Come to think of it, and yes, from time to time, I think about things, I haven't written a good old-fashioned Southern blog in a minute or two. I'll do that now, so you don't have to. Shall we? The thought occurred to me today, while driving down to Norman, OK from Oklahoma City, that there are a few ways to get to the Football Capital of the Southwest. You see, Norman is considered somewhat more holy than other cities, and from time to time you'll want to make your appearance if only to say you've been there. I was traveling to our fair city of fine football funness because I needed to get my fingerprints run on a digital contraption so I could send said fingerprints to the state of Florida, where they'll use them to register me as a licensed insurance claims adjuster. Things happen, things need to be done, and I respond accordingly.
While driving down to Norman, taking an alternative route, I realized something else that may or may not be a bit Southern by nature. People drive in two specific caste systems in my state. They either drive like the proverbial bat out of hell, or they take their sweet tea time and sip along the highway as if they had all gosh darn morning to do so. I'm typically a sipper, not gonna lie, but the highway is a place where one should at least attempt to keep up with the others. I remember once being pulled over by a cop in Indiana for going too slowly, but the sign was clear...it read a minimum of 45 miles per hour, and that's about what I was doing. I didn't need to get anywhere quickly. The good man only gave me a warning, but we did have a nice talk about his two favorite uncles who had moved to Oklahoma in the late '50s when they got married. (That sounded funny. They married two separate women.)
In the South, as you know, we cook. The Southwest is no different. We cook here too, but we throw in more spice, a few chipotle peppers and maybe we don't use as much celery; that's my thought. I think we double up on the B's as well. We put in more bacon, more butter, more bananas, and certainly more breadcrumbs if the casserole looks a bit thin from the side. Did I say "casserole", yes, I did. Here, we are prepared to feed a few folks who may just happen by; so we always have a 9x13 glass pan ready to go - - God forbid we run out of stuff to put in it! If that ever happens to you, no worries, you can thaw whatever is in the freezer, but throw in a bit of butter and maybe even a bit of basil to cover up any freezer burn if it's been there a while. Cook it in a hot oven until it's done, and don't ask me how long that will be. I can't even read a recipe because no one ever taught me that. You cook it until it's done. The reason behind that statement is clear enough; if it ain't done you can't eat it. I should say you shouldn't eat it.
I mentioned recipes. Don't need them. We don't call anything (down here) by its recipe name. If you want an Italian cream cake you say you want Aunt Wilma's white cake with nuts and coconut. If you want a yam pie instead of a pumpkin pie you say you want the other orange pie; and if you want to know what goes into a stew, well I may have to hug you some and tell you I'm really sorry for your upbringing. You put what your daddy put into the pot. Didn't you watch? OK, if you didn't, and this is your first time, I understand, but I do have to shed a tear or two when you're not looking. Maybe even say a prayer. Cornbread goes with stew, by the way, and if you think I'm using a glass pan for that you must be from up north.
Grannies in this part of the world probably need to invest in iron skillets so that each of their grandkids ends up with one; that would be the solution, rather than waiting until she dies to see who she loved the most. My poor granny had 23 of us, so yeah, I was really happy to steal, I mean, take the big crock bowl when my own mom wasn't watching one Thanksgiving afternoon. She wasn't using it. I let her know about four years later that I had it and that there was no way I was gonna bring it back, not even for a selfie. It will stay in MY KITCHEN for the duration. When I die it goes to Caity, she has the grands, and they need it more. Laura gets my skillet; not because I love her more, but because Reuben may end up putting it in the dishwasher. He can't be trusted.
OK, so besides all that, I had time to think about my fingerprints as well. This is where it gets my goat. It sucks donkey donuts too. I had to pay an extra $50.75 to the state of Florida so they could have a set of my digital prints. I didn't even get a hard copy. They get them by email, and since they are of record and have been of record since before I don't know when; they should be able to call up a database, pay $5 and have them sent. Hell, I'd pay the $5! Why am I driving 30 miles to have my prints run again, only to pay $50.75 to have them emailed? It's a scam. It's a money-grabbing no good scam, and it really burns my grits. I'll get over it, I mean, I did already. I drove to Norman. When you go there you know you're a bit closer to God so it's all good.
Boomer Sooner!
Photo Credit: FoodNetwork. com
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