Our Youngest Daughter's Plan

Our youngest daughter called yesterday and part of the conversation gave me pause. It went from a discussion on how much tax was going to come out of her pay (Now that she is about to grow up and join the real world - she was in shock - suddenly maybe she needed to reconsider her political leanings.) to a question of whether  my DH and I had our Last Will and Testaments in order?

"Excuse me. I don't intend to go anywhere anytime soon." (And if I do, I have some requests. But I digress.) "Well, I know but it just gets messy when people don't have wills and you have to argue over property. It seems I never get anything good, like furniture." "So all this boils down to the spoils of war?" "Well, not really, just who gets the best stuff." I guess I don't have to worry about her being bereft over my death - she never cared for black anyway. She continued. "You have to plan ahead for this." I was impressed, maybe she was growing up. "I know I'm my Grandmother's favorite grandchild - I've got that one covered." Then, maybe I jumped to conclusions. "I've been working on that for a while now." 

"Well, if I remember correctly, you commented that my few pieces of nice jewelry are frumpy, you don't care for used (sterling silver) forks, you think my fine china is tacky, and you told your Grandmother that you did not plan to choose Chantilly as your silver pattern. Given you don't care a thing about cooking and said you would not be caught dead with our bedroom furniture, I think that leaves you with a Victorian  sofa, a club chair, a coffee table, and two ottoman." "What about the dining room furniture?" "That was left to your sister by your great aunt." "That figures." 

"Why does she get everything?" "She doesn't. She just appreciates some things you don't." "I can't help it if I have good taste and she doesn't." Ouch.

I Don't Need Flowers

Last night on the way home from a movie, I told my DH he did not need to send me flowers for Valentine's Day. In fact, I didn't even want them. "Do you want more orchids [plants] like I gave you for Christmas?" "No. I want a soup spoon." "A soup spoon?" "A sterling silver gumbo soup spoon." "Why gumbo?" I explained to him why I had chosen the gumbo style over the cream soup, bullion, or place soup spoon. "Well, why not a set?"

He has always been a very thoughtful and generous gift giver, however, given the price of one soup spoon I would let him find out, on his own, I had upped the ante and be happy I only wanted one - at a time. And, he wasn't going to be able to find them at Sams or Costco.

Fried Chicken

As I've said before, I don't fry chicken, therefore whenever my family wants to partake in the national southern food, we have two choices. Either we hope someone takes pity on us and invites us to Sunday dinner or we are forced to buy our fried chicken (God Forbid!) and hope no one sees us doing so. I have long since lost any humiliation about being the first generation in a long line of fine southern cooks who has failed to master frying the fowl. Life will go on and the sun will come up in the east - Every morning - Trust me!

After all, while most folks think that fried chicken comes in a bucket, only those of us  from this part of the country are born knowing that real fried chicken does not always come from a bucket, bag, or box. However, thanks to northern migration and the proliferation of southern cookbooks, more folks are beginning to realize that even  the Colonel had to learn to fry his chicken at home with his 11 secret herbs and spices. But I digress.

Any time we are going to the horse races, polo matches, family picnic, etc., unless we can find someone to invite who we can count on to bring fried chicken, we are forced to buy a bucket, bag, or box of chicken. One morning, my DH and daughter had stopped by a Bojangles Chicken establishment to purchase some chicken on their way to Camden for a day of polo. (No, we do not have ponies - we picnic on the sidelines and watch the well-to-do play.)

When my DH pulled up to the drive through the conversation went like this. "Canna help you?" "I'd like one large box of spicy crispy chicken." "Sorry sir, we don't have none." "Well, I'll take a large box of regular fried chicken." "Naw sir. We don't have no chicken." "You don't have any chicken?" "Naw, sir. He hasn't dropped it yet." My DH contained his laughter enough to thank her. They moved on to another deep frying establishment where they successfully  purchased the chicken.

Later that day, while enjoying the fried chicken, our daughter commented to me, "You know Grandmama and Clemmie told me all their secrets about frying chicken - how you flour it, use salt and pepper, and how you need to use the right pan, but no one ever told me I had to drop it."  That was a new one on me also.

No Plastic Flowers - Please

On the back window of the car in front of me, in large script letters, read "In Loving Memory of  LaQuaChaniqua Jones, now with Jesus, 1966 -2010." (This is not an unusual sight down here.) It reminded me of some business I need to take care of. Not that I have any plans of going any where any time soon. In the case of my demise, it is very important that someone handle the following:


·   Before my body assumes room temperature, please go to my house and clean out my refrigerator. Short of condiments, just toss it all  and wipe it out. Don't worry, posthumously, I'll take the blame for not having any food in the house.  (Trust me, the church ladies will make sure my DH does not starve in his time of grief, it is the south after all.) 


·  For God's sake, make sure there are no plastic flowers or silk arrangements involved. If some should appear, I would appreciate someone just anonymously seeing that they are delivered to some other bereaved family, it's the least I can do.


·   And, no daisies or carnations please, they are the dearth of arrangements. (I have gone out of my way to make sure all the arrangements we have sent over the years have not included them, and I damn well expect  repayment in kind.)


·  Yes, and one last request, needless to say, don't even consider putting my name on the window of your car.

Ellie's Just as Bad

Ever since Ellie has been a young pup we have had a harness on her 24/7 instead of a collar. She has two plaid harnesses, each with two engraved plates containing all her pertinent information - her name, my name address, and phone, number. The last thing I need is her to get out of her collar when she is straining on her lead any time we have her out in public. ("We" haven't quite perfected walking on a leash like the books suggest. Ellie never has been one to follow the books, but I digress.)

It is not unusual for Ellie and Abby to be tussling on the floor. And, they "play" fairly rough with teeth bared and quite a bit of  "friendly" growling. Even though Abby is 24 inches tall on her shoulder and Ellie is 8 (at most), you will never see Ellie backing down from a fight. If all else fails, Ellie will go for Abby's ankles. But, though they look like Mutt and Jeff and fight like teenage sisters, they are best buddies and you rarely see one without the other close behind.

Sunday, I looked up to see Abby dragging Ellie across the den floor by her harness. When I commented to my DH, his response was, "I am so tired of your accusing Abby of everything. Ellie is just as bad. In fact, she usually starts it." "Well, that may be, but Abby plays very rough and it's in Ellie's nature not to back down." "She just needs to learn. Abby is fine." OHH KAY, case closed. Ellie, honey you are on your on own.

Then later that afternoon, when the pups came in from "playing" outside I noticed Ellie was no longer wearing her harness. I pointed this out to my DH and went outside to look for it. My DH came out to help and we came to the obvious conclusion that Abby must have pulled it off during one of their little "encounters". After combing the yard twice, my DH found it in the bed of liriope. The most curious part was that the harness was still buckled, which meant that Abby had pulled it off over Ellie's head.

Fast forward the next morning. The pups came in from their morning romp. Ellie was, once again, sans harness. My DH immediately when outside, and after going over the yard and under all the shrubs,he was unsuccessful in locating the missing harness. Ellie just looked up at me with this, "Can you please just put something on me?" look. Abby just had her normal, "What me worry, let's go play," look. Even I knew there was little my DH could do, I think he realized we had a problem. 

Of course, I am not saying Ellie is an angel. Last night, as I got ready for bed I had to step over Abby who was sound asleep on the floor at the end of the hall. I found Ellie, looking very guilty in the kitchen surrounded by the contents of (what was) a bag of trash. This was the first time Abby was not around to take the blame. As I looked at her, Ellie slowly backed out of the room and put herself in her crate, knowing she had been caught red handed. 

As I crawled into bed, I told my DH about Ellie and the trash, admitting that she, too, could get into trouble and that he should be proud that Abby had nothing to do with it. "Well," he confessed, "that was only because she was asleep and missed out on the action."

Suspect Bar-B-Que

Saturday we decided to eat Bar-b-que lunch at a local establishment that I had not been to in several years. The memory I had of my last meal there was mediocre at best. (And life is too short to eat mediocre Bar-b-que, when some of the best is available locally. But, I digress.)

The owners of this restaurant belong to the Dukes family (like all the other localBar-b-que purveyors in town. However, unlike the other three, they chose to vary from the familar path and not call their eating establishment "Dukes". And, there was also the issue of the family feud that resulted in their jumping ship and taking the family secret sauce recipe with them.

Now, as I've said before, the Pepsi Cola plant is known for having excellent fried chicken, the fire station has the best meat, and the highway department was the place where it all started. So, Saturday, I was giving the "new" spot a second look see.

We walked in and right off the bat, I knew it wasn't right. How could we eat good Bar-b-que in a place with ceiling fans, nice wooden tables, padded chairs, and soft lighting? Everyone knows you eat good Bar-b-que on folding chairs at cafeteria tables with extremely bright fluorescent lighting. Any fancy decor is suspect, especially if it matches, faded wallpaper and collections of miniature pig statuary being the exception.

We got our styrofoam plates (that was promising) and started through the line. The buffet contained the regular suspects: rice, meat, hash, macaroni and cheese, green beans, bar-b-qued chicken, fried chicken, cole slaw, hush puppies, and your choice of bread and butter or dill pickles.

The meat was chopped so fine that  (as my DH said) it looked like someone had gotten angry with it when they chopped it up and just couldn't stop. I commented that the meat actually tasted watery to me. My DH replied, "I think they steam it." I didn't even want to go there. As,we looked around at our fellow diners, my DH said in a hushed tone, "Where do these folks come from? I've never seen them before? They look like the ones you see at Wal-Mart on Saturday night. You know the ones." "Yeah," I replied, "the kind that propagates our state's reputation that we marry our kin folk." "Well, that too."

After we left, it dawned on me that folks who go there for Bar-b-que, think the other Bar-b-que establishments are beneath them. They want to eat in fancy places. Well, in this case, lipstick on the pig just covered up poor taste (and pitful Bar-b-que). And, it's a shame. Why, just down the street, at the fire station you can get some of the best meat around, of course you're gonna eat at vinyl cloth topped tables on a concrete floor. But hey, I don't go for the ambiance, I go for the food.

Just Watching the Show

Three phone polls in the morning, one personal call from a friend supporting Romney, six messages on the answering machine last night, three campaign letters (my DH only got two bless his heart), and two invitations on Facebook to lunch with Newt, (he and - 100's of - his friends will be lunching in our fair town) - and that was just yesterday. If you take the number of voters in South Carolina likely to vote in the Republican Primary and divide it by the campaign and super pac dollars spent - we're mighty special to someone. Or at least, they think our vote is. 

After Saturday, the show moves on to Florida and the land of Mickey Mouse. And, once again we will settle back down into our slow lifestyle with little more to do than count the days until turkey season (seventy) and ponder Paula Deen's conundrum over sweet tea and fried yams.

Anthony Bordain Tweeted, (I love his irreverence. If I had survived the drugs and alcohol he has and never hid a thing, I, too, would feel no compunction, what so ever, about commenting on this issue publicly the way he has.)  “Thinking of getting into the leg-breaking business, so I can profitably sell crutches later.”

Personally, I'm just sitting back enjoying the butter  . . . on my popcorn as I watch the show. I do not wish anyone ill will. And, I do not have anything against Paula Deen. But, the more she tries to explain how she hid her illness from her loyal fans (and TV network) for three years, the worse it gets. The sad part is, she could have come out three years ago, made a simple statement to the public, adjusted her recipes, emphasized portion control, and she would have been a hero and God send to the thousands of overweight southerners who follow her every word. She would have literally been a life saver.

Maybe she is going to show how this "pharmaceutical" she is endorsing (for 7 figures) will allow her to carry on in the manner to which she is accustomed. Then, as I said before, she can have her cake and eat it to and continue to thrill the southern pallets that long for her fare. She has worked hard to build an empire from selling bagged lunches to workers on the streets of Savannah. No one wants to see her fall now.

Can she figure out how to take this lemon and make refreshing lemonade - albeit sugar free?

However, she needs to remember, her comment accusing Mr. Bourdain of elitism: “You know, not everybody can afford to pay $58 for prime rib or $650 for a bottle of wine. My friends and I cook for regular families who worry about feeding their kids and paying the bills.” And, now in her new campaign she advocates using this "pharmaceutical" (at the cost of around $500 a month for a normal therapeutic dose) along with eating lighter foods and physical activity. Can diabetics in those regular families who worry about feeding their kids and paying the bills, who may not have generous health care resources available to them, be able to afford $500 a month?

To thine own self be true.