The Yard Lobster

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

"The Armpit" Doesn't Boil Their Hotdogs?

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.

~ Belle ~

A Guide to Diners

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

Belle's Gardenology

Strawberries/Wildflowers (farmer's market); Carrots (mine)

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!

Lavender/Parsley/Radishes

Tilling the Rows/Peppers/Basil/Mints

Lavender/Peas/Brocolli

My flowers are as important as the vegetables!

Radishes/Parsley/Strawberry Jam

Bless Your Heart... ?

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

Introduction to Belle- Written by Billie

All About Belle, written by 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

Small Town Girl in the Big City ~ Belle

Let me state the obvious, this small-town girl DOES NOT LIKE THE CITY!  I much prefer the

quietness of a country road.  I don't know what it's like to go out for your coffee.  I am used to driving a bit to get to what I want or need.  I'm just so comfy living outside of the chaos.  My husband and I are in a small quiet little town in a suburb of Richmond and it is close enough yet far enough for me.  Truth be told I would love to be in the middle of nowhere...we'll see how convincing I can be!

Recently a dear friend from college got married and pregnant this year I was invited to join in the festivities which I was more than excited to do...except, it would require travel.  And not just any travel...but through a big city, around Washington, D.C. and then onto the suburbs of the big city.  I was more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs!

Of course, this friend was worth the trip - it was amazing to see her and great to catch up after many years.  Maybe my experience among the "northern gals" will be fodder for a later post!

As I headed up I 95, I was so very excited as with two small children it is seldom that I get any quiet time in the car to listen to audiobooks or just the radio so boy I was ready!  I found the country station and got all set to belt out some music en route.  How disappointing to realize how pitiful new country music is!  One cheesy song about "Gettin' Her Shine On" was all I could seem to muster.  This question of "what happened to country music" will definitely be addressed in a later post as well.

The next question I pondered as I entered "up North" is what in the world will these people do when Armageddon comes?  From what I can see, there are NO farms.  There are very few gardens.  There are NO farm animals.  What will they eat?  How will they survive?  And if it is like this in Washington, D.C., what in tarnation must a big city like New York be like?

Let's talk trains.  As I approached closer to the hub there were train tracks running alongside the interstate.  Fine...seems normal enough, right?  But then I was able to cran my neck far enough to see that this was no ordinary set of tracks.  These had gates, barbed wire, electric fences, nail guns, and even beastly lions.  Okay, a little farfetched on the nail guns and beastly lions but seriously, what in the world is going on up here?  Is people getting up on the tracks THAT COMMON?  It seems like overkill to me but I assume it wouldn't be there unless it was necessary.  They are most secure than Fort Knox.  Scary...

Now let's talk Smart cars (inset shaking of the head.)  I have to admit that I belly laugh every single time I pass one of these.  It never fails, whoever is driving one of these looks ridiculous and as I got closer to the city there were more and more of them.  I mean I am all for saving on fuel but I just can't see what the draw is with these micro mini cars.  City folk seem to love them...is it the ability to dash in and out of traffic (no, there is no dashing since they don't seem to go over 55).   Whatever it is, I will wait until they outlaw tractor trailers before I consider sporting one of those micro cars.

Total panic ensued when I got past Manassas, Virginia.  Home to the first battle of the Civil War I was daydreaming about the history that took place here when all of the sudden these signs start appearing that I cannot decipher.  Codes...language that isn't English, numbers mixed with letters.  Oh crap, they have their own language up here in Northern Virginia, and I don't speak it!  After three phone calls to friends and family (none of who could translate...what good is phoning a friend?) I just kept driving.  Who knows what they said, or what important information I was supposed to garner from them.


To close, the biggest realization from the driving experience is about why our roads down here are so bad.  We don't have anyone helping to fix them because VDOT (Virginia Dept. of Transportation) is all taken up with the miles and miles, and miles, and more miles of construction in Northern Virginia.  No wonder I have a screaming headache each morning from hopping and skipping through potholes all the way to work.  The squeaky wheel gets the grease I presume...Northern Virginia must be squeaky.

All jesting aside, every experience is valuable and worth it - and to spend time with those we care about is worth any journey, but give me a country road over the city any day.

Introduction to Billie - Written by Belle

Introducing Billie…written by Belle

When first given the task of introducing Billie on the blog I wondered how in the world I would be able to do it!  You would think that writing about someone who is so incredibly different than you would be easy – you would just think of the opposites and put it down.  But something incredible happened along this journey of writing about my dear friend.  I realized something I had subconsciously known all along.  We are not nearly as different as I might have first thought.  In fact, as I put pen to paper, it amazed me at just how many times I found myself thinking how absolutely alike we are!  And to have come from two so very different places!  It’s almost as if our differences have been a bridge to our similarities

Upon first meeting Billie, my small stereotypical world view was in full force – Northerner.  Yankee.  Opinionated, loud, and she would most definitely not have a filter that we Southerners pride ourselves on.  When she was hired as a full-time teacher after a long-term sub stint I thought, wow…this should be interesting!  Now we have to figure out how to take this a step further and actually plan, collaborate, WORK TOGETHER!

What started as a little bit of treading lightly on both of our parts has blossomed into a beautiful friendship…and it’s one I never would have expected.  Billie and I have sat across many a table and bantered back and forth about our lives, our experiences, our views and our futures.  She has listened, I have listened and we have found common ground on so many areas of our lives.

Billie I learned, is no opinionated, loud, filter-less Northerner (don’t get me wrong, this gal still has a fierce side to her!)  She is actually quite the opposite – a true gem from above the Mason-Dixon Line.  She is an AMAZING teacher who is respected by students, teachers and parents alike.  She is a lover of wine, good food and friends – someone to be counted on in a pinch.  This girl has class, sass, and is an absolutely amazing pastry chef!

I couldn’t be more content with the lesson that Billie taught me.  Assumptions are not always correct and our very best lessons in life come from that we are most different from…and what a great thing!

Introducing "Belle"

Let me first say that I come from a L-O-N-G line of Southern women.  Now some embrace their "Southernism" with a grip so tight you couldn’t pry it out of them.  Others may have strayed but somehow were almost always brought back.  I come from this long line and it has become a huge part of who I am. 

I am a Virginia native, born and raised and have never strayed from my Virginia roots.  I am SO proud to be from this beautifully historical state and never cease to be amazed at the place within which I live.  We may be at the Northern end of the South but we have a culture here that warms people’s hearts as they cross that famous line.

I am one of three girls – and boy did that shape my current existence!  I learned early that you have to talk fast and think fast to get what you want.  I spend much of my adult life doing just that – thinking and talking at warped speed, sometimes to my detriment.

I fully embrace all things Southern – quilting, sewing, canning, preserving, cooking, baking (Paula Deen style of course y'all) and making things myself.  I am a church-going Southern Baptist to my core and I would like to think that I fear God above all else.  I am still on that walk with a lot to learn!  My absolute favorite scripture besides The Lord's Prayer is Ephesians 2:8 and I really try to focus on that.

Reading is my absolute passion – instilled in me from a young age, I am forever immersed in a variety of different books.  I love sharing this passion with others and feel so blessed to be able to help lead an adult and kid’s book club.  Lord, how I do love a good historical fiction novel over anything else!

I am a teacher, a wife and a mother of two little boys.  I would like to think I do a pretty good job managing all three although it is a daily challenge to juggle it all.  It has been said “you can’t have it all in life.”  I would disagree as I feel pretty blessed every single day to have a life so full and rich.  I am never finished counting my blessings…

I am so excited to be on this adventure with my good friend "Billie."  We hope you enjoy it too!

Introduction to Billie

All About Billie

One day in a 10th grade English class on Long Island, NY, Mr. Gibbons said something that I was to remember for at least another 15 years. He said that they tested products in Ohio for sale because it was so obscure. Companies would not lose a profit because no one credible lives there. He said, “Who actually lives in Ohio?” Then half of the class turns around and stares at me. Someone raises their hand, points to me, and says, “She used to live in Ohio.” 

I was that kid, the kid who sat in the back of the classroom and never said a word. That kid who never fit in. Do you remember one of those kids? Everyone knew of me, but very few people actually knew me. We were a non-military family that moved around as if we were part of the army. I must have been asked that question at least 100 times from moves to Long Island, Tampa, Columbus, Fort Lauderdale, and Los Angeles. All of the moving around meant loss of friends, new experiences, and plenty of new starts. It also left me feeling like I never belonged because I kept changing myself during those new starts. For example, in Ohio they made fun of my New York accent, so I changed it. Then we moved back to New York. They made fun of my changed accent, so I changed it back again to the original. Then I decided to give up speaking in general because I just did not fit in.

On my own I lived near Rochester, NY for college and then moved to Richmond, VA. I stayed in Richmond for a job in archaeology and then fell in love so I’m here for good. All of that moving around left me trying to find a place where I belonged. Now I belong in Richmond, married to a police officer from the Blue Ridge Mountains and teaching middle school History.

The most important thing I have realized in all of my travels, is that good people are still friendly when you speak first with gentility and confidence, no matter the accent. However, sometimes they will eat weird food.

-Billie