Fruits, Vegetables, and Other Southern Foods

          The Admiral and I went to a buffet lunch. That is a treat, and it being without Princesses who were off doing whatever teenaged Princesses do, it was a time for us adults to relax, and converse.

            Foraging at a buffet is an individual pursuit, thus we went our separate ways leaving me without adult supervision. As we reunited at our chosen table and were settling into our feast, the ever observant and protective Admiral asked, "You do realize that you have two desserts, don't you?"

            "I do not," was my immediate, petulant, little boy defensive reply. It was so automatic that I had not even glanced at my food-laden tray.

            Recognizing a full-blown tantrum in the offing, she tried to soothe my ruffled feathers by offering, "I am concerned for your blood sugar, is all."

            "What two desserts?" I asked, taking a milder tack, recognizing that she had misidentified one of the foods.

            "You have banana pudding, and peach cobbler."

            I couldn't help but laugh at this breech of southern, culinary etiquette. Her stone-cold stare forced me into immediate explanation. "For one thing," I offered, fighting continued mirth, "it ain't 'banana pudding', it's 'nanner puddin', and everybody knows that 'nanner puddin' is a vegetable."

            Realizing her blunder as to all things southern (she was raised in Canada), she said, with no southern warmth, "Bananas are a fruit."

            "Well of course they are…" The Admiral had me, but agreeing gave me time to think of an adequate response, "…but when you put them in a puddin', they become a vegetable."

            Her jaw dropped in disbelief, but I kept a straight face, because not only was I right, but I did not want to make her feel ignorant as I added this pearl to her growing store of near useless southern knowledge.  She was quick to recover. "Then what is peach cobbler?"

            I was ready for her, "Peach cobbler is a bread." Then, because I seldom outwit the Admiral, I had to add, "Didn't you know that?"

            Her glare and stony silence assured me that I would pay for my wit later, but at that moment, it was worth it. We can make our choices, but the consequences are in the hands of others.

            She smiled at me, which put me on my guard, and asked, "What other southern culinary oddities am I missing out on?"

            "You know most of them, but since we've broached the subject," I stabbed a piece of fried okra with my fork and held it up for her to see, "this is fried okra."

            "Yes it is. So…"

            I could see a challenge rising in her eyes, so treading lightly, "The okra you stir about in the pan in some olive oil, and seasonings is delicious," so far, so good, "but it ain't fried okra," brandishing my impaled example before her, "this is fried okra."

            "You mean because is covered in a batter that absorbs twice the oil mine does and delivers it directly to your coronary arteries? Is that what you mean by 'fried'?"

            "Yes," I hurried, recognizing the beginning of the health argument, "battered in cornmeal, or a good beer-batter, deep fried to a tawny gold, that is the way to do it," rushing on, "just like we do pickles, green tomatoes, onion rings, squash, seafood, steak, pork, and anything else that is edible. I am certain I remember as a kid being taken to the Texas State Fair and having a deep fried chocolate bar."

            "What did it taste like?"

            "Chicken-fried chocolate," I said in the most matter-of-fact way I could.

            She ignored that. "Speaking of chicken-fried, what makes a Chicken-fried-steak a Chicken-fried steak?"

            "You fry it like you would a chicken, just like you would ice cream."

            She rolled her eyes, which meant it was time to move on from fried foods. I lowered my head and began the assault on my tray of food. The first fork full was a heap of collard greens, followed by a spoonful of that other vegetable, nanner puddin'.

            As I was delighting in this delicious vegetable, the Admiral asked, "What is your favorite meal?

            This was a trick question. She knows my favorite meal, it has never changed and she prepares it on special occasions, so on the defense, I answer, "Fried chicken," a pause here for emphasis, "rice and gravy," delivered almost as a song. Girding up for an attack, I said, "You know that."

            "There are no vegetables in that meal."

            "Rice is a vegetable."

            "Rice is a grain."

            "Yes," I conceded, "but when you pour white, chicken gravy over it, it becomes a vegetable." Again, I couldn't resist, "Didn't you know that?"

            "What is gravy then?" Her dander was rising. I was going to pay dearly for this, but in for a penny, in for a pound.

            "Gravy is a gift from God with the power to make good things better, and render the inedible, edible."

            "And the power to change a grain to a vegetable?" She asked.

            "To do most anything," was my reply. "There are some southern churches that teach that the Lord poured chicken gravy on the Sea of Galilee before he walked on it."

            I could see her fighting the laughter as she said, "And Peter sank," she began, "because he stepped off the gravy," we finished in unison.

            I nodded my head; she shook hers, and said, pointing to my dual desserts, "Eat your vegetables and bread, little boy."

            I did, thus ending the lesson.