Sunday, November 4, 2012

It's a Southern Thing

Growing up as a Southern girl, I can remember actually drooling when I heard chicken 'n' dumplins were what's for supper.  I always ate so much I made myself sick on 'em.  It's what I requested for my birthday dinner every year.  It's not just good for you, it's good for your soul.  Good old down home love on a plate.  It'll fix what's ailin' ya, that's for sure.  Southern version of homemade chicken soup.  

Chicken 'n' dumplins bring back all kinds of warm, glowy memories for me.  First of all, cause my Mimi made them. And there are countless beautiful memories tied to her.  Wild violets growing in her yard. The dainty lilies of the valley growing in the shade by the front porch. Pear tree in bloom looking like it was covered in snow. Lazy warm breezy Tennessee summer afternoons reading on a blanket under the hackberry tree.

And her singing silly little made-up ditties while she was making magic in the kitchen. Her biscuits with her pale pink plum jelly.  Or honey.  Or just her biscuits.  The smell of coffee from that old percolator. There was always something happening in Mimi's kitchen.  Just like mine.

Just so we're clear, these are not dumplings.

These are biscuits.

These are not dumplings, either.

These are noodles, and not good ones.  They're hard and lumpy.  Ugh.

THESE are dumplings:

Y'all come getcha some.  I dare you to have the patience not to blister your mouth.

Monday, January 30, 2012

We Interrupt this Blog for a Personal Message

Dear UrADouche: (CLICK HERE)       

Since I know you are reading my blog:

Just sayin'.....

Picture from A Beautiful Mess Inside

On my own.  With help from no one.
I certainly wouldn't jeopardize my job over the likes of you.
But kudos for the valiant effort to besmirch my reputation/get me fired.

And are you The King there?

Live by the lie, die by the lie.

Please have the grace to slink quietly back to the hellhole from which you crawled.  Seriously, honey. Your Karma is fucked up enough from all the deception.

Don't make me call the flying monkeys.  Really.  You know I have connections.  (Glinda wrote that part.  She's very disappointed in you.)

Wishing you all the best,