Reopening Negotiations With the North
- One Laugh
at a Time
We
are Southern writers with a strong sense of regional heritage who laugh at
our own shortcomings and make diversity into an asset. We are proud of our
turnip greens, cornbread and rural past, but recognize football, country
music, and car racing as activities of a new South.
We would also like to go on record as the humorist group with the most
couches on the front porch and the greatest number of junk cars rusting in
the backyard.
We welcome any Southern humorist, comedy
author, funny writer, or cartoonist who creates humor of any sort,
or aspires to do so, to join our newsgroup and become a part of the comedy
organization that sponsors our official Southern Humorists website.
We welcome true southerners, former
southerners, transplanted southerners - and even danged Yankees, as long
as you know that you will be the one who talks with a funny accent and
that you're treading on our sacred Southern soil here.
What's
Cookin'?
Southern food has always been delicious and unique.
It's part of our heritage that defines us as different. With that in
mind, we decided to cook up some good old southern vittles just for
you. We have raided our recipe books to bring you some of our
favorite recipes, cooking columns, and just plain old fun stuff about
food.
I always assumed that if you took on one holiday meal, you’d never have to volunteer for another. I was wrong. If the kin die off and Heaven takes some of the best cooks, it leaves the family no choice but to divvy up the remaining holiday meals.
Easter went to me, even though I was 8.9 months pregnant and with major complications that included another case of Irritable Uterus Syndrome, a condition in which the ute contracts as if having temper tantrums and threatens to toss out a baby way before it’s due.
My first husband and I lived in New Orleans for about a year back in 1997-98. We moved down at the end of August, into an upper shotgun apartment in a
four-plex. The day we moved our stuff in, we got an invitation from our downstairs neighbors to a cookout for Labor Day the next day. We had no stove and no fridge as yet, so sounded wonderful to us. We did try to refuse, as is the only polite Southern thing to do, but they insisted they'd be cooking enough for an army. And they did!
Now this is one of my favorites. Every time someone’s dog goes missing around here, they cast a suspicious eye at me. Wolf is good, works with catamounts, (cougars for you city people! But they are a little too stringy for my taste!) too. French poodles are good, if you serve them with enough Whine, or so they tell me.
I sort of have this thing for dishes. Okay, I'm addicted to collecting dishes. I think it may stem from an incident in my earlier years. I was traumatized during my childhood when my mama tried to teach me to cook. I let the water scorch and stick to the pot and almost burned down the house while attempting to bake a potato. She banned me from the kitchen and told me in no uncertain terms, "Honey, I declare, when you get married your family will starve to death unless you marry a chef."
I took this to mean she thought I'd never learn to cook. I did learn eventually...after the invention of the microwave, the crock pot and frozen pizza.
Which do you use ketchup or catsup? The three dictionaries I use say that both words are correct, although ketchup is the preferred choice for the slightly sweet, tomato based sauce, flavored with vinegar and spices. Ketchup is the number one condiment in the free world, especially in North America. It has greater sales, is used more often, on more things and in more dishes, than any other condiment. Only mustard comes close.
Now I was just “knee-high to a grasshopper” when mama took pity on me and
allowed me to get into the dough she was kneading. Being a curious child, I hung
around under mama’s feet while she was trying to cook, watching her make the
bread.
Biscuits are a big part of southern culture and something every southern woman
knew how to make. Biscuits were served with every meal. Bread was a staple
that filled empty tummies if there was not quite enough of everything else.
Open chardonnay
box per instructions. Dispense into wine glass and
garnish with crazy straw. Sample. Tell the kids, “It’s
a juice box for grown-ups.”
Position oven
rack at lowest setting and preheat oven to 325
degrees F. Sip wine.
Release turkey
from vacuumed-sealed, impact-resistant packaging. Careful with that knife. Sip
wine. Remove turkey neck and giblets and
wave them about like puppets until your spouse
tires of your “Who’s
on first?” routine.
My stomach flips over for the thirtieth time as I
gaze down at my plate full of an animal swimming around in onion gravy.
Why
didn't I become a vegetarian when I had the chance?
"Billie Gail, I gotta be honest, honey. I've
lived in this world a long, long time without ever having eaten possum, and it
would be a shame to mess up my record. I don't mean to be rude, but I would have
a real hard time chewing up and swallowing this little critter."
I know everyone has "extra special" relatives that they love in
life and just burst with love when you see them. Well, that was me with my Aunt
Pearl. Aunt Pearl was so filled with love and sweetness that her voice just
dripped like honey when she spoke to me. When she grabbed me and gathered me in
her arms to give me her famous hug, it was like being consumed into her heart,
and you knew how loved you were.
There was no better feeling in the world and I always looked forward to
seeing her and Uncle John. When I was very small, I thought Uncle John was large
and gruff, but he was as loving as "Pearl" but in a different way to
me.
I always assumed that if you took on one holiday meal, you’d never have to volunteer for another. I was wrong. If the kin die off and Heaven takes some of the best cooks, it leaves the family no choice but to divvy up the remaining holiday meals. 
My first husband and I lived in New Orleans for about a year back in 1997-98. We moved down at the end of August, into an upper shotgun apartment in a
four-plex. The day we moved our stuff in, we got an invitation from our downstairs neighbors to a cookout for Labor Day the next day. We had no stove and no fridge as yet, so sounded wonderful to us. We did try to refuse, as is the only polite Southern thing to do, but they insisted they'd be cooking enough for an army. And they did! 
Now this is one of my favorites. Every time someone’s dog goes missing around here, they cast a suspicious eye at me. Wolf is good, works with catamounts, (cougars for you city people! But they are a little too stringy for my taste!) too. French poodles are good, if you serve them with enough Whine, or so they tell me. 
I sort of have this thing for dishes. Okay, I'm addicted to collecting dishes. I think it may stem from an incident in my earlier years. I was traumatized during my childhood when my mama tried to teach me to cook. I let the water scorch and stick to the pot and almost burned down the house while attempting to bake a potato. She banned me from the kitchen and told me in no uncertain terms, "Honey, I declare, when you get married your family will starve to death unless you marry a chef." 
Now I was just “knee-high to a grasshopper” when mama took pity on me and
allowed me to get into the dough she was kneading. Being a curious child, I hung
around under mama’s feet while she was trying to cook, watching her make the
bread.
My stomach flips over for the thirtieth time as I
gaze down at my plate full of an animal swimming around in onion gravy.
I know everyone has "extra special" relatives that they love in
life and just burst with love when you see them. Well, that was me with my Aunt
Pearl. Aunt Pearl was so filled with love and sweetness that her voice just
dripped like honey when she spoke to me. When she grabbed me and gathered me in
her arms to give me her famous hug, it was like being consumed into her heart,
and you knew how loved you were. 
