Poor Yankess
I'm not the most sympatetic person in the world, hell some folks might even consider me to be a tad bit callous. Not today though dear readers, 'cause today I truly feel sorry for all those folks trapped in Yankeeland and the other folks out there that don't have access true southern cooking.
A while back basil discussed soul food, well what Yankees call soul food and what those of us who've groweded up in the south call food. Well today I realized just how bad off my Yankee brethren are. See yesterday about halfway through a three hour conference call I started to loose my voice and this didn't go unnoticed by our office manager.
Yesterday she fixed a batch of hot tea, when you say tea 'round here that means Sweet Ice Tea, thus the descriptor of hot; just to make sure I had something soothing to drink. Sure it wasn't as soothing as scotch or a gin and tonic, but soothing none the less.
Today she rolled in with Crockpot in hand. On her way home yesterday she stopped by the grocery and picked up the fixin's to make a batch of Chicken and Dumplings. Now she didn't buy the premade crap they try to pass off as dumplings either, she made them from scratch and they're second only to the dumplings prepared by my sainted mother.
So I've been sitting here, for a better part of the day, munching on HOMEMADE Chicken and Dumplings, thinking about all you poor peoples that don't have access to good old fashon down-home southern cooking.
Kinda makes me sad.
Damn, my bowl hath run empty, time for round three. I'm not completely cold hearted, at least I'm thinking about y'all.
Travel
Earlier today several fellow airline passengers and I were discussing travel. They mentioned how they hated to fly out of the regional aeroport in town since the only flights available in or out are on small prop planes. Besides being a noisy, bumpy and cramped (for somebody of my height) ride the flights don't really bother me.
They of course mentioned how they don't feel as safe and sound in the prop plane as they do in the larger regional jets. They are of course the same guys that squeal like three year old girls every time a little turbulence is encountered.
I tried to offer comfort and words of wisdom to ease their minds. I've explained that time to go it's time to go.
It seems to help, until I wished them well and hoped that the bell doesn't ring for the pilot midflight.
