

Chess Squares

1 egg
1 box yellow cake mix
1 t vanilla
1 stick butter, melted and cooled

Mix above until crumbly. Spread in a buttered (or Crisco-ed, if you must) 9 x 13” pan. Work from the center and have the crust a little higher around the edges.

Filling:
8 oz. Cream cheese
3 eggs
1 box confectioner’s sugar

Beat well and pour into crust. Bake at 375 for 30 to 40 minutes or until brown.

In case you’re curious about the origins of gooey butter cake, one of my favorite foodie bloggers, CakeSpy, has a great post, which features a recipe with more detailed instructions. And if you’re into cute things (and if not, why??) check out the CakeSpy shop. However, you might want to proceed with caution if adorable illustrations of cupcakes make you want to sprint (and by sprint I mean drive) to the nearest bakery.

After a fair amount of Internet research, I’ve yet to find a recipe for CS aka GBC that doesn’t feature boxed cake mix as one of the main ingredients. Surely someone made a prototype before Betty Crocker came along. If anybody knows how to make this from scratch, please let me know.

Also, do y’all find it amusing that Southerners have given this dessert a highfalutin sort of name when everybody else calls it exactly what it is: gooey butter cake? Just seems counter-intuitive…

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96. Riding Lawn Mowers for Big-Ass Yards

27 Apr

When one of my friends, a native Seattleite, visited the Deep South for the first time, he was astounded by the amount of space folks have, including the biggest lawns he’d ever seen. At my house here in Seattle, we cut what grass there is (and by “we” I mean Geoff) with a weed whacker. We’ve got a lovely English-style garden in the back, but the grass in front doesn’t even justify a push mower. The house where I grew up, though, is a whole ‘nother story. One that involves a riding lawn mower.

Like many Southern folks, we lived out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods on all sides and, yes, a ginormous yard. One of my greatest thrills as a kid was getting to ride along as my dad mowed the lawn. Even today the smell of freshly mown grass makes me giddy with nostalgia. Ok, maybe giddy is too strong a word. Let’s go with “slightly less cranky than usual.”

As much as I loved going along for the ride, I couldn’t wait for that glorious rite of passage: Driving the lawn mower all by myself. Looking back, it might have been wise for me to practice before being set loose, but I reckon failure is how we learn. I’ll never forget the feeling of taking the reins for the first time: one part elation, three parts terror. As soon as I took off, I headed straight up the huge oak tree. Sadly, this would not be the last time a vehicle under my power would come in contact with a tree, but I shouldn’t digress…

Sorry, y'all, this won't cut it.

I’m sure I panicked. I most likely screamed. I definitely concluded that mowing the lawn was not for me. Now that I think about it, this childhood trauma is probably what caused me to abhor yard work of any kind. (Or at least it sounds like a better excuse than “Bugs. Worms. Dirt. ICK!”)

I’m sure the bike-riding granola folks here in Seattle would be horrified by the oversized carbon footprints left by gas-powered riding lawn mowers. I admit, they’re not exactly, well, “green.” But when you consider the Herculean task of cutting an acre or so on a sweltering summer day, I bet even Ed Begley Jr. would happily hitch a ride.

Photo credits, Flickr Creative Commons: Riding lawn mower by WindRanch, push mower by Dan Cederholm.

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95. Cheese Straws–For Eating, Not Drinking

20 Apr

Following the time-honored Southern tradition of misnaming things, these tasty, cheesy morsels somehow got labeled “straws.” You can’t sip a beverage through them. You would not use them as bedding for farm animals. And it would be nigh impossible to weave a basket out of them. Still, we call them “straws.” I reckon it sounds better than “kind of like an elongated cracker, but with a different texture, plus cheese.”

Even in the South, spotting cheese straws in the wild is an unusual (and therefore delightful) occurrence. I think folks are scared off by the high-priced tins of cheese straws offered by purveyors of Southern delicacies. Sure, they’re tasty, but I’d rather spend my hard-earned 20 bucks on something more substantial. Chocolate, for instance.

I’ve heard that cheese straws were the hit of the cocktail party circuit back in the day, but I never ran across any, seeing as Baptists don’t invite folks over for drinks all that often.

I think your best chance of finding a batch of cheese straws is to get yourself invited to a Southern girl’s bridal or baby shower. As an added bonus, you’re likely to happen upon a platter of piggies and the almost as rare but far more delicious Southern delicacy, petit fours.

The only time I’ve seen cheese straws north of the Mason Dixon was at an ad agency I worked for in Southern California. Someone brought a tin of them back from a vacation in the South. Oh wait, that was me, so I guess it doesn’t count. Note: The whole tin was devoured in record time.

I’ve only made cheese straws a few times, always for showers and always in Mississippi. Seeing as they’re not at all difficult to make, I really should whip up a batch soon and introduce them to my Yankee friends. I will probably use Homesick Texan’s recipe. Any of y’all planning a cocktail party?

If you’re at all curious about the history of cheese straws, check out Hoppin’ John’s well-researched post.

Photo Credits: Homemade cheese straws by Chez Loulou, Flickr Creative Commons; store-bought cheese straws available at The Everyday Gourmet.

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