~ Just for Laughs

God bless this woman, and God bless big ol' sweet iced tea. At least someone understands!

Thank you, Anita!

~ It Takes Me Back

It was Easter Sunday, and the boys and I were preparing to say goodbye to the great state of Tennessee and to all our relatives later that day. We had just finished church and had taken a brief drive to the foot of the mountains to take some photos. As we started back to my mom's house, I decided to go ahead and fill up my car so I wouldn't have to do it later. I knew there was a Stuckey's just down the road so I headed that direction.

Photo here

Now, let me pause to say that if you've never been to a Stuckey's gas station, you have to go at least once in your lifetime. So the next time you're in the south and you need a bathroom break or some gas or just have a craving for a pecan log roll (more than just a candy bar - gooey nougat and marachino cherries surrounded by caramel and toasted pecans - yummy!), pull on in to the nearest Stuckey's. They are one of the south's tademarks and a delight to young 'ens everywhere. (Stuckey's did not pay me to say that!) Ok, back to my story.

Photo here

The boys and I piled into Stuckey's to do our business. Ellis and Aidan needed the bathroom, Josiah was dying for a Sobe (What is it with today's generation and their addictions?), and I of course, needed a pecan log roll to entertain me on the drive to Wisconsin. (Come on people, I was lookin' at 15 hours in a car with 4 boys by myself. I needed something to make me happy!)

Anyway, when I got to the register, I greeted the lady (who called me honey several times - love the south), pulled out my money, and that's when I noticed them. Sitting on the counter in a big white pickle bucket were these little square red lollipops. I hadn't seen them since I was a little girl. My siblings and I used to get them when we were on vacation as kids, and I have thought about them many times over the years but never seen them anywhere. I couldn't believe my eyes.

To purchase your own old-fashioned handmade cinnamon lollipops, go here.

The sign said, "3 for $1." I picked up three of them and asked if she could add those to my order. Now you might be saying, "But you have four children," and you'd be right, but I wasn't buying for them. These were all mine. I tucked the little white bag into the driver's side door pocket and once we had said our goodbyes and had gotten a safe enough distance away that I knew I wouldn't be seeing anyone who knew me, I popped one in. With that first taste, I was back at Henry Horton State Park where my family vacationed when I was a child. All the memories came flooding back:

playing Marco Polo in the pool with my dad,

lying in the sun and singin' along to Leavin' on a Jet Plane and Afternoon Delight and other great 70's tunes (OK, I'm quite sure I didn't even know what the lyrics meant!),

feeling the blast of the frigid air-conditioner after being in the hot sun all day,

coming back to the cabin famished after a day of swimming and smelling my mom's homemade spaghetti sauce,

and kicking rocks around the trails and looking for bunnies at dusk.

Isn't it amazing how one taste or one smell can evoke so much emotion. I'll be honest, I love food, probably more for what it represents than anything, like a song that sticks in your memory and takes you back to a certain place and time. Most of my travel memories are usually marked by some meal or some food I ate.

For instance, when I think of our trip to Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina with my sister, one of the first things I think about is the hush puppies from the little hole-in-the-wall seafood place that did take-out. Best hush puppies I ever ate! (I need me some hush puppies.) When I think about visiting our dear friends Mike and Ann in Baltimore, I think about that soft shell crab sandwich we had in Annapolis and the little eyes that stared into mine as I took that first bite. When I think about the first time Ken and I visited Chicago before moving there for seminary, my mouth starts to water because it is the first time I ever put a piece of Giordano's Pizza in my mouth. I almost choked there was so much cheese on it. Delicious!

Funny story:

A few weeks ago, Ken had lunch with a friend and former pastor of ours. Our friend was having lunch with a retired professor from Ken's seminary, and he sort of invited himself along. When we were in seminary, for some reason I can't remember, we were invited to the Dean of Student's house to have dinner with some other students. When Ken shared with me who he was going to have lunch with, he asked, "Do you remember him?" I said, "Oh yeah, we had dinner at his house and his wife served French Silk Pie." He couldn't believe I could remember what she served, but it was the first time I had ever eaten French Silk Pie, and it was like a piece of heaven. To this day when I eat that pie, I remember the conversation around the table, the feeling of social awkwardness for me, the big white box the pie was in and the fire flickering in the fireplace. The taste brings it all back.

Is it just me that marks the moments of my life with food? Is that pathetic?

My kids know that when we travel south, there are certain things we will probably do (at least a couple of them):

we may stop for a pecan log roll at Stuckey's, especially now that they have my favorite cinnamon lollipops (given),

we will probably have Krystals for lunch one day,

we will most likely enjoy Sonic half price drinks from 2:00-4:00 p.m. as many days as possible,

if we see a red light on at any Krispy Kreme, we're pullin' over,

if mom can get her way, we'll order J&G pizza, (The rest of my family must have figured out that it's not the quality of the pizza that I crave but the experience, so I'm usually outvoted.)

and if there's a Cracker Barrel within ten miles of a needed potty break around suppertime on our trip, that's what's for dinner, ya'll!

It's not that any one of these particular places holds special memories for me, and it's certainly not the quality of food or the healthiness of it, but together they make me feel a little closer to my southern roots, a little closer to home, maybe even a little closer to childhood. Oh, let's not psycho-analyze here. It's just good, friends, and it's a good thing we don't have these places where I live now. Once or twice a year is fine, but a steady diet - I don't think so.

Are there foods that take you back to another time and place?

Going Home Again

Today is my first day back after being in my wonderful home state for 2 1/2 weeks. It felt wierd all day being back in the north after having spent so much time down south. Here's what's different:

• I can't seem to lose the southern accent
• For the life of me, I can't keep the house straight (like mom's)
• It was too cold to swim in Wisconsin today
• Nobody has called me "hon" (short for honey) all day
• I didn't have to worry about fighting mosquitoes once
• I haven't had sweet tea in 24 hours
• There's no Sonic half price drinks
• There's no Grandma to do the cooking, clean the laundry or love my children
• There's no family at all (I loved being with my family!)

Reflecting on how much I miss my family and living in the south made me think of some writing I did a few years ago. It paints a picture of what I miss most. I wrote this in my journal on July 4, 2005.

Here I am - my hometown. It's the 4th of July and I've come "home" to be with family. My husband, Ken, left our home in Wisconsin three days ago and headed north to the boundary waters to canoe and fish with friends. Determined not to be left alone with my children for the holiday, I packed us all like sardines into our Toyota Sienna, along with Sadie, the twelve-year-old daughter of a friend, and headed south with promises of fun and adventure.

The South has always been a place to look forward to for me. It's where I was born. It's where I went to school and made friends and fell in love. It's where I spent the 1st half of my life, and it's where all my family is now. I've been gone for 20 years now, but somehow, it still has a hold on me. It made me who I am today, and it's how I still define myself. I'm a Southerner. I'm not exactly sure what that means, but it's a label I wear like a badge of honor.

I've lived in the Midwest now for as long as I lived in the South, and yet, I am not a Midwesterner. And now, when I meet someone from the South, there is an instant comraderie - a quiet understanding that we are part of the same sorority, or should I say cult, where the foods we eat, the beverages we drink, and the words we say set us apart from all the rest. There's just something about the South, and now here I am - home!

Today, we spent the day with family. My siblings and I gathered our 12 children along with grandparents and great-grandparents to swim and celebrate together. I watched as cousins got reacquainted, as aunts and uncles held new nieces and nephews, as grandparents laughed at the adorable antics of grandchildren and as my mom reveled in the togetherness of family. It was a beautiful day full of sunshine, good food and fireworks, and I smiled as I watched my life replaying itself in the lives of my children.

The older children ran around the house in little clusters hunting for one another in a game of hide-and-seek until one by one they came and asked for jars to collect lightning bugs. The smaller children were shouting in delight everytime one would light up, and they would take off, hands in the air, trying to catch one for their collection. The goal - who could get the most in their jar? Just when they didn't think they could run another step, Granny came to the rescue with a batch of homemade vanilla ice cream. We sat on Mom's porch and ate until our teeth hurt from the cold. A sudden quietness fell over us as we relived a night like so many nights that had come before - in our childhood.

I remember the summer nights as a child...when we would gather the neighborhood kids for a huge game of "kick the can". Somehow our yard was always the starting point...Life was simple, neighborhoods were safe and homemade ice cream was always the perfect way to end the evening.

And now, my children run this same playing field, hide in the same bushes and sit on the same porch to catch their breath. They were not born here, and yet, they are southerners just like me. Someday, they might not think so, but for now, that's how I see them.

Well, as the day came to a close, we piled into our cars and headed out in search of fireworks to end our day together. We sat on a blanket in the middle of a dark soccer field. We sprayed bug spray, ate popcorn, and listened to the oohs & aahs of our children with each and every pop. When the show was over, it was one more game of freeze tag for the kids. I just sat back and thought how most people would see this day as boring or "small town", but to me, it was perfect!