When I hear that it is getting cold, I rejoice. I love the invigorating cold, watching my breath in the air drift away. I love bundling on clothes and wrapping scarves around my neck and putting mittens on my hands. I don’t mind warming up my car or wearing sweatshirts around the house which comes with lowered temperatures. Since I have moved to the South, the temperatures have been disappointing. They tease me as they tiptoe under the below freezing mark for one day, and then rebound to 30 degrees warmer two days later. Therefore, when I heard about this so-called polar vortex that is currently sweeping through our nation, I became rather excited. Remembering when I lived in Upstate New York just outside of Rochester, I had systems for cold weather and snow. I kept a snow shovel and ice scraper in my car, as well as an old comforter in the event it broke down and needed warmth. I knew where to park, which was not alongside the road to only to be plowed in by snow. I kept a space heater in my room for extra cold days and special socks for my feet. There was no “freaking out.” Since living in Virginia, I have observed many odd reactions to winter weather. The first crazy thing is the need to get dairy-related groceries in the event that it snowed. Stores are stripped bare of necessities such as eggs, milk, and bread. Even if there are flurries and no accumulation, there will still be no milk on the shelves.
The second a snowflake falls from the sky, driving IQ dives to sudden death in the South as well. Some people think that they are invisible and can drive normally. If southerners don’t fall into this category, they fall into the opposite. They will drive forty miles an hour underneath the speed limit. There is limited knowledge of start slow, break slow. There is limited knowledge of using headlights in the snow. Driving skills just become… limited. Bless their hearts. Last, but not least, is school closing. When I went to college outside of Rochester, we never had a single school closing. Granted I was not a young child, but I recall one day it was -40 degrees, -60 with the wind chill. I walked to class as my nostrils stuck together. Today the school district I work in closed because the temperature was going to be cold. They called it off the day before, the reason being the chance for black ice. Seriously? My inner New Yorker is embarrassed. -Billie
One summer day, my Appalachian husband and I were going to spend the day at my Mom’s house. My Mom is a woman who has also crossed the Mason Dixon to settle in Richmond, VA. She has a lovely little property with a creek in the back that used to be used for Copper Mining. We had been having phone conversations about a plague that had taken over her yard: moles. Moles had been eating the roots of her rose bushes. Any New Yorker knows not to mess with a woman’s roses, especially a woman with Italian decent. Italians have an ability to take the smallest trifle and turn it into an erupting volcano of ferve¬¬nt curse words spewing from a mouth at maximum volume. Make sure when coming into the den of an angry Italian that you are armed with patience, ear muffs, and possibly a helmet if there is something that could be thrown within reach. When we pulled up to my Mom’s house, she was digging furiously on her hands and knees in the grass, her head bobbing up and down with effort. There were little dirt clumps flying in the air, landing in the grass among empty boxes of what I assumed was some sort of animal poison. My husband, Brad, looked at me and says “What is your Mom doing?” I shook my head. There are no words. Is she trying to dig the moles out? I take a deep breath and decide to leave the safety of the car. I put on my game face, a calm smile, and said “Hi Mom!” “It is not the moles!” she yelled out. “I think it is another problem. You are not going to believe what I found today!” She stood up and motioned us to come look at something in the grass. As we walked up, she is pointed to little muddy mounds in the yard. My husband had a smirk on his face. I assumed that he knew what was coming, but I feared to ask. “I pulled this lobster out of one of those mounds!” my mom yelled, holding out her hands. I looked at what she was holding, and it really did look like a lobster, just much smaller. “Mom, lobsters are in the ocean. It is some sort of shellfish for sure, but not a lobster,” I told her. Looking at my husband, I could tell he knew what it was because the smirk had grown wider and he was holding in a large amount of laughter. “Yes, it is yard lobster,” Brad said, with sarcasm riddled through his expression. My mom did not buy it. “It’s not a lobster?” “It is a sign that you have a wet yard,” Brad said. “Those are about just as tasty as a lobster, though.” “So what is it?” I asked. Then, my southern knowledge shined through and I wished I had not asked. As my face lit up and I was about to tell her what it was, Brad told us, “It’s a crawdad. Sometimes it is called a crayfish.” “Is this cray-dad-thing going to hurt my roses?” my Mom asked. “Maybe the water level of the yard might drown your roses, but the crawdad itself won’t hurt them,” Brad said, ending the crawdad dig and continuing the mole hunt. Therefore, northerners beware: When you find a lobster in your southern yard at the bottom of a muddy mound with a hole in it, it is called a crawdad. They won’t eat your roses, but when deep fried, they do make a tasty sandwich. -Billie
Anyone who has visited the Outer Banks of North Carolina for summer vacation knows that one thing you can count on is a multitude of Northerners migrating down South. It's because like most Northerners, they realize that the beaches in the South are simply the best (wink, wink Billie.) Traveling down 95 South, 58, or 17, you can guarantee that you will always be traveling with a bevy of minivans and SUVs with New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania license plates. I think they about outnumber actual residents during the summer months.
As we pulled into the little town of Emerald Isle, North Carolina our first thought was where to stop for a great lunch. Traveling with two small kids, the goldfish and graham crackers were simply not sufficient especially when compared to the one of a kind eateries found on the island. We spied the Highway 55 restaurant, notorious for their burgers, hot dogs and shakes and their 50s style dining experience. If you're ever in North Carolina, stop there - it doesn't disappoint! We pulled in and grabbed a booth.
As we sat down, my husband and I eyed each other and strategically planned how we would keep our two kids entertain lest they become "those kids" that every other table would whisper about. Our fears were quickly calmed when a family from New Jersey filled the table behind us. Truth be told, it was hard to even hear our children amidst the chatter (make that hollering) of that boisterous family!
While we were all waiting for our food we had to laugh at the conversation coming from their table - lots of chatter about their home state (no mention of it being "The Armpit" though), plans for the week, the eleven hour trip down, and a little banter about the small towns they passed on their way. Though the real fun began when they got their food...
The waitress set down the three hot dogs that had been ordered. Upon first glance, one of the women seemed horrified and she was trying to get her husband's attention without making a huge scene. As soon as the waitress scurried away for ketchup, we overheard, "What in the world is with this hot dog?"
The statement caught our attention as some of us had ordered hot dogs as well so we glanced over. What was on her plate was a perfectly normal looking RED hotdog. Now, everyone south of the Mason Dixon line (and maybe a few other places) knows red hotdogs...they are the pride of every Southern Sunday picnic. In fact, it can be argued with certainty that their taste is absolutely superior to that of any other hotdog. We actually start to check temperatures when someone buys anything other than a pack of red hotdogs. Valleydale...Carolina Pride...it doesn't matter, they are all a shrinkwrapped pack of absolute deliciousness.
What makes this story such a hoot was her husband's response to her question about what exactly was wrong with her lunch. Without missing a beat and seemingly very confident he replied, "Oh...you know, they boil their hotdogs down here, that's what makes them red."
What...the...heck? Has the man every truly boiled a hotdog before? Okay, besides the lacking grill marks, a boiled hotdog is light pink at the very best. Never have I seen a hotdog turn red as a result of being boiled...never. And down here we do eat a lot of hotdogs. But his explanation was sufficient for her, as she devoured the thing in under two minutes. I think it was probably the best darn boiled hot dog she has ever had.
It was a bright and sunny Saturday afternoon. My husband had just finished the midnight shift as a police officer working the I-64 Interstate between Richmond and Williamsburg. Many times when he gets off of work I am already awake, because as a teacher, 6 am is considered sleeping in. He changed out of his uniform and put on jeans and t-shirt that had a picture of a salt shaker with a nun chuck attacking a helpless pepper shaker and it said, “A salt with a deadly weapon.” Stop laughing at the dorkiness; I picked out the shirt. I threw on my jeans and my Yankees baseball cap over my wildly wavy hair and climbed in the car. It was time for Honey Butters.
Honey Butters is a southern diner that we love to go to. They have great toast, great pancakes, and great corned beef hash among other things. I wrote a restaurant review about it on another blog, and you can click this link to check it out if you are curious. That particular day, I ordered some delectable waffles that came with baked apples and a side of bacon. It does not get any better than this; Cracker Barrel had nothing on it.
While I was eating, a tourist couple that was visiting Williamsburg and sat at the booth next to us. I could tell that they were from New York, because everyone could with that accent. Plus, they were loud. Really loud. I think some northerners don’t realize to take the decibel down once they cross the Mason Dixon Line. Very loudly, the wife was complaining that the hotel concierge recommended this diner for breakfast. She exclaimed, “It’s innna strip mawl!” She did not like the menu. The blinds on the windows annoyed her. She complained about the décor. The service was not up to her standards. As I was shaking my head, my inner New York Yiddish voice exclaimed, “Oy vey!”
As I was listening to the assaults of a favorite restaurant that bruised the air between us, I realized that Northerners and Southerners have very different concepts of diners. Therefore, I have made a list of differences below. Wherever your diner is, the food should be good, it just will look (and sound) very, very different.
Décor
Northern Diners: New York diners have lights that scream “LOOK AT ME!” In case you miss it, they are covered in mirrors to reflect the lights so you look twice. The lights are usually a unique neon color, usually pink, slime green, or turquoise. Therefore, if you miss it, then ti pazzo. See the picture below of my diner growing up in Centereach, NY. You can’t miss the Suffolk Diner.
Southern Diners: Also called “Greasy Spoons” (my husband pronounces it “greezy” spoon) can be any type of building, often dumpy looking. Sometimes it has country décor, sometimes no décor. I have always gotten the feeling that the owners didn’t build the place to show off. They built it to feed you. See my review on the Five Forks Cafe for more info.
Music
Northern Diners: My experience at the Suffolk Diner always included Billy Joel. He was the King. Whether “A New York State of Mind,” “Pressure,” “Piano Man,” or any other one of his bazillion songs was playing on the speakers, it was like each and every person had to pay homage by singing a line or three when their favorite came on the radio.
Southern Diners: It’s old school country. I have had to learn some of the song titles for this rockabilly craziness and most of them I had never heard before in my life. Patsy Cline is inevitable. Other songs are “Maybeline,” “Can’t You Be True,” or “Jolene” from Dolly Parton. Personally, I could do without them, but always find it endearing when you hear the cook in the back getting down to “On the Boardwalk.”
Owners
Northern Diners: The Greeks. The Greeks own the diners. That’s just what they do. This is why many times when you open a menu to a diner up north, there will be odd Greek dishes on the menu, such as dolmades. I really do like the baklava though.
Southern Diners: Ma and Pop. They cooked for their kids, why not cook for you, too?
Menu
Northern Diners: Anything. Really anything. The menu is like a novel. Breakfast, lunch, dinner… whatever. Everything will be there except white gravy. Even if it is not on the menu, if they know you, they’ll make it… unless it’s white gravy. Don’t order white gravy in the North, got it?
Southern Diners: It is country cookin’ at its finest. White gravy is safe to order here if you like it. You can order chipped beef gravy with toast, also known as Sh*t on a Shingle. Sometimes there is scrapple (if you don’t know what it is, don’t look it up). They make the best pancakes and the best corned beef hash (but don’t tell my Irish kin up North I said that…) Burgers, porkchops, fried cat fish with okra and hush puppies! Ymmm…..
Liquor and Desserts (in some cases, is it not the same?)
Northern Diners: There is always a bar and it is usually right next to the baker case. When I went to visit back some, sometimes I liked to order a shot of Baileys for dessert, but that would mean forgoing the bakery case. I miss the bakery case. They had napoleons, rainbow cookies, and rice pudding. Devil’s Food cake, cheesecake, chocolate cheesecake, lemon meringue, and apple turnovers. As a kid, it was heaven. As a grown woman, it is the worse temptation.
Southern Diners: Ma and Pop usually have their favorite specialties to order. It might be an apple pie or a sweet potato pie. Banana pudding is one of my favorites. -Billie
Gardening has become a HUGE part of my life, so much so that I start planning it all out during the cold blustery months of winter. I think it helps thaw my soul knowing that in a few short months I will be out in the garden, dirt on my hands planting the plants that will help feed my family during the summer months and beyond.
Life began in a garden when God created the Earth so that certainly must count for something.
Genesis 2:8 And the LORD God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed.
urbangardencasual.com
During hard times like World War II, Americans were encouraged to plant gardens to help the war effort.
Gardens have been a constant throughout human history and while they certainly do serve the primary purpose of providing food they do so much more.
It has been said that gardening is good for the soul, can be a type of therapy, and it can teach young children a myriad of life lessons. It is my humble opinion that everyone should have one and I love seeing that they are becoming more and more popular again as the fad of quick and easy unhealthy processed foods are being discovered as the source of many current health problems.
Here are some images from my garden this year so far, I am so pleased to have been able to expand it even more this year!
One day during my first year of teaching, I ran into a really awkward situation. I had a student who decided to attach a paper “pole” to the zipper in his jeans. From that point on, he began to approach another boy in the classroom and made some obscene gestures. I was stunned and appalled. When I asked the student why he did this, he said he was trying to make friends. Yeah right. What I really wanted to say was along the lines of Joe Pesci in My Cousin Vinny:
Later that day, I was telling the story to other teachers about what happened in my classroom in classic teacher fashion. I expected everyone to be stunned an appalled with me. Maybe they would even drop a curse word. Instead, one teacher said, “Oh, BLESS HIS HEART.” Bless his heart? Seriously? This kid just pretended to sodomize another, and you want him blessed? I was stunned and appalled for the second time that day. My next encounter with this phrase at school was when a student came to school wearing tight red pleather pants and a red shirt that did not match. One teacher looked at me, and said, “Oh, BLESS HER HEART.” Initially I had another My Cousin Vinny moment and wanted to be Marisa Tomei:
Then I started to realize that this crazy phase is a Southern way to use when I would say, “What the hell?” It is a polite way without curse words to put someone down when you care about them. I thought I was acclimating to Virginia really well because I had conquered this phrase. Then my conquest turned upside down. I was planning my wedding and discussing the dilemma that we had no younger children in our families. Our solution was that my grandma was going to be my flower girl and my husband’s elderly uncle was going to be the ring bearer. Since I was speaking with someone from my husband’s family, I expected a “That’s so cool!” or “What a great idea!” Instead, they responded, “Well, BLESS YOUR HEART.” I kind of smiled nervously and found a new conversation topic. I was so confused. Now that I have spent eight full years in Virginia, I have come to realize that this unique phrase can mean up to three different things. Ways to Use the “Bless Their Heart” Conundrum 1.Urban Dictionary said it best: This is a term used by the people of the southern United States particularly near the Gulf of Mexico to express to someone that they are an idiot without saying such harsh words. For example, "You are an idiot but I like you and care about you so I don’t want to hurt your feelings." Northerners can use this one well. 2.As an expression of pity. “Well, that is just so sad and God just needs to bless their soul.” 3.As a blessing. “Really, bless your heart.” A note to Northerners: When someone says this, just smile back until you figure out how the southerner means it. A note to Southerners: When the northerner looks at you weird after you say it, they might be trying to figure out if you just cursed at them in your own little way. Disclaimer from the Northern Writer: I am no way the authority in Southernese. Please leave a comment to further educate this baffled northerner on this crazy phrase. -Billie
I used to be afraid of Belle. I was a long term substitute who had to teach the Civil War. I spent maybe one week on the Civil War in high school. I felt so lost that I must have reread the information on the Battle of Gettysburg six or seven times from the textbook. Then I would look across the lunch table at this confident and poised woman who had I know what I’m doing written all over her face. She spoke to students with an authority where no one questioned her and spoke to the teachers around her about details on Gettysburg that far outreached the knowledge I learned from a textbook. I simply felt screwed. When I first became a full time teacher at the school, my fear for Belle turned into admiration. We began sharing resources and lesson ideas for many units. While working with her, I learned some of the depths that her mind reached. I began to realize that although our backgrounds seemed so different on the surface, that we really had the same beliefs and principles even though our exterior shells were so different. Belle is a wife and mother to two beautiful boys, whose pictures make me want to have children of my own. She leads book clubs for children and adults. She puts together Veteran’s Day assemblies to honor our community’s heroes. She loves wine, books, and writing. Most importantly, she cares about her students, friends, and family. Belle is my coworker, travel partner, and friend. -Billie
