Exploding Hushpuppies

Hushpuppies: As the balls of batter were dropped into the boiling pot of oil on the stove, my mother, grandmother and aunts busied themselves with the baked beans, slaw, tea and fish. Then, all respectable lady like decorum broke loose and squeaky-clean Baptist chaos ruled the room.

Our home: This place we call home looks different for everyone. A home full of screaming children brings joy to some and hair-pulling anxiety to others. A quiet home for one can bring happiness and a home for two in the mountains sounds dreamy — or like a deep nightmare, depending upon who the other person is, of course! Just as none of us can put into words what a perfect love should look like, we can’t begin to grasp what home should be.

My home is both modern and very old-fashioned. We have a robotic lawnmower, voice activated thermostats, automatic door locks and so many gadgets I can’t even turn the lights on sometimes because I’ve forgotten the thing-a-ma-jig for how to control the doo-hickey. And yet, we’ve always sat down to a homecooked meal at night and spent time talking with our two sons around the table. I bake birthday cakes from scratch and often cook with food I’ve grown in my garden. I don’t quilt or churn butter, but I think it would be fun to learn — oh, who am I kidding? My Great Granny Laird would tell me, “Honey, go buy yourself a blanket and some butter and spend the extra time at the beach!” I always did like that woman.

On Southern ladies: Gliding, sashaying or floating into a room, never tromping, stomping or slinking, Jule sometimes carries a cane; yet in her hands, it seems more like a magic wand than walking aid, proving she knows the Southern secret of transforming anything into an elegant accessory.

Hair Cut of Bravery: To us, looking good isn’t vanity, it’s dignity. And if Southern women are anything, we are a dignified and determined bunch. You can burn our houses, steal our horses and destroy our crops, but we’ll rip the curtains down and make a ballgown that matches the color of our eyes just to see you sweat. And our hair will look fabulous while we do it.

Smart boys are the best mystery date: I never told a soul, but I always loved landing on the “nerd” when I played Mystery Date. I didn’t have my own version of the popular Milton Bradley board game, but my friend always brought her big sister’s game to slumber parties, where we’d take turns opening a plastic door to see who was picking us up for our pretend date.

If I opened the door and found the preppy guy with a picnic basket, I thought he looked okay, but for some reason, he didn’t strike me as trustworthy. The football player was popular with everyone, but I was convinced he’d only want to talk about sports because I’d heard about guys with one-track minds. The boy holding snow skis just confused us, because as little Southern girls, we didn’t even know what snow was.

But the truth is, whenever I opened the door and found the “dud,” as the game referred to him, I was completely smitten. With thick glasses and rumpled hair, he looked like today’s hipsters who sit around coffee shops, so maybe I was ahead of the trend.

The recipe for making a man: If Joseph sat between Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn at dinner, it would be difficult to tell the three apart, and like Aunt Polly, I also think, “There are some that believe he will be President yet — if he escapes hanging.” Now that I think about it, that quote also fits my husband, who has been the largest influence on Joseph, which has always been my prayer.

Joe’s played sports, musical instruments and pranks. He’s loved dogs, curly-headed girls and sushi. He’s learned technology, auto mechanics, foreign languages and how to scramble a great egg. He has a smile that will pierce your soul and will certainly slay me when I leave him at college this fall.

Over the next few years, the basic ingredients and traits gathered from others will meld together and cook to perfection to form a unique, confident man who is unlike anyone else. The adult form of Joseph will be unstoppable, but as his mom, beneath all the complicated layers, I’ll always be able to see the original ingredients of snakes and snails and puppy dog tails.

Out of Town Judges
I can understand the politically correct reasons for eliminating the swimsuit competition, but as someone who has participated in this activity, let me just say, if you show me a young lady who is capable of simultaneously walking in high heels, sucking in her gut, standing in the correct spot and smiling into a blinding spotlight — all while being squeezed, taped, poked and pinned into a swimsuit — you’ve got a confident woman on your hands. She’s the one who will grow up to fight city hall, rescue a litter of puppies and cook dinner for a dozen people, all on the same day. A swimsuit contestant will be the one who will someday snatch her child from the mouth of a lion, smack it on the nose, then save you from a burning building on the way home.

If you asked 100 women if they’d rather walk through a swamp filled with snakes or cross a stage while wearing a swimsuit, 99 of them would choose the swamp. But win or lose, the swimsuit contestant is the one you’ll want to have by your side in battle. There’s no better test of bravery than a Jantzen and a spotlight.