“I’m serious as a heart attack, she was about to fall out!”
When we moved back to North Carolina and I started high school there was a language barrier, and the previous statement rang especially odd to my ears. I spoke English, the same root language as my new classmates, but there was a definite learning curve to, shall we say, the fringe on top.
Colloquialisms (I’m shocked; I spelled it right the first try. Lord love a spell check.). The local color of our language. It’s y’all versus you guys (Mom’s from Jersey, I use both interchangeably). It’s hind end, versus hiney, versus butt, versus bum (It’s how the folks on my Dad’s side of the family say it in Pittsburgh). It’s tennis shoe versus sneaker.
When my sister-in-law from Perquimans County was cranky, she’d later apologize for being “ill”. And people from that area also call chicken and dumplings, “chicken pot pie”; or maybe her family is just kinda “quirky”.
An illustration from the New Orleans novel, A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy O’Toole. If you haven’t read it, I urge you to do so.
Linguists used to be able to tell by your speech where you were born and raised. In New Orleans they had completely different accents and word usage within blocks of each other. There was one neighborhood where everybody had both a New York and Southern accent, with a soupçon of French.
In Baltimore the natives had an odd mélange of Southern, Northern, and a dash of almost British. And you probably won’t have a waitress call you “Shug”, to her you are “Hon”. And their hometown has two syllables, not three, as in Ball’more.
The cast of the first season of Homicide: Life on the Streets. The best show ever on television, and based in Baltimore.
Pittsburgh, my dad’s hometown has a completely unique accent and vocabulary. I can always pick it out when I hear it. I have surprised the heck out of many strangers in grocery stores and malls. But it’s so very distinctive that once you hear it, you can always identify it.
Folks from the upper Midwest speak with a unique inflection—think Sarah Palin and the movie Fargo. It comes from the large number of immigrants from Nordic nations. They also have a vocabulary that’s all theirs. Don’t ask your new workmate where the water fountain is; they call it a “bubbler”, which I must say is way more festive. If you’re ever at a potluck in Minnesota, there’s no casseroles, but plenty of “hot dishes”. Anyone who’s ever listened to a JFK speech or a bad imitation of one knows that from Massachusetts northward people have a distinctive way of talking. They also have unique pronunciations—Worcester becomes Wooster, Grosvenor? That “S” is silent.
If you’re hungry and order a sub, you’ll get funny looks, but no sandwich. Ask for a grinder. If you want an after-dinner drink, head to a “spa” (corner store), or a “packie” a liquor store. It’ll be wicked good.
A visit to the Southwest could require the occasional use of a translator. If there’s word of a haboob in the area, it’s not a scarf, a body part, or a bird. It’s a dust storm that is so massive it can be seen from space, so go inside. Norteño is a style of music from Northern Mexico that is dangerously catchy.
And California? Some (but not all) residents really do sound like surfer dudes that have spent a bit too much time in the sun.
But the sad truth is that all these distinctive words and accents are disappearing faster than hushpuppies at a fish fry. Because distance and unfamiliarity are dissolving due to connectivity and the migratory nature of the population, all those interesting geographic differences could soon be a thing of the past.
And the very thought of that makes me tore slam up.
Thanks for your time.
Central Elementary School ensured that my taste for rice is kind of messed up.
I loved it. By itself, or enrobed in their thick, brown (maybe beef?) gravy. It was a savory snuggle from puppies wearing flannel pajamas.
Costco membership broke me out of the bag. When we joined, we’d buy everything that seemed to be an especially good deal. And forty pounds of rice for twelve bucks is a great deal. On a not unrelated note, if you know anybody who needs a ten-gallon vat of pickled lima beans, have them drop me a line.
To make perfect rice, put uncooked rice in a fine mesh sieve. Rinse it under cool water until the water runs clear; this gets rid of a lot of starch and helps keep the grains separate.
Bring it to a boil, cover, lower heat to medium-low and cook for 17 minutes, then check for doneness. When the rice is tender and all the water’s gone, turn off the heat, leave covered and let sit for 15 minutes. This will set the starch so they’re individual grains that aren’t demolished when you take a spoon to them.
There is a delicious tradition from Spain that you may like to try. It’s called socarrat. It comes from the word, socarrar, which means to singe, or toast. After the water has absorbed and the rice is cooked, turn it down to low for another 10-15 minutes. Do Not Stir. Then let it sit covered off heat for the fifteen. This will give you a crispy delicious crust on the bottom that folks in the know will literally fight for.
You can also spread a cup of rice into a lightly buttered skillet and press it down flat. Cook it on very low until it’s browned and crispy on one side, then flip and do the other side. Put it in a warm oven and make another one. Then put something delicious between the two and cut into wedges for service. Anything from cheesecake filling and cherries to chorizo, grilled veggies and cheese.
So, don’t be afraid of cooking rice. And good grief, even if you do mess up, it’s only rice—feed it to the dog. The rice squad will not show up to your house and cart you off—I promise.
You’d like to think that while you may have infrequent dorkish tendencies, you certainly are not a full-time, card-carrying dork.
And then you meet Henry Winkler, and know that deep down, encoded in your very DNA all is lost, because dorky, thy name is little debbie Dorkarella, high priestess and queen of all the dorks you survey. The dorkish benchmark that to which all other dorks strive.
And Happy Days was a sentimental, untroubled depiction of the 1950s. My favorite moments in the show were when Arthur Fonzarelli, or Fonzie, was onscreen. I was in love.
And this year there was a very special guest.
Last year I’d met a history/travel author at an event. It was someone who I’ve always enjoyed, was really smart, and whom I felt had a similar worldview to mine. There was a meet and greet after the program, and I was sure we’d hit it off right away, and bond over our amusement of the absurdity of life.
Henry Winkler had always seemed like a really nice guy, but so had the writer. If he turned out to be a cold, dismissive jerk, my heart would just snap in two. But I’ve adored this man for forty years and couldn’t let this opportunity pass me by.
Allow me to say that one more time, 
So, for the second year The Kid and I spent the weekend in Raleigh, at the Super Con. As the word “Con” might suggest, it’s a convention that celebrates, well…it celebrates all kinds of stuff. Sci Fi, comic books, Steampunk, wrestling, anime, mythology, cult movies, and there’s probably a few biggies I’ve forgotten.
The food was imaginative and well-prepared. The atmosphere and service were warm, friendly, and calm; a welcome contrast to the frenetic vibe at the Supercon. It was decided then and there to make this a part of each Supercon Sunday each year.
We did sandwiches and bought good bread, deli meats and cheeses for the first day. The second day we did sandwiches, but bought them because I had a really good coupon. I made a batch of brownies and some lemon white chocolate gooey bars from a new recipe I found (they were ambrosial, and I’ll share the recipe soon, I promise).
¾ cup mayonnaise
Whisk together all ingredients, taste for seasoning and sweet/sour level. Adjust according to taste. Refrigerate for at least three hours. The day before serving toss one pound of finely shredded cabbage and three or four grated carrots with enough dressing to thoroughly coat the veg. Refrigerate overnight. Before serving toss and then check for seasoning. Keep in fridge for up to a week.
Thanks for your time.
But there’s normally a few items we need from a shopping center that’s in the opposite direction. Sometimes we go together, and sometimes I go solo, especially when it’s hot or the first part took a while.
Right before the parking lot, there is a four-way stop. I had waited my turn, then slowly drove into the intersection, to make a left.
I’m a tree climber, always have been. And if you climb trees, you’re gonna fall out of them on a regular basis. When you fall, the nanosecond you spend in the air seems to become weeks. And it gives you plenty of time to ponder.
Just how bad will it be? Will I end up knocking on the pearly gates? Will I break one or more bones? Or will I get off with just skinned palms and having the wind knocked out of me?
Surprisingly, it wasn’t too bad—for me and our eighteen-year-old Jeep. Neither car was going very fast, and what could have been a much more serious T-bone was more of a glancing blow in the very front corner.
I hopped out, prepared for the worst.
This nice man took responsibility with both the fuzz and his insurance company. He even picked up the first day of the car rental before the paperwork went through. He was just a really terrific example of a human. And, it was the poor guy’s birthday.
Within two days of the accident I received numerous letters and post cards from ambulance chasing bottom feeders and slippery, creepy-looking chiropractors. They all wanted to help me get rich off the accident. They really didn’t care about the truth of the incident; and strongly implied they’d be happy to guide me through all manner of fraudulent scammery.
Thanks for your time.
When I was in the fifth grade my boyfriend was Michael Weiss. He was also the first Jewish kid I ever knew. His mom and dad owned a bookstore just off base.
I also experienced another first with Michael. I was 11—don’t get any ideas. It led to a life-long passion which, throughout my life, has brought me an unknowable amount of joy.
I love bread. If it wouldn’t put me into an early grave, I could easily live on bread and butter. So, as you might imagine, I’m sorta fond of bagels.
The Kid really does not. It could be that tangy funk or maybe it’s a texture thing, but my child’s not having it. Except for crab Rangoon and the creamy filling of strawberry pizza, it does not pass The Kid’s lips. Red velvet cake is a favorite, but not with cream cheese frosting.
3 cups all-purpose flour
Preheat the oven to 325. Grease and flour two eight or nine-inch round pans.
Divide the batter in half and spoon into the prepared pans. Smooth with spatula. Bake for 1 hour and 5 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean, but moist.
2-8 ounce packages PHILADELPHIA Cream Cheese, softened
Generously frost cake. Refrigerate until frosting’s set and then refrigerate any leftovers.
Thanks for your time.
Setting: A small hospital in a small town in the rural south, during the very early 1980’s.
A couple of his notable accomplishments include pulling a stop sign out of the ground just to see if he could, and never getting the lyrics correct of any song ever written. He also routinely devours at least two large pizzas in one sitting.
His next job is at the local funeral home. One of his tasks are to drive the hearse to the cemetery. His employment is abruptly terminated when he exits the car during graveside services and forgets to turn off the radio—the radio playing Black Sabbath with volume set at a level which could rattle the fillings from one’s teeth.
This leads to a mythic and much recounted episode and famous quote which occurs when he finishes the remaining third of a keg before the group can regroup at his place the next day. When questioned about the vanishing brew he responds with a line that no one present has ever forgotten, “It was here, I was here, I was lonely, so I drank it.” Sad? Or hilarious? You be the judge.
She was also employed by the hospital, as a lab clerk. This job entails visiting every floor and individual unit delivering lab results, which normally takes 30-45 minutes start to finish. This roaming facilitates the burgeoning relationship between her and orderly Petey, increasing the delivery times to an hour or more. Didge’s bosses become suspicious when the two become engaged.
Thanks for your time.
When last we met (last week’s column), I was in the kitchen of Skylight Inn in Ayden, watching Mike “Chopper” Parrot. He was using his weighty, custom-made cleavers to chop pound after pound of some of the most beautiful pork I’ve ever seen. Slow-cooked ‘til falling-apart tender, with crispy skin so golden it should be stored in Fort Knox like the precious substance it is.
The man currently looking after this family concern, Sam Jones comes into the kitchen, and asks if I would like to visit his new restaurant, Sam Jones BBQ. He also wants to take me to the old family homestead, to see the pit on which his grandfather, Pete Jones, learned to put fire to pig.
The expanded menu of Sam Jones BBQ is the motivation for the new eatery. Skylight has been a beloved tradition since 1947. You don’t put the Statue of Liberty in a sundress, you don’t get Harry Potter contacts, and changing the menu at Skylight just isn’t done.
And, if you’re a stickler for tradition and can’t quite make it Ayden, they also serve the classic Skylight plate of barbecue, coleslaw and cornbread.
It’s not like anything I’ve ever eaten before. It’s definitely not cakey, sweet, normal cornbread. I’ve had corn sticks, that’s not what it is either. My problem is I descend from Yankees. If I’d had some Southern kin, it wouldn’t be unfamiliar. ‘Cause it’s cornpone.
Sam told me there are only four ingredients—and one is lard. But after some looking, I’ve found a recipe that doesn’t come from the Jones family but comes out as close as you’re going to get without a trip east (which I enthusiastically recommend).
Thanks for your time.
When I was a child we moved to Puerto Rico. We lived on a military base that was transitioning from a large Air Force base to a much smaller facility that was a joint Coast Guard/Naval station. The first year or so that we lived there, everything was kind of in flux.
After a while the base was provided with AFRTS (Armed Forces Radio and Television Services). We all called it something else, and if you look at the acronym, you can probably figure out what that was…
His schtick was to tell a story within a story. For example, he’d talk about this total failure named Al. Then the ending would be something like, “And we remember Al to this day, only we know him by his full name…Albert Einstein! And now you know the rest of the story.”
Don’t judge a book by its cover, except when that cover screams, “I am a tacky, shallow, poseur.”
Good things come to those who wait, unless it’s Black Friday and you’re waiting for the mall to open. Then those things are more likely sprained ankles, blunt force trauma, and maybe a face full of pepper spray.
Quitters never win and winners never quit. But I firmly believe that…oh never mind.
I’ll be here all week folks, tip your waitresses.
bull city mom 