Good Old Country Comfort

After my rant and rage over Monsters, I feel the need to cook and eat some good old country food. Comfort food.

Cooking is becoming something of a lost art. I remember hearing not too long ago that many apartments and condos in places where real estate is a hot commodity are being built with no kitchens, or at best, minimal kitchens: two feet of counter and cabinet space, counter-height refrigerator, sink, and microwave!

Even many of those who do cook these days know nothing of good old country comfort foods. Maybe that's a good thing. I sometimes wish I knew nothing about frying, about extra fudgey triple layer cakes, about biscuits sopped in red-eye gravy. But that's part of my heritage, and, I must add, part of my girth. Had I been brought up on tofu instead of fried pork chops, bean sprouts instead of macaroni and cheese, yogurt instead of homemade lemon ice cream, I may never have known the dismay that comes from shopping in the ladies plus size department.

But I also never would have known about the comfort that comes from eating double battered fried chicken, chocolate frosted brownies, and buttermilk cornbread with soft slabs of creamy butter.

Today I am beginning a series on comfort food recipes, Southern style, country style. I feel the need. (My meals today consisted of: grilled chicken salad with fat free Ranch for breakfast, popcorn for lunch, and an Arby's regular roast beef sandwich with half a cup of stir fried veggies for supper. Yeah, Arby's has 5 for $5 again.)

Some ground rules: I rarely measure anything, so when I give you a measurement, remember that it's just an estimate. Please do not inquire about caloric and fat content for any of the recipes I post: I have no idea, and we probably wouldn't want to know, anyway. This is COMFORT FOOD; if you're looking for healthy recipes, you're at the wrong place.

We'll begin with one of my favorites, creamed corn. Creamed corn is not so much a recipe, as a technique, and it can be tricky. You have to get the right corn, it has to be picked at the right time, and it has to monitored and stirred every couple of minutes. Free Spirit and I are probably the only living persons, other than Mama, in the family who have mastered the technique. Once you've got it down, it's a cinch. Some people call this fried corn, but since FRIED implies cooking in a FRYING PAN, and I always make far too much to be held within the shallow confines of a FRYING PAN, we call it CREAMED.

Now let me start out here by saying that this recipe is not for everybody. I use white field corn, and field corn is NOT SWEET. I like sweet corn on the cob or whole kernel, but I like white field corn for this recipe. Sweet corn just doesn't have enough starch in it to cream up well. Now, a lot of people do fry sweet corn, and it's good; a skillet will hold it, since it doesn't take much water. In my family, we just prefer the old fashioned taste of field corn.

Field corn is getting harder to find these days around these parts. Fred and I have actually gotten it only once this year, but that's because the season is short, and Ariel's wedding came right smack dab in the midst of it. I was far too busy to fix corn or host my annual Corn Fest. Your best bet for finding field corn is a farmer on the roadside or your local farmers market.

It's best to fix the corn the same day it's picked. After a day or two, it begins drying, and you're in for one tough time cutting that corn off the cob. What you want are good sized green ears. Some of the ears in this picture are old and were nearly impossible to cut.

Creamed Corn
makes enough to serve...oh...six to fifteen hungry people

You're gonna need:
12 - 24 ears of FRESH field corn, such as Trucker's Favorite
about a tablespoon each of butter and cooking oil or bacon grease
salt to taste
water

Equipment:
a large HEAVY non-stick pot, such as a Dutch oven
a large container for scrapping the corn (I use the very large lid of a Tupperware Cake Taker.)
a very sharp knife or a corn cutter
non-stick safe spoon

First, you're gonna have to shuck that corn. If you have kids, make it a family affair. I can remember the summer afternoons when all of us kids would sit out on the porch with Mama, shucking ear after ear. It was fun, and I carried that tradition over with my own children, but after shucking corn two and three times a week for five and six weeks straight, they...well, let's just say they lost their enthusiasm. If you have a husband, get him to help, too. Pretend to be impressed at his muscles as he tears the entire husk off in one manly grasp, and he'll do it over and over. Trust me. Just make sure you compliment him and admire his strength often. Get all the silks off. You may want to use a vegetable brush to remove the last stubborn ones. I've never had any success with the brush; bought a special one, just for that purpose, from Pampered Chef; I don't wanta knock Pampered Chef, but that thing just plain didn't work on field corn. I just pick the silks off, and if a few float to the surface of the corn while it's cooking, I just spoon 'em out. They're not gonna hurt anybody.

Now, one thing you're gonna have to watch out for is worms. Yep, corn worms. Field corn is full of them, especially toward the end of the season. Just give 'em a good flick, and then cut out the part they nibbled on.

Shucking corn is not for the faint of heart.

Okay, now you're ready to cut. If your corn is super fresh, it won't be any problem to cut off the cobs. But if it's got dents in each kernel, you're probably in for a bit of a struggle. Better fortify yourself with something like a Mayfield 100 Calorie Brown Cow Junior.

YUM.

Prepare your work area. CORN SPLATTERS. You can cut it outside, but I prefer to use the kitchen sink. I just cover everything in splattering distance with an old towel, put on my ragged 25 year old corn shirt, tie my hair back in a bandana, and I'm ready to go.


Wash each ear well under running water and cut out any brown, worm-eaten, or mushy kernels. Now you're gonna cut the corn off the cob. If using a knife, you'll need to cut the point off each ear, so that you can stand it straight for cutting. A Lee's Corn Cutter makes the job easier. With the cutter, all you have to do is steady the cutter, one end in the chosen container, hold the corn in the other hand, and scrape, scrape, rotating the ear, until all the kernels are off and the milk is out. If using a knife, you'll need to cut just the tips off each kernel, (you can do this by slicing down two or three rows at a time,) then scraping the milk out with a firm control.


Now, I'm not sure if this contraption here is real or not, but...I WANT ONE!

Wait...what about the worms? Maybe I'll just stick with my old tried and true method.

Ready to cook?

Get your pot ready. Over medium heat, heat your butter and oil or bacon grease. Some people swear by bacon grease, but having grown up in a family that included vegetarians, my Mama never used animal fats in cooking, so I'm used to the vegetable oil taste. Swirl it around so the entire bottom of the pot is covered. Add the corn. You want the oil and butter to be very hot, so that the corn sizzles when it is spooned or poured in. Very quickly, rinse your corn container with about a cup of water (two cups if doing 24 ears) and dump the water in the pot.
Stir immediately. Cook for about 30 -40 minutes, stirring very frequently, all the way from the bottom. Add about a 1/4 cup of water at a time as the corn begins to thicken. If it's really good corn, I'll add water maybe six to ten times; poor corn will need it only once or twice. You may have to adjust the temperature slightly up or down, but medium usually works for me the first fifteen to twenty minutes, then I turn it down one notch. You don't want to let this corn boil until right at the end, as it splatters and makes a mess.

The corn is done when a bit of cream rises to the surface, and the sides of the pot, where you've stirred the corn, begin to form a film that peels off easily. In the photo above you can see that the corn on the sides of the pot appears to be in liquid "runny" state; in the photo below, the corn is thicker on the sides and will be able to be peeled off in a few more minutes. You want the corn to be thick and creamy, edible with a fork. If your corn does not thicken, you may add some corn starch in a bit of water, but corn that doesn't thicken is usually immature or the wrong kind of corn, and will not taste like mature field corn.

Add more butter on top, if desired; add salt, taste, add more salt, taste, then add more salt. Fred adds lots more salt at the table, and I add black pepper.

Leftovers will microwave well the next day, but not beyond that. I leave enough in a refrigerator container for the next day and freeze the rest.

Y'all come on in, now, and eat! In addition to the corn, we also have (clockwise from corn:) sliced Bradley tomatoes, fried chicken, fresh crowder peas, squash casserole, and fried okra. The only thing missing in this picture is the cornbread! Wait, what about something green, you ask? Well, the okra's green, underneath all that cornmeal and flour batter. And besides, we're not doing healthy here today; we're doing comfort. Enjoy!

Monsters

How many of us were frightened in our childhoods by dreams of monsters? I had one recurring dream in which a monster chased me round and round my Grandmother's house. Even just thinking of it years later gives me chills. Round and round...I never looked back to see the monster...I was too intent on escaping it...nevertheless, I knew it to be a horrendous creature that would do unspeakable harm to me, should I pause or slow even a bit. And I always awoke breathless from running, drenched in cold sweat, and scared half out of my wits. Sometimes I was alone and too frightened to allow myself to drift back into sleep, fearful that the monster would begin the chase anew. But sometimes Mama or my sister would be there to soothe me, hold me tight, to whisper in my ear, "Shhhh...monsters aren't real...they're only in dreams...nothing can hurt you...shhhh." Your own mother probably told you the same thing. I told my own children as much.

We were all wrong.

Monsters do exist in this world, and they are so much more fearsome and loathsome than the one who chased me around my Grandmother's house.

These monsters are our neighbors; they are the people with whom we do business. They are the ones we see every week, with whom we exchange cordialities. Maybe we think they're a bit odd; maybe we think they're the salt of the earth.

I have just this week been made aware of two such monsters. Someone I dearly love, someone I have known for many years, called me in crisis. She had been sending out distress signals, warning of a major depressive episode, and I am ashamed to admit I did not heed the signs. She is now in full depression mode, and needed to confide in me the horrific details of the cause: the summer of her encounters with Monster #1. She was 14 years old, she told me, when Monster #1 subjected her to repeated rapes. Knowing how much she needed to unburden herself, I let her continue with her grisly story until I could hear no more. There are many more details to come, I know, but I simply could not stomach any more at the time.

I've just reread that, and grisly is not the right word. Horrifying...gruesome...harrowing...ghastly...there is no word to describe the hell she experienced over the course of the summer, and afterwards, at that monster's hands.

At fourteen, she was afraid to tell anyone what had happened. She was naive, she knew nothing of the nature of MEN. She even thought it HER OWN FAULT. Because she willingly, unknowingly, got in the car with him. Because, when he had held her pinned down and she had fought him off for as long as her petite body would allow, and, with one hand inside her jeans, he had furiously snarled, "If you don't take these off, I'll rip 'em off you!" she had relented and removed her clothing. She thought it her own fault. It wasn't until she was well into adulthood that she finally realized she had been raped.

Monster. Monster.

Less than an hour after hearing this nightmare, I was introduced to Monster #2. Monster #2 is a 58 year old California man, who, with his wife, allegedly kidnapped 11 year old Jaycee Lee Dugard as she waited for the school bus, repeatedly raped her, and kept her prisoner in a secretive tent and shed compound in the back yard of his Antioch residential home. For eighteen years.

Eighteen years.

She lived in a series of tents and sheds, one which has also been described as a box. A soundproofed box, with only one exit. And a padlock on the outside of the door. A rudimentary outhouse, "as if one were camping," electrical extension cords, and a garden hose provided basic human necessities.

An 8 by 4 foot wire cage, with a tarpaulin drape, was also in the back yard compound.

This child/now woman lived in this back yard prison for eighteen years. And for most of that time, she shared her living quarters with Monster #2's children...HER children. Two daughters, ages eleven and fifteen.

Go ahead, do the math. Here, I'll do it for you: the older daughter was born when Jaycee was only fourteen; the younger when Jaycee was eighteen.

Monster. Monster.

I cannot begin to imagine the daily hell Jaycee lived. In her eighteen years as Monster #2's personal sex slave, she has had no education, has seen no doctor. Her daughters, likewise, have never been educated nor have they seen a doctor.

Can you picture a blond, blue eyed fourteen year old child giving birth, alone, in a soundproofed box?

Monster. Monster.

Monster #2 has a name: Phillip Garrido. Garrido was arrested Thursday, following the quick actions of a UC Berkeley campus officer, who questioned him as he handed out religious pamphlets on campus. Yes, that's right: religious pamphlets. Garrido was a God-fearing man who maintained several religious blogs, plus the setup for a website called Godsdesire.net. Voices Revealed, his main blog, gives readers a glimpse into the mind of a religious fanatic, but reveal nothing of his true monstrous nature. This monster's claim that "the Creator has given me the ability to speak in the tongue of angels in order to provide a wake-up call that will in time include the salvation of the entire world," and other sometimes incoherent statements could be dismissed simply as the ramblings of a sad, deluded individual. Or they could be taken for face value; I wonder how many people thought him to be some sort of prophet.

But there is nothing in those ramblings to indicate that he is a monster who kept a child sex slave prisoner in his back yard.

He will deny that he is a monster. In a statement given to his parole officer on Wednesday, he allegedly admitted to the kidnapping, but subsequently entered a plea of "not guilty" in a preliminary court hearing. He said, in a telephone interview with television station KCRA on Thursday that what happened in the beginning was "disgusting," but "if you take this a step at a time, you're going to fall over backwards, and in the end, you're going to find the most powerful, heartwarming story."

Heartwarming? Heartwarming?

Monster. Monster.

And kicker #1 in this nightmare is that Garrido was a REGISTERED SEX OFFENDER before he kidnapped Jaycee! He had been paroled after serving only 10 years of a fifty year sentence for kidnapping and repeatedly raping a 25 year-old woman. In South Lake Tahoe, the same town where Jaycee lived with her parents. Kicker #2 is that parole officers paid visits to his home, but never went into the back yard! And kicker #3 is that a neighbor had reported to the local sheriff's office in November, 2006, suspicious circumstances involving young girls in Garrido's back yard, and informed them that Garrido was psychotic and had a sex addiction. The deputy who responded to the call allegedly spoke with Garrido in front of the home and warned him any living quarters set up in the backyard were a code violation. A CODE VIOLATION. The emergency call was cleared within a half-hour.

My God.

Of course, the sheriff's department has made a public, and I'm sure, private apology about the entire fumbled case. And I'm sure they're sincere, and that deputy is probably miserable with remorse right now. And there are probably many others, neighbors, friends, acquaintances who will surface in the coming weeks, people who will admit that they never saw the monster, only a somewhat confused man on a mission to spread the word of God. And they'll beat themselves up, too.

Now, and only now, police are looking into several other kidnappings, sex crimes, and murders in the vicinity of Garrido's workplace, to see if this REGISTERED SEX OFFENDER could have possibly had anything to do with them.

GOOD GRIEF.

I really don't know what to think of Garrido's wife, Nancy, at this time. Certainly, at the very least, she is guilty of aiding and abetting. But why did she do it? Is she also a monster, or is she a victim-turned-monster? What could he have done to her to make her help him abduct a child and keep her as his sex slave for all these years? I cannot let myself imagine any additional horrors just now; my heart is too full, my rage too intense.

Monster #2 robbed Jaycee of her teenage years, her young adult years. He robbed her of her family and stole her innocence. He destroyed the marriage of her mother and step-father, who, unbelievably, was a suspect in the kidnapping case all these years. He has created and ruined the lives of at least two other children, the girls he fathered with poor Jaycee. At this point, we know only the bare bones details of those eighteen years. There will be many more to emerge, and many that will forever be kept locked in the minds of only those involved.

Monster #1 robbed another child of her innocence, subjected her to unimaginable pain and torture, and forever changed her life. I know she'll never be able to forget what happened at his hands, but I hope by unburdening her soul to me, she is able to find some relief from her mental anguish.

I tell you what - if tonight I were to find myself running around my Grandmother's house, my old monster in pursuit, I believe I could turn and laugh in his face. The real monsters are not the stuff of dreams. No, the real monsters are right here among us.

Anybody Wanta Go to Disneyworld?

Disneyworld. The Happiest Place on Earth. The Place Where Dreams Come True. The World That Empties Your Wallet.

Oh yeah, we all know it's true. Disneyworld is fabulous. I should know: I spend a part of every year there. BUT...it does cost an arm and a leg.

Well, if you've been contemplating a Disneyworld vacation, NOW is the time to act. With the worldwide budget crunch, even Disney is experiencing cutbacks. Attendance at the parks is down. Off site hotels, motels, and vacation homes are offering incredible deals to entice visitors, so, naturally, Disney has had to step up their own game.

And have they! This year has seen unprecedented promotions. What Will You Celebrate? is the theme for this year. If it's your birthday, you get admittance to the park of your choice FREE! Earlier this year, they ran what I personally think was the best deal they've ever offered: book four nights and four day park tickets and get three nights and three day tickets for FREE! In addition, if visitors booked within a certain time frame, they received a $200 gift card! I was hoping they'd carry that promotion into the fall, but no. However, I'm well pleased with the FREE DINING promotion that I was able to book for my September vacation. Pay full (value season) rate for the Disney resort room, buy at least one one-day park ticket for each guest in the room, and get FREE eats for your stay: one snack, one counter service meal, and one full service meal per day, per guest, for the length of the stay. For the first time ever, I will be able to experience some of Epcot's fine dining venues, and I am SOOOOO looking forward to that.

Free dining must draw in a lot of visitors, and that's why Disney has decided to offer it again, this time for dates all the way up to December 17, 2009. If you don't fancy free dining, there's a room-only discount for stays all the way up to Christmas Eve!

Sorry for all the exclamation points in this post, but I do get a bit excited when I talk about Disneyworld!

!!!!

And of course, there are special non-Disney promoted contests, like the contest for bloggers and others, presented by timesharesonly.com: Create a blog post, article or web page titled Why I Need a Disney Vacation!, submit it to timesharesonly, and win a Disney vacation. A 7-day stay at the Wyndham Orlando at Bonnet Creek located on Disney property and 5-day Magic Your Way tickets valid for 2 adults and 2 children. (No timeshare presentation or tour required!) Oh yeah, I'll be writing my piece for that contest!

The latest promo of which I've been made aware, though, (thank you, rolly128!) is not so much a promo, as a cause. The Florida Hospital, through a $10 million dollar donation made by Disney, is in the process of creating a special Children's Hospital. The Walt Disney Pavilion at Florida Hospital for Children is the home of the finest pediatric doctors in the state, a place of fantastic imagination, as only Disney can do, and a place that sparks hope, happiness, and comfort among its' young patients. The lobby, only a small part of the $10 million, is still under construction, and will be FABULOUS. I urge you to click here, read about it, and watch the short video at the bottom of the page. Disney Imagineers designed and are creating the lobby, which features life-sized perfectly detailed beloved characters from Disney movies; characters that children associate with care giving and protection. Timon and Pumba, from The Lion King, and Sebastian and Flounder, from the Little Mermaid, are among those caretaker characters. Just imagine your own child, sick and in need of hospital care, being in a place of the finest doctors, the latest technology, caring staff, and more than a small touch of Disneyworld!

It's a place I'D want to go if I were a sick child.

For a limited time, Disney is offering free park tickets for donations made to the Walt Disney Pavilion at Florida Hospital for Children. An $85 donation will garner one free ticket, and gifts in the amount of $150 upwards will garner even more, plus gift certificates for Planet Hollywood at Downtown Disney. (Maximum amount of free tickets is ten. A $120 gift certificate to Planet Hollywood is included with a donation of $750.)

The thought of a child in need of hospital care pierces my heart like the sharpest dagger. My own little Prince Charming was a patient several times before he graduated from first grade. Prince Charming + broken arm = hospital stay of five days. Prince Charming + broken leg = hospital stay of fifteen days. Prince Charming + tick bite = hospital stay of five days. It may have been Rocky Mountain Spotted fever. The test was inconclusive: part came back positive, part negative. But he was one sick little boy, I can tell you. The doctor began treatment for Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever on the first night, and he responded. On the fourth day, when he felt like sitting up and laughing again, and the doctor had assured me he would make a complete recovery, the nurse wheeled a Radio Flyer Town and Country red wagon into his room and the three of us went for a stroll down the hallway of the children's floor, me walking alongside the wagon, pushing the IV setup. Door after door we passed, with the nurse commenting briefly on each small patient within: leukemia, brain cancer, uncontrolled diabetes, multiple severe injuries from a car wreck. I glanced inside and saw children with no hair, children with feeding tubes, children bandaged head to toe, children lying motionless and weary parents keeping vigil. I suddenly felt shame over my intense concern for my own recovering son, when I realized that some of these children would never go home. I wanted to DO something, I wanted to make these babies feel better, to give them hope, to see them smile, something.

St. Jude's was what I did. I donate every year to that worthy children's hospital. But now I'm adding another: The Walt Disney Pavilion at Florida Hospital for Children.

I'm going to make my donation right now. Free Disney tickets always come in handy, but there's no greater satisfaction in the world for me than knowing I've helped to bring a moment of relief and joy to a suffering child.

Anybody wanta go?

Where Has Summer Gone?

August 25th. Can you believe it's already the end of August? Almost September? Children are back in school, it's dark before I leave for work at night, and the air has a definite fallish feel. Where has the summer gone? Just last week, I was celebrating August 17th. Oh, and what a grand day it was.

Since I work the night shift, I slept late on my favorite day. When I awoke around 11:00, Fred had already fixed and eaten his breakfast and was ready TO GO. Didn't matter where; he was just ready to get out of the house and do SOMETHING. ANYTHING. What did I want to do, he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he said he'd like to see a movie. District 9. He'd read great reviews. Fine with me, I told him. I love going to the movies. It really doesn't matter to me what we see; I just go for the popcorn.

So we drove up to Governor's Square Mall in Clarksville and saw District 9. Now, I had seen the trailer for this movie and did not expect to enjoy it AT ALL. Looked like just another sci-fi, alien-monster, bloody horror story to me. But...it was terrific. Yes, more gory than I would have preferred, but at least there was a story behind the gore. A story with depth, a story that forced its' viewers to look at mankind's inhumane and sometimes barbaric history and present, and a story that made me sincerely hope beings from another planet never come to visit us here on Earth - not for their monstrous ways, but for ours. Terrific. And, the scariest thing happened: it was near the end of the movie...perhaps another seven or eight minutes...the big climactic scene was playing to its' inevitable end...my hands were gripping the padded arm rest of my seat...I was sitting bolt upright, tensed, knowing the good guy was losing and hoping against hope that somehow he would be rescued...BOOM! Blood! BOOM!BOOM!BOOM! More blood! BOOM!.....and then...the screen went blank, and the entire theater was thrust into darkness! Almost immediately, the emergency lights came on. Fred and I exchanged wary glances: was this part of the movie? Gradually, our fellow theater-goers began to chuckle at their own fears, as we all realized something had happened to the electricity! Someone went out and came back within the minute, reporting that the lights were out in the entire mall and the film should restart soon. GOOD! My bladder was near the bursting point, so I chose the unintentional intermission to make a bathroom run, returning to my seat beside Fred just a moment before the lights dimmed and the movie picked up where it had been interrupted.

Great movie. And the popcorn? YUM.

We left the mall and Fred asked if I'd like to ride over to the produce stand in nearby Guthrie, Kentucky, to see if they had any field corn. Field corn is our corn of choice. Most people these days use it for hog feed, or sell it for ethanol, but those of us old enough to remember good old country creamed (or fried) corn, love field corn. It's not sweet at all, just full of starch and goodness, and creams up beautifully. (I'll be posting pictures and the recipe later this week.) Field corn is becoming increasingly difficult to find around middle Tennessee. We had found some several times last year in Guthrie, but they were out of it this time. The lady behind the counter said the corn was near the end of the season, but she thought there'd be some more in, just when she didn't know. She took my name and phone number, as she kept a wary eye on her son, busy with a rake, trying to kill a rat snake under the tomato bin.

The end of the corn season? Already? But...we hadn't gotten any corn yet. I'd driven to the big Nashville Farmer's Market one Sunday morning after work, but no farmers had shown up during the hour I was there, and I had gotten sleepy...I couldn't believe we might miss out on corn this year.

The day was picture perfect. White fluffy clouds filled the blue skies, and we could see a thunder cloud far off in the distance. We had already reached our high temperature of 88 degrees and a breeze was cooling the air. I suggested to Fred that we drive on into the small residential section of Guthrie and go home backroads. I love Guthrie. It's a teensy tiny little town, population less than 1500 (2000 census.) It has a grand old downtown Opera House and a fabulous Gothic revival stone house, almost a castle, complete with a turret and gargoyles. We drove past the castle, down the main street, across the railroad tracks, and were back out into the country in two minutes flat.

Guthrie is SMALL.

We cruised slowly, just enjoying the beautiful weather and the sights of the countryside. A cow turned to gaze at me as I snapped a picture of her with her two young calves, cooling in a small pond.

Bales of hay were rolled and laid beside fences, wildflowers and weeds already growing around them.

And sure enough, the cornfields were already drying up, the stalks brittle and browning.

We saw tumbledown old barns, piles of sawdust and wood scraps outside the doors, in preparedness for curing tobacco.

Some barns had tobacco already hanging and drying.

And some were already "smoking." I detest the smell of cigarette smoke, but there is an unmistakable comfort in the smell of tobacco curing in barns.

It smells like fall.

I saw my first wooly worm of the year. Deep chocolate brown. It crossed the road in front of us. Fred did not see it. Fred never sees wooly worms.

The skies had grown dark and we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of a torrential downpour. It lasted for about a mile, then we were back in the sunshine.

FRESH CORN. The sign beckoned to us from the side of the road. "I know this guy," Fred said. "That's Mr. Batts." Mr. Batts was seated on the porch and rose as we pulled into the driveway. Mr. Batts has a small, round, brick enclosed pond in his front yard, with an elaborate three-tiered fountain, water wheel, and whimsical birdhouses.
"I'm looking for field corn," I told him, without much hope in my voice. "Weeelll," he drawled slowly, "let's look out here and see what we got." I could hardly believe our luck when he pulled open a burlap sack and revealed large green ears of field corn. We bought two dozen ears and some perfectly round tomatoes, which I ripened even more in my kitchen window.

Fred requested fried chicken and creamed corn for supper. "It's already after 5:00," I said doubtfully. "Supper's gonna be late." We decided we'd have KFC for supper tonight, and I'd fix the corn and homemade chicken the following night.

Yeah! I didn't even have to cook a meal on my August 17th!

And after we ate, I went out onto the front porch, where I put my feet up in the swing, listened to the gentle sound of the water in the tin can fountain, and took blurry pictures of hummingbirds at the red plastic feeder.

I don't know where the summer went, but...ahhh, what a peaceful, perfect August 17th.

My Unforgettable Wedding

With both my children married in the space of eight months, I've been preoccupied with thoughts of weddings, and naturally, my own came to mind. And what a memorable wedding it was. My dream wedding? Well...

Fred and I had been together for seven long years when he finally popped the question. Well, 'popped' isn't exactly the right word: he just said one day, "I was thinking we might get married in a couple of weeks." That was all I needed. I was over-the-top excited. I told my friends. (They said Fred'd never go through with it.) I told my family. (THEY said Fred'd never go through with it.) I told my boss and my coworkers. (And THEY said Fred'd never go through with it.) I told Fred's family. (They hugged me and told me they knew Fred'd go through with it...eventually.) And when I told Fred that I had told all these people, he panicked. Seemed he was having second thoughts; BIG TIME second thoughts. Fred is the former Mr. I-Don't-Want-Any-Responsibility-I-Don't-Want-To-Be-Married-I-Just-Want-To-Be-A-Bachelor-The-Rest-Of-My-Life. It wasn't that he wanted to date other women; he never "cheated" on me. He simply liked having the freedom to come and go as he pleased. He liked spending nights at best friend Randolph's house and going on the road with The Band.

Oh, I'd also told The Band. (They had smiled indulgently and refrained from saying Fred'd never go through with it.)

Well, poor Fred didn't quite know what to do. If he went through with this thing, he'd be (shudder) married; if he reneged, he'd risk I-told-you-so's from all my friends, all his friends, my family, and my coworkers. And The Band. He chose the lesser of the two evils: he'd get married. But he wouldn't be having any WEDDING. NosirreeBob.

I didn't mind...much. Sure, like every other child of the female persuasion, I'd had The Dream. The Dream of the fairy tale wedding, the lavish billowing white gown, the train and veil that would stretch halfway down the aisle of the church, the Cinderella coach and white horses, and rose petals strewn by petite flower girls in the softest pink. As a teen, I had spent many an allowance on copy after copy of Bride magazine and filled out the little cards at the back; samples of Rexcraft wedding invitations came in the mail; catalogs with personalized napkins and matchbook covers; honeymoon resort offers. (Oooh, I loved the one with the heart-shaped bathtubs and the little pink golfcarts that whisked the newlywed couples from one romantic cove to another!) I had planned the Big Day over and over and over...

But, the reality was that I was still so painfully shy, I just couldn't see myself being the center of attention in a room full of PEOPLE. Also, and most importantly, Fred and I were broke. I was, at the time, a "starving artist," and he was a musician in a small time band. Neither of us made enough money to buy rice, much less have a big wedding, so I was okay with Fred's plan of "going to the justice of the peace."

It just so happened that "in a couple of weeks" coincided with the anniversary of the date we'd begun dating. Naturally, that became our wedding day. Looking back on it now, I realize just how sure everyone was that Fred wouldn't go through with it: nobody called to wish us well or offer to bear witness. Which was just fine with me: when I say I was shy, I MEAN I was shy.

I had no engagement ring. (Fred finally surprised me with one on...oh, about our sixth or seventh anniversary.) Jewelry really wasn't a big deal to me then, or now. But I DID need a wedding band. Fred? Puh-lease! I wasn't about to get a ring on his finger. Even though he now loves the life of Married Man, he still wears no ring, and if I bought him one, he'd complain about the money I'd spent, then lay it on the dresser, where it would gather dust until I put it away. But MY ring... Fred's wallet was empty. We went to Service Merchandise, where I bought myself the cheapest gold band they offered: $19.95. I still wear it.

Hey, it's the symbolism that counts.

I took a bit of my paycheck and went to KMart, where I found an absolutely beautiful dress. It was peasant style, unbleached muslin, with heavy lace at the wide collar and puffed sleeves, and an insert of the same lace in the full skirt. Just a summer sundress, but pretty, and not un-bridal. $14.95, on sale. I bought a comb with attached flower and pulled my waist length red hair back on one side. A few coordinating silk flowers passed for a bouquet.

Why didn't I get someone to take a picture?!

Fred? I honestly don't remember what he wore. Probably good jeans (meaning no holes) and a dress shirt.

We went into downtown Nashville, parked at a cheap pay-by-the-hour parking lot, and walked to the courthouse, where we told the receptionist we wanted to get married. She smiled and informed us that "the Marryin' Judge" was over in his office at the JAIL today; we'd need to go across the street. The jail? THE JAIL? But I didn't want to get married in THE JAIL! I wanted to get married in the courthouse chapel, or in one of those big richly paneled courtrooms where the judge would stand before us and perform the ceremony, his words deep and meaningful, slightly echoing in the immense chamber. And whatever happened to waking up the justice of the peace in the middle of the night to perform the ceremony? Standing in his cozy living room, he in a nightshirt and cap, and his sleepy wife throwing rice from her pantry? Loving words of wisdom and smiles and kisses and best wishes all around? None of that for my wedding: I was getting married in the JAIL.

Back out into the street again, where we crossed four lanes of traffic, me in unfamiliar heels and carrying my silk bouquet. The receptionist in the JAIL had no smile for us, but pointed us to the stairwell and instructed us to go to the basement level, where we'd find the judge in his office.

I was not only getting married in the JAIL, I was getting married in the BASEMENT OF THE JAIL.

The judge's office was tiny. The walls were of whitewashed concrete blocks, and the only furniture were a desk and three chairs, and a HUGE floor console color TV. Now, this was back in the days when lots of American families still had only one television, and some of those televisions were black and white only. But this was the Cadillac of television sets. And it was totally out of place in that tiny concrete cubicle.

The judge was watching tv when we entered. The Electric Company. PBS. Do you remember it? It was really a terrific program, aimed at kids slightly older than Sesame Street age. Rita Moreno and Morgan Freeman were regulars, and Gene Wilder and Bill Cosby were on often. It was a show that I, even at age 25, still enjoyed...but not during my wedding ceremony.

The judge, though, saw no necessity of turning the television off, and began the marriage ceremony with "Fargo North, Decoder" hard at work, deciphering a hidden message, in the background.

Fred and I faced each other and held hands. There was no pressure of maintaining a look of perfection for a church full of family and friends. There was just Fred, me, and the Marryin' Judge. The judge droned on with those old familiar words I'd heard so many times in my dreams. "We are gathered here today..." "...to have and to hold from this day forward..." "...in sickness and in health..."

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. Someone was on the other side of the Marryin' Judge's door, and without a word of apology, he went to the door, opened it, spoke a few words, then turned to us and said, "This'll just take a minute." Stepping outside, he shut the door.

Fred and I looked and each and burst out laughing. If there had been any tension whatsoever, it was gone. Now it was just the two of us, in a room in the basement of the jail, watching the Electric Company on public television.

After an interminable length of time, the judge reentered the room, took up his book again, and we resumed our positions. "Where were we..." he began. "Did we do the ring?" Fred and I shook our heads; I was quite sure we weren't ready for the ring yet; quite sure there were more words to recite, but I couldn't be positive just what words had already been spoken. So the judge had Fred recite, "With this ring, I thee wed," pronounced us man and wife, and before ushering us out of his office, suggested to Fred that couples usually gave him a $25 donation.

There went our honeymoon money.

But I was MARRIED.

Now, since we were...short on money...a honeymoon in Jamaica was out of the question. We went to nearby Lebanon, where we had dinner at Kentucky Fried Chicken, browsed in their famous antique shops, then went to the drive-in theater. 10, starring Bo Derek and Dudley Moore was playing. We had popcorn and Cokes and cuddled in Fred's little Chevy Vega under the stars.

And two weeks later, when The Band went on the road for a short gig in Greenville, Mississippi, I went along. A delayed honeymoon. What, didn't you know that Greenville, Mississippi is the honeymoon capital of the world? Yeah, well, neither did I. I'm afraid I cannot recommend it for honeymooning couples. Maybe the city was having a bad summer, or maybe the conditions there were normal, but the water was completely undrinkable, and this was in the days before Evian became the drink of choice. The entire town was overrun with crickets. The little critters would hop inside any time the door was opened, and I was constantly chasing them about the motel room and tossing them quickly outside again. We went to the local KMart and were astonished to see a store employee stationed at the entrance, wide broom in hand, sweeping the insects out as they tried valiantly to make their way to the blue light special inside. And the first two aisles of the store, as far as the eye could see, were stocked with plastic gallon jugs of bottled water.

AND...Fred and I shared a room with Randolph. For our honeymoon. Yep.

So, you see, my wedding was quite...memorable. But I have no regrets; really I don't. I'm every bit as married as all those friends and family from long ago whose REAL weddings I attended. As a matter of fact, ALL those other weddings have ended in divorce; how ironic that our pitiful little wedding led to the only surviving marriage among them.

But some day, I'm thinking we might renew our vows, in a REAL wedding. Maybe a back yard ceremony, or a little country chapel, and a long white gown with a veil, and all our friends and family sharing a three-tiered cake with real roses and buttercream lace to match my gown. And a multitude of little flower girls, in coordinating dresses I will buy for them at Macy's, after the Easter markdowns. And a Disneyworld honeymoon, of course.

My dream wedding? Maybe. More memorable than the first? NEVER!

Happy August 17th

That's right - Happy August 17th.

Now, we all have our little quirks, our little oddities that mark us as individuals and distinguish our personalities. I have perhaps a few more little quirks than the average bear: I never step on cracks; I will not pump gas from even numbered pumps, and I prefer to pump from number 7 or 3; I remember the oddest, most useless facts, like the name of the unseen and once-mentioned Mayberry resident who was said to have carved his name on the old cannon in the town square (Tracy Rupert) and obscure lines from Gilligan's Island and I Love Lucy, yet I have trouble remembering what I had for dinner last night. I hate talking on the phone and I eat sandwiches in a circle, clockwise. I also separate my potato chips, Cheetos, and popcorn by size and shape, and eat them from least perfect to most perfect, and I separate my M&Ms by color, Ms DOWN.

And I always celebrate August 17th.

Why August 17th, you ask? Is it my birthday, or anniversary? No. First kiss? No. First date? No. Birthdate of a long lost love? A beloved aunt? The day I got my first car? No, no, no.

No, August 17th is special to me simply because it sounds so beautiful. Now, I usually get some strange glances here, and if right about now you find that your eyebrows are raised a bit, that's alright. I'm used to such curious looks.

But say it. Go ahead, say it out loud. August 17th. See how pretty that sounds? August 17th. It's beautiful. It sounds like blue skies and fluffy white clouds, fields of wildflowers waving with a gentle breeze, children romping happily in bare feet, and groups of pastel clad ladies in wide brimmed hats, sitting in the cooling shade of white columned front porches, sipping lemonade from chilled glasses.

Ah. August 17th.

My youngest sister, Caroline, always sends me a homemade Happy August 17th card. Ariel calls to wish me well on my favorite day. Mamacilla gives me a hug. Fred refuses to acknowledge anything special about the day.

I have no idea just how I'll celebrate this year. Perhaps I'll make a squash casserole and some fried okra, bake a few rolls, and reheat the fresh field peas we had for supper tonight, take the whole shebang over to Mama's house and pick up some Kentucky Fried Chicken along the way; or maybe we'll have lunch with Prince Charming and Cinderella; we might go to Clarksville and catch a matinee, or microwave a bag of Act II Butter Lover's popcorn and watch a movie at home. Maybe I'll take the cellophane from the Season Two DVD of The Partridge Family and watch the antics of Danny and Reuben Kincaid.


Or maybe I'll grab my old straw hat off the hurricane lamp in the bedroom, fix myself some lemonade, and sit out on my own front porch; watch the hummingbirds and the bumblebees drawing nectar from my overflowing pots of flowers; listen to the tinkling sound of water dropping into the tin watering can fountain on the old tea cart; put my feet up in the porch swing and savor each creaking sway back and forth, back and forth...

Ah. Happy August 17th to all!

And Next on the Menu...

Last night, a friend at work asked me, "Well Ethel, now that you've got both your kids married and you have an empty nest, what are you gonna do next?"

My answer?
"I'm goin' to Disneyworld!"

Yes, my 2009 Disney trip is coming up fast, and, while I'm excited and looking forward to meeting my friends from all over the world, I'm also a bit anxious. And, knowing my weakness, I realize that "a bit anxious" will grow to "quite anxious" and eventually to "stressed." "Stressed" is what I do. It's what I am. It defines me. Fred stresses, too, but we stress about completely opposite things. He worries about silly things like money, and the future and the past; I worry about the important stuff: that little spot that won't come off the baseboard and the decor for my next party and that extra tablespoon of ranch dressing I had on my salad and whether or not people will like me.

That's a really big concern. Fred is outgoing and friendly, but me? I'm quite shy and reserved until I really get to know someone. My nerves are always on edge, and my thoughts get ahead of my words, and I blush and grin awkwardly a lot. And afterwards, when it's just Fred and me again, I have this annoying head twitch, as I relive conversations, cringing at things I said, and too late realizing cute and clever things I should have said.

But why am I so worried? I DO know all these people. These people are my friends. After all, we've been 'talking' online for going on two years, and I know so many facts of their lives: their likes and dislikes, family members, where they live, where they're staying in Orlando, even what foods they'll be eating. I know what some of them do for a living, and I've seen pictures of their families. Shoot, I even know that in 1995, Jennifer sent her seven year old daughter, Liz, out trick-or-treating in a Pocahontas outfit made from Butterick pattern #2374, and thought she looked like a Native American streetwalker. I KNOW these people. There's no reason for me to feel such anxiety.

But I do. And I know it'll only get worse as the time draws nearer. Maybe I'll refill my Prozac prescription.

But right now, everything is good. This is the year that I finally get to EAT at Disneyworld; I booked a package with their annual free dining promotion. I finally got a room at Port Orleans Riverside, a primo waterview room, as a matter of fact, and I was able to get reservations at every restaurant I wanted to try. I lucked up on flights when Southwest was having their incredible 48-hour sale: $60 each way! And I have just gotten off the phone with Disneyworld reservations, where I made my final payment, officially cancelled my November trip (boo-hoo,) and added my Magical Express information. Tomorrow I will pull up all my dining reservations, and go over them with a fine toothed comb, deleting a couple, I'm sure. When I made them, I was torn between the Rose and Crown at the United Kingdom pavillion in Epcot and the Sci-Fi Dine-In Theater at Hollywood Studios, where guests sit in parked cars in a night time setting and watch old B movies on a giant drive-in theater screen. Ditto between the Magic Kingdom's Crystal Palace and Epcot's Biergarten. They're both buffets, but worlds apart: Winnie the Pooh and friends make the rounds at Crystal Palace, while a German polka band keeps the mood lively at Biergarten. And now, my friends Mutter and Partypa have invited us to join them for dinner at Boma, an African styled buffet at the Animal Kingdom Lodge.

What to do, what to do? So many restaurants, so little time.

This would all be a lot easier if Fred weren't so picky about his food. Fred likes hamburgers. He likes fried chicken, fried catfish, pinto beans, meatloaf, and potatoes. He does NOT like experimenting with new foods. He does NOT like Italian, Asian, or Mexican. The one and only time we went to Olive Garden as a family, (it was Ariel's birthday and she was allowed to choose the restaurant) he ate vegetable soup and breadsticks. At Taco Bell, (yes, I realize that's not a REAL Mexican restaurant,) he gets a bean burrito. And the two times that I've been able to drag him into the big Chinese buffet in Clarksville that I love so much, he's gotten pepper steak, deviled eggs, some tomatoes and cucumbers off the salad bar, a couple of those donutty sweet rolls, and a plate of desserts. I come out of that place waddling, filled to the gills, and he's ready to stop by McDonalds and get a hamburger.

So, as I said, I'm torn. He tells me this trip is for me; I know what he likes; just choose whatever I want. Oh no, I'm not being suckered into THAT. Yeah, I know what he likes: he'd like the food at Crystal Palace, but he's not about to enjoy hugs from Tigger and Eeyore; he'd like the music at Biergarten, and he likes bratwurst, but he might not find anything else palatable on the menu. And I'm not sure he'd enjoy anything at all at Boma.

Arrrggghhh.

And somehow, I need to figure out a day when we can visit with our beloved former next door neighbors, who moved down near Orlando a couple of years ago. And I know Fred would love to see Randolph, who was his roomie and band cohort for so many years, all those ages ago when he had roomies and band cohorts.

I'll pull up the schedules for all the parks, figure out our Extra Magic Hours days, decide whether or not we want to go to Mickey's Not So Scary Halloween Party, get into my closet and make sure I have enough good summer clothes that still fit, and have another look at Dr. Scholl's $50 shoe inserts. I REALLY don't want to spend that much on something that I'm not sure will even help, but, on the other hand, I know how my right foot feels after walking around Disneyworld. It threatens to go on strike after that first day, but unfortunately, where my left foot goes, my right must follow, even if it does so painfully and protesting every step of the way.

Anxious? Yes. But I love this kind of anxiety.
Stressed? You bet. But you ain't seen nuthin' yet!