A Hellacious Belle’s Guide to the New South: Okra

Okra (US /ˈoʊkrə/ or UK /ˈɒkrə/; Abelmoschus esculentus Moench), known in many English-speaking countries as ladies’ fingers, bhindi, bamia, ochro or gumbo, is a flowering plant in the mallow family.

It is valued for its edible green seed pods. The geographical origin of okra is disputed, with supporters of West African, Ethiopian, and South Asian origins. The plant is cultivated in tropical, subtropical and warm temperate regions around the world. – Wikipedia

Okra.

When served up boiled, it is the despair of Southern children everywhere.

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So few people eat okra (more radishes are grown in this country) that it never even makes it onto the lists of Top 10 hated foods.
-Julia Reed

Oh, it does in the South.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Boiled, it has the consistency of seedy, hairy slugs.  Eating boiled okra will make you mean.

However…
should you slice it, dip it in egg and milk, roll it in cornmeal (with just a ‘tech  of flour) and fry it up all crispy in high temped peanut oil…

it transcends the ordinary,

and becomes something truly, heavenly glorious.

“I hate milk. Coats your throat as bad as okra. Something just downright disgusting about it.”
Marsha Norman, ‘night, Mother

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A Hellacious Belle’s Guide to the New South: Just Plain Nuts

If you’re going to go crazy, you should most definitely do it below the Mason-Dixon line.

For one thing, we value a certain amount of colorful lunacy in our relatives.

We’ve all got an Old Aunt Bidey with a “bit of the second sight.” Or an Old Uncle Beau, who still hides when the door bell rings because he thinks the “Revenuers” are after him.

It provides for much more interesting holiday dinners.

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Plus, most Southerners tend to find a slight air of insanity attractive.

“Tall, dark and dangerous,” has fluttered many a belle’s heart and further terrified scores of Mamas (“and tell me, who are his people?”), maybe remembering an illicit tumble or two under a camellia bush in their own youth.  The more mysterious, off-balance, irresponsible, flighty and unpredictable?  All the more wildly desirable.

Maybe it goes back to Revolutionary and Civil War times when dashing pirates slipped through treacherous blockades at the stake of their very lives to smuggle in the bits of luxury needed to satisfy the sophisticated Southern palate: satins, silks, furs and cases of wine, whiskey and brandy.

And then again, maybe it’s just Nature’s way of weeding out the swampy end of the gene pool.

Famous last words of a Good Old Boy, “Hey y’all, watch this!”

Regardless, we love, admire and respect our nutty people in the south.  (You may keep your own.)

They are part of the vibrancy and character of who we are.  They are strong and richly colored threads in the tapestry of our tradition. They are our aunts and uncles.  They are our brothers and sisters.

They are almost always our exes.

“I’m saying that this is the South.  And we’re proud of our crazy people.  We don’t hide them up in the attic.  We bring ’em right down to the living room and show ’em off.   See Phyllis, no one in the South ever asks if you have crazy people in your family.  They just ask what side they’re on.” – Julia Sugarbaker, “Designing Women”

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A Hellacious Belle’s Guide to the New South: Ma’am Shaming

Yesterday, was my birthday.

Becoming a year older has brought to my attention, once again, that I have crossed the bridge of age, that arc of time connecting the bright and verdant shores of “Miss,” to the cracked, barren desert of “Ma’am.”

Because politeness is so important in the South, a formal direct address, based on age and status is dictated for every female. “Thank you, Miss;” or perhaps, “Excuse me, young lady;” are phrases every Southern girl hears growing up.

Then comes that wretched day for every woman, usually sometime in your thirties (or even forties, if you are genetically blessed.)  You fight against it as diligently and as long as possible: facials, exercise, dieting, bright colors, a sexy hairstyle, skillful cosmetics.

Regardless of how good you think you still look, whether or not “age is just a number,” without a heed to being married, single or even a mom.

It happens in one brief soul-searing, come-to-Jesus-with-your mirror moment and you are forever changed.

Of course, it’s typically from some young, handsome college boy.  You may have even lightly toyed with the idea of flirting with him.  He looks at you, radiant in his youth, correct in his upbringing, the flower of southern manhood.

“Yes, ma’am.” he smiles at you, proud to be properly polite to an older woman.

Oh, the agony. The humiliation. The shame. The loss of hope, joy, vitality.

You have been called out. It’s all over. Youth has fled. Embrace your inner crone.

You have been ma’am shamed. 

I am well in body, although completely rumpled up in spirit. Thank you, ma’am. — Lucy Maud Montgomery M

A Hellacious Belle’s Guide to the New South: Lightnin’ Bugs

You might know them as fireflies.

They are the pixy dust dazzling the dreams of children.

Then in the darkness I heard the whir of tiny wings and suddenly a splendid yellow light streaked from my hand. Like a statue in the darkness I stood watching as our lightning bug’s flashes became lost among the soft, yellow callings of ten thousand other lightning bugs.

Jim Conrad, Walks with Red Dog

They bejewel the soft summer evenings with shimmers of magic.

Every Southern kid I know has caught them in jars and smuggled them into the house, hoping against hope that they’d turn into fairies overnight.

Sadly, they have most likely have woken to a jar of dead or dying bugs.

Or at least, I always did. Maybe I lacked the appropriate incantation.

Believe it or not, lightning bugs are actually a type of beetle, known as Lampyridae. The males spark a seductive message and a ready female responds with a return flash, signaling her desire to connect. Just as fascinating, each species has a different light pattern, a sort of Morse code, they use to keep their luminous message unique to their own kind.

And you’d want to be especially careful about dating the wrong type of bug, as some fireflies are cannibalistic. The female of that persuasion flashes out a little, “Hey boys, why don’t ‘cha come up and see me sometime,” aimed at fireflies of a different ilk and when the unsuspecting male comes a callin’, pants down and ready for love, she gobbles him up.

Humans, of course, are far more deadly to the tiny bugs, and not just because of the millions of children chasing after them once the sun goes down.

Along with toxic pesticides and urban sprawl encroaching their forests, fields and streams; light pollution from buildings and cars corrupts their delicate language of light, obstructing their ability to call to their mates to procreate.

Scientists fear that one day they will twinkle out of existence entirely.

Stealing away far too much of the magic of nature and our childhoods.

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can’t sustain the part.”
― Robert Frost, The Poetry of Robert Frost

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A Hellacious Belle’s Guide to the New South: Kinfolks

“Who are her people?”

A totally legitimate question in the South, where who you are related to is almost as important as who you are.

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I’m kin to a big ol’ bunch of fruitcakes.

“Being Southern isn’t talking with an accent…or rocking on a porch while drinking sweet tea, or knowing how to tell a good story. It’s how you’re brought up — with Southerners, family (blood kin or not) is sacred; you respect others and are polite nearly to a fault; you always know your place but are fierce about your beliefs. And food along with college football — is darn near a religion.”
Jan Norris

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Three Things Thursday: (Three Days Late) Sunday April 12, 2015

I have so many “happies” to contribute to Nerd in the Brain’s Three Things Thursday this week that it took me three extra days to post it all!

(Yeah, nice try.)

We were in Augusta last weekend, visiting my Mom-in-Law, Linda.

Friday night, we took a sunset cruise on the Augusta canals, in a Petersburg boat, which is a reproduction of the pole-barges used to ferry cotton down the Savannah river to the Augusta mills in the late 1800s.  The hour and a half boat tour offered wonderful live music with the Henrys (the trio of violin, stand-up bass and guitar we enjoyed hearing so much a few weeks ago at 5 o’clock Bistro) and we brought a bottle of wine and a picnic of cheese and charcuterie to enjoy along the way.

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Saturday night, we took Linda to a wonderful restaurant in old downtown Augusta, called Frog Hollow Tavern.

Duck rillettes!

Duck rillettes!

The food and service were truly amazing.  I’m in the restaurant business, so it’s always so nice when someone just does it all right.  Details make the experience as much as the cuisine.

Augusta’s a little further South than Atlanta, so Spring was more firmly entrenched.  It was such a lovely weekend, with blue skies, warm sun and a riot of colorful flowers.

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My husband and I have made a tradition of dressing up for Easter every year. He dons his seer-sucker suit, I coordinate an ensemble and hat (Easter bonnet!), and of course we always get the rest of the family to doll up, too.  It’s so much fun – I always love our annual photos.

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Wishing you all a wonderful week!

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A Hellacious Belle’s Guide to the New South: Come to Jesus

“Come to Jesus” is another one of those Southern phrases, like “Bless Your Heart,” that has meaning beyond the obvious.

And yes, while a Southern pastor might admonish his congregation to “Come to Jesus,” its typical use is far from the gift of the grace of the Lord.

“You and me got to have a little ‘come to Jesus.'”

It’s something akin to being “taken to the woodshed.”

You and me having a “Come to Jesus” means that you are pretty much neck deep in poo, as I am completely over a situation you are involved in, (and most likely you as well,) and I am going to fix it (and possibly you) in one fell swoop.

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A “Come to Jesus” is gonna call it on the carpet, call a spade a spade, and deal with it.

It will most likely clear the air and possibly right some wrongs.

Like as not, someone will be praying.

You just hope it isn’t you.

Bless your heart.

“We can’t help everyone, but everyone can help someone.
– Ronald Regan
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A Hellacious Belle’s Guide to the New South: Idiomatic for the People

fighting computer issues so re-posting a favorite:

I never thought much of it until I moved away from Alabama and was surrounded by people from all over the world, but heck…

We Southerners can talk kinda funny.

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Not just the accent, since that’s normal for me, and I actually prefer it most of the time, because it sounds like “home.”   I’m talking about the phrases we say in everyday life, that make perfect sense to us, but might sound a little nutty to people who aren’t “from round these parts.”

I hauled together a few phrases, that in the interest of transparency, I will attest to have actually heard someone say out loud (at some point in my life.)  I’ll try to explain the best I can, although some of it’s not really translatable, so I’ll have to trust to your open-mindedness.

As I was most recently telling you about hushpuppies, let’s go ahead and start with the dogs:

“Let sleeping dogs lie.” – Leave it alone.

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“That dog won’t hunt.” – This is not a valid concept.

“Don’t got a dog in that hunt.” – this is one I actually use quite a bit.  Note, you must improperly conjugate the infinitive.  No one cares about the dogs you have, just the one you don’t got.  Basically this means that you don’t have any stake in a particular situation and would prefer to be uninvolved.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t got a dog in that hunt.”

“Where my dawgs at?” – Said most frequently by good ol’ boys and University of Georgia grads.  “Pardon me, might you recently have seen any of my associates?”

“Who let the dawgs out?” – Again a reference to UGA – It’s chanted at football games, followed by  “Goooooo Dawgs! Sic’ em! Woof, Woof, Woof!”  This is a pledge of allegience bred so deeply into Georgia graduates that you will actually see grown women in ballgowns at charity functions “get down and get their dawg on” while in “polite company.”

“Barking up the wrong tree.” – totally going in the wrong direction or you have the wrong idea.

Additional animal-related sayings include:

“Go hog wild!” – Whoo, whoo!  Par – tay!!

Playin’ possum – feigning sleep.

-2“I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age!” – A very long time.

Off like a herd of turtles – getting off to a very slow start, moving slowly.

Full as a tick! – Stuffed full of food, couldn’t eat another bite.

“Duck fit.” – another one I use a lot.  “He’s havin’ a duck fit since I mocked him in my blog.”  Basically, a really serious “hissy fit.”

“Drunker n Cooter Brown with a skunk in his pocket.” Indicating extreme intoxication.  Cooter Brown is an infamous character in Southern legend, who supposedly lived right on the Mason-Dixon line during the Civil War. To avoid the draft on either side, Cooter decided to stay drunk throughout the entire war, making him ineligible for battle.  Most people just say, “Drunker n Cooter Brown,” but my Evil Twin, Doug, adds the “with a skunk in his pocket.”  I have absolutely no idea what that means, but it sounds good, so I say it too.

A few more random sayings for your education and amusement.

“He don’t know his as* from a hole in the ground.” – just not a bright fella.

“The porch light’s on, but no one’s home.” NASA is most likely not recruiting in his neighborhood.

“He lives so far up a dirt road that he thinks asphalt is something wrong with your butt.” – not necessarily a gentleman of worldliness and sophistication.

“My teeth are floatin’.”  “I must relieve myself, in the worst way. Please direct me to the facilities.”

“Sweatin’ like a whore in church.” – A situation of great discomfort.

“Don’t get’cher panties in a knot.” – Please don’t have a duck fit.

“Those pants are so tight I could see her religion.” – A fashion faux pas – typically an ill-judged instance of “camel toe.”

“Twenty pounds of sh*t in a five pound sack.”  Very tight, or tightly packed, frequently referring to snugly fitting clothes.

“Happier’n a tornado in a trailer park.” – exuberantly joyous.

“Fine as frog hair split three ways and sandpapered down the middle.”  This is one of my Daddy’s sayings. “I’m very well, thank you.  And you?”

“He doesn’t know whether to check his as* or scratch his watch.” – Great confusion. Someone uncertain of their situation.

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“Beaten senseless with an ugly stick.” Describing an unattractive person.  Can be further emphasized as “Beaten senseless with an ugly stick and left for dead,” or “He fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.”

“I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it.”  Things parents say to their children.

I could keep on going til the rains come, but with work n’ all, I’m busier n’ a cat coverin’ crap on a marble floor.

I’d best get on the stick and wrap this rascal up.

Tootle loo, y’all.

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A Hellacious Belle’s Guide to the New South: Hush, Puppy!

hushpuppies

Hushpuppies, those golden globes of goodness, are high up on the fried-food chain in the Deep South.

A simple batter of cornmeal, flour, baking soda, onions, salt, eggs and buttermilk, dropped by the spoonful into a skillet filled with hot oil, they come out crispy on the outside, mealy soft on the inside and 100% delicious.

180px-BdThere are a lot of stories about how hush puppies got their name.

My Granny told me that in the days before air conditioning, when houses were built up off the ground with an open crawl space underneath so that the breezes could blow under and help cool the house, the family’s dogs would seek relief from the hot sun by burrowing into the soft, cool dirt under the house.

When the women of the house began cooking the evening meal, the dogs, smelling the food, would wake up; and hungry, start to bay and bark.

The women would fry up scoops of cornmeal batter and throw them over the porch rail (or through the cracks in the wood floors) with the admonishment of, “Hush, puppy!”

Other legends have Confederate soldiers throwing balls of fried dough to the scouting dogs of Union soldiers to keep them quiet so their location wouldn’t be revealed, but I prefer to imagine sleepy ol’ hound dogs howlin’ for hushpuppies in the soft swelter of early evening.

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Of course, in skillets of Chefs of the New South, the humble hushpuppy is frequently duded out with chunks of tasso, crab meat or lobster, spiced with jalapenos or drizzled with honey.

I love them most the way my Granny made them.  Hot and greasy from the fryer, dunked in her homemade remoulade, sidled up to some fresh fried catfish.

“You can say a lot of bad things about Alabama, but you can’t say that Alabamans as a people are duly afraid of deep fryers.” 
― John Green, Looking for Alaska 

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A Hellacious Belle’s Guide to the New South: Kiss My Grits!

Believe it or not, “Kiss my grits!” isn’t a Southern phrase, although I’m sure there were plenty of Southerners eager to claim it the first time it was heard.  Nope, it came straight from Hollywood, bellowed out of TV screens by a loud-mouthed Southern waitress named Flo, in the 70s sitcom, “Alice.”

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Now, grits themselves are a true Southern tradition.

Grits are made from ground, alkali-treated corn called hominy.  Cooked low and slow with chicken broth, butter and heavy cream, seasoned with salt and cracked black pepper, they are somewhat like polenta, but more closely akin to heaven.

If you like, mix them up at breakfast time with your scrambled or over-easy eggs (I do); or for supper, stir in a white wine beurre blanc, and top with sauteed shrimp low-country style.  Add on some chunks of ham, roasted garlic, fresh scallion, lardons of bacon…

::sigh::That’s puttin’ some South in your mouth.

What you don’t put on grits?

Milk and sugar.

Silly Yankees.  Milk and sugar’s for oatmeal.  Or Cream of Wheat.

If you don’t like them done right, then just you never mind.

It leaves more for us.

“Grits are hot; they are abundant, and they will by-gosh stick to your ribs. Give your farmhands (that is, your children) cold cereal for breakfast and see how many rows they hoe. Make them a pot of grits and butter, and they’ll hoe till dinner and be glad to do it.”
― Janis OwensThe Cracker Kitchen: A Cookbook in Celebration of Cornbread-Fed, Down Home Family Stories and Cuisine
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