Golden Girls, (Oprah's) Gratitude Moments, and Gettin' Old

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Condoms Rose! Condoms! Condoms! Condoms!

This week I celebrated a birthday somewhere in my 30s. I have never been a fan of my birthday. I don't know if it is the extra attention directed at myself when I would much rather be directing it toward others. I don't think it is the impending doom of old age as I distinctly recall not enjoying my birthday as young as six. There is even photo evidence of myself crying at multiple venues over the years. Tears at McDonald's. Tears at Chuck E. Cheese. Tears at the Edgewater West Hotel pool party (and I even had my name on the marquee!). 

For years I kept a paper calendar full of birthdays of everyone I knew. That has long been traded in for Facebook. I get daily reminders of who was born when. There is a series of "HBD" and posted quips. And usually the gentle reminder of how that person came to be a "friend". It's funny to think that for one second you cross the mind of all those people you're friends with. Perhaps even someone you've only met once. 

This year there were no tears. Perhaps I am a little more dead inside. Perhaps I have grown wiser. Perhaps there was not enough wine or orange soda. 

There was however an outpouring of kindness. And I think for the first time in a long time I was able to appreciate the sentiment behind the phrase "happy birthday". This birthday was unique in that I am a year into my new home in The South. I have made a new division of friends. And my expectations of the day were altered due to other unexpected forces. It was going to be just another Thursday. Yet surprises were made. Salutations in abundance. And the sentiment was well received, if not well needed. 

When I arrived home that evening I was in one of those Oprah gratitude moments. Allowing myself to be grateful for the friends I have. And hopeful for any new friends to come. Also at this time I opened a gift from two friends back in Minnesota. A coffee mug with a quote from the classic television show The Golden Girls. Undoubtedly one of the greatest shows about friendship that has ever graced American television. I laughed until I almost cried. 

So perhaps all those years ago the tears at McDonald's or Chuck E.Cheese were overwhelming tears of appreciation. Maybe my 6 year old self wasn't emotionally intelligent enough to process the whole situation. Or maybe someone just stole my damn chicken McNuggets. 

Thank you to all who wished me well, blessed me with gifts, and reminded me why we take that chance and talk to new people. 

Super Bowl Party Friends, Shaped Cheese Balls, and Sitting in Dog Sh!t

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Misshapen but bacon covered Super Bowl Cheese Ball

Misshapen but bacon covered Super Bowl Cheese Ball

One year ago on this national holiday that is the Super Bowl I stood at the elevator outside my apartment door debating whether or not to attend the building sponsored party being held in the pimped out lounge. I hesitated, because at my age (early to late 30s), I already have a set a friends I told myself. Making new friends isn't always easy past...well whenever. That aside, the guilt set in as I had promised my mother I would go and I had maybe told that bright eyed leasing agent the day before "oh suuuuure I'll come", wink wink. 

One year has gone by and I just wrapped up my football shaped cheese ball to bring to this year's party. You know I love a shaped cheese ball. Check out my last one here. 

How painful was that first Super Bowl party in the lounge? On a scale of 1 to 10 I would say I have had gas pains worse than my experience feigning interest in a sport I know nothing about while trying not to binge eat the questionable crudite that was on display.

However, in the end I met a few people. People who over the course of the subsequent year have become great friends. And even though there are days that I am convinced I live in a college dorm, I find great relief when I pull in at the end of a hard day knowing that two floors down, around the corner, or across the hall I have people I can count on.

When I think of football I instantly go back to that rainy day at Woodland Junior High playing touch football with 30 of my never to be seen again friends. That day as I, well basically moved in some direction, slipped on the wet grass and landed flat on my backside. This story only really hits home the next day when I went to go get my still damp gym clothes out of my locker and realized that what I had really slipped in was a big ol' pile of dog shit. Imagine that smell. Not my usual Gautier Le Male. 

If you had asked me anytime before I sat down to write this I would have told you team sports have done nothing to me in the way of friendships. Nobody offered me fresh clothes to wear the day I marinated in poo. I don't recall any of my badminton partners. Nor my square dance partners. And where I come from square dancing is a team sport.

All over the internet there are articles about the benefits of team sports and building friendships that last lifetimes. It may only be one year in, but I hope the friendships forged at last years Super Bowl party last a lifetime. And if I have to I will bribe them all with cheese balls. 

Bacon Cheddar Ranch Football Cheese Ball

RECIPE MORPHED FROM VARIOUS ONLINE RESOURCES

Strawberry Cupcakes, The Southern Rule of Beauty, and (Keri) Strug

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Strawberry Cupcakes with Strawberry Buttercream

It was the middle of November and I found myself on a rooftop bar of a BBQ joint at a baby shower for a hairdresser who cuts hair in the chair next to my own hairdresser. A friend of a friend kind of situation. Truth be told I didn't even know her name at the time as I hugged her and congratulated her on her fertility.

Now because my own mother taught me well, I did show up with homemade cupcakes as I wasn't about to push my baby fashion beliefs on this first time mother. Why shouldn't we let newborns wear Ralph Lauren?

Not sure what the scene was going to be I enticed my Primary Southern Gays to join me with the possibly of wings and beer. As we settled into a cozy corner four top and placed our orders we were soon joined by my own Hairdresser. Being of a smaller stature she had to get a running start across the bar before pulling a full Keri Strug, making a perfect landing on the bar stool.

Introductions were made and with that her full confession of how much beer and whiskey she had already consumed. Trying to determine how much of my time I should dedicate to this party I began to prod Hairdresser with a Who's Who of the guest list. Unlike most baby showers I've attended this one was well mixed with both men and women. Some family were there. Some friends. Some clients. It was at this point Hairdresser said with eyes as wide as a heifer giving birth to twins, "Oh my God! My momma is coming and you have to meet her! She's looks like a skinny Paula Dean but with enormous boobs! No, seriously. She's had reductions done twice and they are still enormous!"

How can you not be excited to meet someone when their own kin describes them as such?

And as if cued by a stage hand, Hairdresser's Momma (HM) appeared at the top of the stairs. I should say her breasts appeared at the top of the stairs. She actually arrived about 10 minutes later, baby gift in tow.

After HM made her rounds she pulled up a bar stool and got to kibitzing with us. We talked beer. We talked babies. We talked about our haunted homes. Basically we became best friends.

Naturally it didn't take long for us to get around to the topic of death. What better topic to cover when at a baby shower? Hairdresser told her Momma about my own mother's forethought to help me find a Jewish cemetery after I had converted. At this Hairdresser's Momma began to tell us about her own mothers passing. And the preparative events that took place before her demise.

First let me say that of all the Southern women I have met, concern about ones appearance trumps all of life's needs. There is a level of gloss that is expected to be met and anything but will only spur the gossip beast that roams all church functions.

Now Hairdresser's Momma Momma (HMM) was no exception to the Southern Rule of Beauty. One day years ago while HM was over visiting her mother she was summoned by her mother to join her in the bedroom. When she walked in, HM didn't see her mother.

Calling out, "Momma where are you?!"

She was greeted by her mother as she stepped out of the closet in a new dress, makeup and hair fully done to complete the outfit. HM complimented her mother on the beautiful new dress. HMM thanked her and then proceeded to crawl onto the bed, lay down, hands clasped gently across her chest, eyes closed.

"Momma what are you doin'?"

"I saw this dress at the mall and thought it might be a good funeral dress. Now walk on up next to me like you're payin' respect and tell me if I look good."

STRAWBERRY CUPCAKES

RECIPE ADAPTED FROM BETTY CROCKER

STRAWBERRY BUTTERCREAM FROSTING

Grits, Gravy, and Graciousness: Or I've lived in The South for almost a year

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Roasted Cauliflower Soup on Papa's Trunk

This coming December will mark the first anniversary of my living in The South. As if swimming along the coast with a gash in my thigh, the sharks have been circling, demanding my opinion on whether or not I have enjoyed my 365 days of grits, gravy, and graciousness.

After the third inquiry in one week I finally broke down and asked my boss if my demeanor was beyond my comprehension. Perhaps I was unknowingly pea-cocking a unspoken disdain for my surroundings. Giving off a bad vibe. Scaring small children.

Let's face it, my resting bitch face could take home the blue ribbon. I don't give off the most come hither, welcoming vibe. I really do scare small children. 

But that doesn't mean I don't love my new home, The South. 

The Jew in me is mildly uncomfortable with all the Jesus prayers that are made at public gatherings. But I appreciate the community their faith provides. And the height of hair in correlation to ones closeness to God.

The lover of history in me is daily aroused by the story telling that happens in The South. A meal is almost always paired with a story about some eccentric old timer, some misadventure had in youth, or some hotly debated "whose momma made it best" recipe throw down.

I've gone from wondering how many handguns are concealed while I grocery shop, to accepting that there are more pocket book or calf strapped handguns than I could shake a stick at. I trust that Grandma at the deli counter is a better aim than I am.

I will proudly say my blood has in fact thinned. Fifty-five degrees is cold to me. I don't miss having to carry an extra handkerchief just to wipe down my frost covered beard from walking from the house to the car. And you know what? Your blood would thin too. However, I will say, I do very much miss snow. There best be a white Christmukkah when I go North in December.

"Yes, Ma'am", "No, Ma'am", "Sir", "Have a blessed day", "Might could", "Tighter than Dick's hat band", "Fixin' to", "Cussed out", "Blessed out", "Rode hard and put up wet", "Drunk as Cooter Brown", "Y'all", "All Y'all", and "Y'all ain't right" are phrases I understand, use if needed, and hope to carry with me until I die. 

As we slowly enter into this next year, and the period of hibernation that winter brings let it be known I do not regret my choice to move to The South. It may not be my forever home. But its roots have cracked my foundation and will forever be a part of me. Let's see what happens in year two. 

Soup for a Southern Fall Day (highs in the 60's - I'll be wearing a jacket when I go outside)

CREAMY SPICED CAULIFLOWER SOUP

RECIPE FROM Produce on Parade

Serves 6

(Fried) Sweet Grits, Southern Lessons, and Swearing (or cussing as they say)

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Fried Sweet Grit Cakes

*Updated 08/2020

I'm close to wrapping up 7 years living in The South. Some days it feels as though I have been here for a lifetime and other days I think it was just yesterday that I pulled into town, my single mom small SUV packed to the cloth covered ceiling. 

During a recent phone conversation I was called out by a friend still living up North that I have the occasional 'twang' in my speech. This set in motion a few hours of internal dialogue where I debated whether or not I was disconnecting from my brisk paced, chapped lipped, Northern self. And settling into a life of long winded stories, extended Summers, and sugary sweet back stabbing. 

In the end I started thinking of all the things I have so far taken away from my time south of The Mason Dixon. I have made some wonderful friends. I have met some interesting characters. I have learned there are people out in the world named Peanut, Dickey, and Pickle. Two Pickles to be exact. I have learned that 'Bless Her Heart' is at once the meanest and nicest thing you can say about someone behind their back. I have learned that even though "it tastes wonderful but it's not as good as my mommas" is not an insult, but really a declaration of love to the woman who fed you first. I have learned that when Miss Lillian at the local bar tells you she doesn't appreciate the profanity coming from the adjacent party you make damn sure your friends no longer curse in her establishment. I have learned that “cook out” and “BBQ” are NOT the same thing. I have learned that cussing someone out is very different from blessing someone out. I have learned that racism is alive and well, though most often whispered and set up with an insincere apology before hand. I have learned to confidently order my burgers and hot dogs "all the way", and that sweet tea is best when poured from a giant plastic jug tattooed by a Sharpie indicating it as such. You also don't call the police, you "Call The Law". 

After 7 years I can say with confidence that moving south was like moving to a new country. Though within the confines of the United States of America, The South has a streak of nationalism that runs like a 'sad streak' deep in the heart of an under baked pound cake. It is part of the whole, tastes a little like its surroundings, but not appreciated by everyone. I will proudly confess here and now that I love the 'sad streak' in a pound cake. I like that it is different. And find comfort in knowing that in one slice I can taste the familiarity of a white Christmas and relaxation of the mid summer cook out.

In honor of my slowly expanding Southern Roots here is a recipe for Fried Sweet Grit Cakes.

Fried Sweet Grit Cakes

Inspired by the internets 

Following the directions on the package of instant grits, make your desired number of servings. For a 9x13 size pan that would feed roughly five, I believe, I used the 6 serving instructions on the package. I also added 1/2 cup of sugar to the boiling water (making them sweet grits). Cutting back on the water by roughly 1 cup. 

Once grits are done spread them out in a parchment or wax paper lined 9x13 pan. Cover with plastic wrap and place in refrigerator for at least 45 mins or overnight if desired.

Once grits have set, heat a skillet over medium heat and fill about 1/4" deep with oil for frying. 

After grits are set, cut into desired size (or shape using cookie cutters). I recommend not too small as they may crumble when handled.

Dredge the cut grits in flour, then whisked egg, then again in flour. Frying a few at a time as to not crowd the pan. Turn the grit cakes after a few minutes and removed from the fry oil after desired browning is achieved. Place on paper towel to absorb excess oil. 

Serve warm with maple syrup, powdered sugar, or fruit compote of choice.