The Vidalia Onion - Georgia's Finest

The Vidalia Onion

Click on the above link to learn all about the Vidalia, and don't forget to click on the ribbon to enter to win a trip to Savannah!

A Vidalia Onion Patch

SIMPLY SOMETHING FOR MAY
A Vidalia Onion Patch
By Cappy Hall Rearick

For any Georgian worth his salted peanuts, the merry month of May means one thing: a new crop of Vidalia Onions. Doling out last season's leftovers hanging in a knotted-up pair of pantyhose in the garage becomes a thing of the past. No need to settle for Texas imports. At this time of year the great state of Georgia, too often overlooked by the rest of the country, moves front and center to become Old Glory's Star of the Month.

At my house, when that sweetest of the sweet, oval-shaped bulb comes to call it's the next best thing to a national holiday. Life as we normally know it comes to a screeching halt while Babe pays tribute to the forty-pound box of onions taking up space in my pantry.

When the truck rolls into town from Vidalia, Babe is right there to greet it. A proud picture of a Pennsylvania Yankee turned Georgian, his mission is to be the first person on St. Simons Island to bite into the onion that puts Georgia on everybody's mind. Standing at attention next to the produce truck, he could not look more Southern if he wore a Robert E. Lee hand-me-down uniform, waved a tattered Confederate flag and shouted, Forget Hell!

As soon as Babe, aka the onion man, crunches into that first Vidalia of the year, it is as close to a religious experience as a grown man can have with a mouth full of onions. His white bread sandwiches are stacked with thick slices of Vidalias and slathered with way too much Dukes Mayo. When he takes that first bite, he makes the kind of noises more appropriately heard in the X-rated section of Blockbusters.

"Why don't you simply describe how it tastes using plain ol' words, Babe," I suggest. "Those sounds of yours are making me blush."

He closes his eyes and allows his head to move from side to side ever so slightly. I have to pay close attention so as not to miss the only bodily movement he makes before drifting off to Zen City. If he would just keep his peepers open long enough, I would check out his pupils.

I love to cook, but while Babe is enjoying his certifiable craziness, he allows onions to claim squatter's rights to my kitchen, and I'm almost afraid to go in there. The other day while he and an onion sandwich were tripping down the yellow brick road, I sneaked in there and opened the pantry door looking for peanut butter. What I saw nearly gave me the vapors.

"Babe, this ridiculous obsession of yours has got to stop. You didn't just jump over the edge, you pole vaulted into overkill. I'm looking at a stockpile of Vidalia mustard and more green and yellow Vidalia pickles than we'll ever eat. And do we really need six varieties of Vidalia barbecue sauce?"

I counted twelve bottles of Vidalia Onion salad dressing before the thought of intervention became more than a possibility.

"You need help, Babe. Bite the bullet instead of the onion. Get a patch."

His eyelids flickered as he slowly turned to meet my gaze. He's back from Oz and he's conscious. The hand holding an obscenely thick onion sandwich, moved from his mouth, and his head tilted slightly in my direction. I leaned in closer hoping to get a good look at those pupils, and he chose that moment to speak. When he opened his mouth, three days of stored onion breath smacked my kisser like thrust from a B-2 Stealth Bomber.

Only then did I fully realize what those obscene sounds were all about. It wasn't Babe moaning and groaning at all; it was automatic mouth action in protest of all those onions.

"That Vidalia Onion in the sandwich you're eating," I said while backing out of range of his toxic breath, "must have been hiding out in Aunt Piddy Pat's root cellar since Sherman lit up Atlanta."

With a raffish grin on his face, he gave me a mock salute before crunching down on another bite. His mouth crammed full and still grinning, he said, "I've got something to say about that, Miz Scarlett."

"Fiddily-dee, Rhett. Do tell."

He held up the sandwich. "Vidalia breath is a Southern secret weapon to keep the Yankee carpetbaggers from coming back. Just hang on to your Confederate dollars, my ageless Southern Belle, 'cause the South's gonna rise again."

www.simplysoutherncappy.com

"Humor is the great thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritation and resentments slip away, and a sunny spirit takes their place." —Mark Twain

Give me my nails!

I'm looking down at my hands, admiring my long, glossy, obviously fake nails.

They make my hands look so long and graceful and helpless.

Just like good ole Southern gals used to want to look. Way back in the dark ages our goal was to look like a mild wind would blow us down and therefore we always needed our men fluttering around us, waiting to give us assistance.

We needed assistance to stand, to sit, to go through a door, to fetch a drink of water. The list goes on.

Of course, we needed help with none of these things. But we were raised to act that we did.

Heck, my Mama raised me up with no other goal in life but to get a man to take care of me. I wasn't told to get a career goal, to find a life's work, learn finances, to study hard so that I could take care of myself... I was told to look pretty and be nice and polite and quiet...and get married as soon as I could.

When I finally did get married, my Mama expected that I would promptly quit working, stay home and have babies. Again I disappointed.

But back to the nails. Long nails are like Steel Magnolias of the nail South.

They look long and useless and fragile and people wonder how any woman can do a thing with them. And we work that impression of course by asking people to open cans for us so we don't break a nail. (I personally wrench a knife under the pop top lid.). We wail and mourn the loss of a nail, well dang it, they are pricey.

But what people don't realize is that those nails are like steel daggers. They can poke eyes out without even slowing down. They can pick a lock practically. They are the Steel Magnolias of decorative nail fashion. They look weak, but are far from it.

Some of us spend a lot of time cultivating a sunny, fragile, calm, feminine manner...but don't tick us off or you'll see a trucker from Tacoma pop out of us like a second personality. (Not that anyone has ever said that I act like that. Nope, not me.)

So I will keep my pretty, long, useless - in today's world - nails. I know they're probably out of fashion in the rest of the country. But I don't live in the rest of the country, I live in Alabama. So I don't have to worry about the rest of fashion world do I?

I will continue to ask people to wrench open things for me. I will refuse to catch the keys my hubby tosses at me so that I don't break a nail. I will whine when they start to look ragged and needing of professional assistance.

But don't forget that I can stab your eye out with them!

Memphis in May Salutes Turkey

Some thirty years ago, a tradition began in Memphis that embraces the joy that is the entire month of May. If you know anything at all about the weather in West Tennessee, you can certainly understand the wisdom of choosing this particular month to get out and do what you love in Shelby county.The whole thing kicks off the first weekend in May with the Beale Street Music Festival featuring an eclectic mix of world renowned musicians and local talent lasting for three days and nights or as long as your boogie shoes hold out.Each year, the festival honors a different country with the lofty ambition of giving kids and adults alike the opportunity to celebrate culture and traditions from another locale on our great green planet earth. Food and cultural exhibits showcase the featured country which just happens to be Turkey for 2008.The World Championship Barbeque Cooking Contest will be held May 15-17 at Tom Lee Park, come rain, mud or high water. Hundreds of dedicated teams gather on the banks of the Mississippi to dress up, party and slow roast pork to compete for thousands of dollars worth of prize money, all in the name of good southern barbeque and bragging rights as a winner. Don't you DARE ask for the secret sauce recipe! You'll just get laughed right outta' town.Feel like exercising off all that pork and brew? The official triathalon begins at Edmund Orgill Park in Millington on May 18th and consists of a 1.5K swim, 40k bike run and finishes with a 10K run. Unless the temp warms up considerably between now and then, the water will be coooooollld.The grand finale of Memphis in May is the Sunset Symphony at Tom Lee Park. Featuring the Memphis Symphony Orchestra on the banks of the river, this event is an opportunity for thousands to picnic and party with the Big Muddy as a backdrop. This year's symphony features The Four Tops as guest artists. Sunset on the Mississippi? Better than fireworks!

Memphis in May International Festival
88 Union Ave., Suite 301 Memphis, TN 38103
Phone - (901) 525 4611

Riverbend Festival 2008

Make sure to go to the festival page and grab the information for a great 9 day event coming in June to Chattanooga, Tennessee!

Thanks to Angela Jones for bringing this to my attention!

Good morning from the world of a geriatric caregiver

No. 2 in a series
April 9, 2008

Good morning from the world of a geriatric caregiver,

Any good southerner is familiar with the word "Doozy", a description for anything that is pretty astronomical. One can have a doozy of a headache, a doozy of a black eye, a doozy of hangover, etc. Well, last night the experience of being a geriatric caregiver was one real doozy!

Mom got settled into her downstair's bed around 9 PM and by 12 midnight I heard her faint calls for assistance over the baby monitor. In a stupor, I bounded from the warmth of my attic bed, grabbed my robe and dashed down the stairs to her bedroom, where I found her having difficuty breathing, brought on by her congestive heart failure and lung disease (COPD). Using her nebulizer machine, which she calls her "Peace Pipe", I gave her a breathing treatment , in hopes that the medication would ease her breathing difficulties. I securely tucked her in, bid her good night, returned to my bed and just as I snuggled back under the covers she called again... Down the stairs I went and this time we adjusted her pillows so that she was now almost "sitting" up in the bed and crossed my fingers that this would work. Once more it was good night, sleep tight, etc. and back up the stairs to bed. In only seconds there was an instant replay of the two previous calls and on this trip we decided to simply move into the kitchen/den and let her sleep in the upright recliner, in hopes that that maneuver would alleviate her discomfort and allow her to get some rest.

Now one must understand that our kitchen is turned into a virtual kennel during the nighttime hours, when it becomes the safe haven for Fortson, the Black Lab, Betsy, the Cockapoo, Charley, the Pekingese and on occasion... two cats, Opie and Squeak. Opie was out doing whatever male cats do in the dark of night, but the other pets were all in residence last night. Mom, cane in hand and oxygen tubes trailing behind her, slowly wove her way through the sleeping menagerie and got comfortably settled in the recliner...immediately falling fast asleep. My settling took a great deal longer, due to the fact that a love seat is in no way long nor large enough for a grown, sleep deprived woman to fit herself into comfortably enough to sleep for half of the night. Following an individual game of "Twister" I finally found an endurable resting position. Just as I was delightfully drifting off I was startled by a wet, slurpy "kiss" from Fortson. I patted his head, thanked him for the late night romantic gesture and hoped he would be pacified, thus returning to his doggie dreams. No such luck... He then decided that if kisses didn't work to get my attention, he would take his paw and wack me on the face.

When I finally got Fortson settled and turned over to resume my sleep I heard drip, drip, drip...the pesky kitchen faucet. Took care of that and once again wadded myself onto the love seat. Now...finally I could get some rest. However, Charley, the Pekingese chose that time to begin scratching and chewing his allergies. Now, getting rather irritated, I picked up Charley and put him out the back door and for good measure I "invited" Fortson out also. I staggered back to the loveseat, got tucked in again when ..."whop", something suddenly landed on my back. It was Squeak, who found this late night hour the perfect time to knead, purr and pace up and down her "person". About that time Fortson decided to bang on the storm door. His signal to "Please let me back inside". I had hoped he would develop some rhythm to his knocks, which would help lull me to sleep, but apparently he knew the trick of getting my attention, so he banged at random intervals; which made everything worse. Biting my tongue (my personal limit of tolerance reliever) I stomped off the loveseat, muttered some "unmentionables" and let the dang dog back inside. Well, let's not leave sweet Betsy Marie out of this magnigicant circus performance. I had no idea she was so talented. Her snoring rendition of " Row, Row Row your Boat" is really outstanding! Oh, well...what's another pebble in your shoe.

Just as the sandman was arriving I heard Mom begin to awaken and being afraid that she would try to get up from the recliner, trip and fall, I shook my groggy head, angrily flung back the quilt, with Squeak attached and stumbled across in the room to check on Mom. She looked up, smiled sweetly and said, "What do I do next?" I said, "Next, we go back to your bed, Mom." It was 3 am when dazed and bedraggled I slowly clawed and crawled my way up the stairs and fell exhaused into the cold bed. In what seemed like just moments, but was actually four hours later, I heard, through the baby monitor, the deep voice of our son talking to someone. I jumped from my stupor and lumbered downstairs where I found Mom, dazed and puzzled, sitting on the lounge in our guest bedroom. "How long have you been up ?" I asked. Mom replied, "I don't know." Tonight I am praying for a "dooziless" night. Please, take pity, and join me in prayer!

Gotta love those elders.

Jane-Ann Heitmueller

The History of the Great American MoonPie

The Chattanooga Bakery was founded in the early 1900's as a subsidiary of the Mountain City Flour Mill in Chattanooga, Tennessee. The bakery's original purpose was to use the excess flour produced by the mill. By 1910, the bakery offered over 200 different confectionery items. In 1917, the bakery developed a product which is still known as the MoonPie. The exact history of how the MoonPie was invented was never documented by the Chattanooga Bakery, but one historian, Ronald Dickson of Charlotte, North Carolina, believes he found the "missing link."

In his book, "The Great American MoonPie Handbook", Mr. Dickson had written of the MoonPie's® lost history. Not long after his book was published, he received a telephone call from Earl Mitchell, Jr., identifying his deceased father, Earl Mitchell, Sr., as the person responsible for the invention of the MoonPie®.

Mr. Mitchell’s story goes like this ... Early in the 1900s, while servicing his territory of Kentucky, Tennessee and West Virginia, Mr. Mitchell was visiting a company store that catered to the coal miners. He asked them what they might enjoy as a snack. The miners said they wanted something for their lunch pails. It had to be solid and filling. “About how big?,!” Mr. Mitchell asked. Well about that time the moon was rising, so a miner held out his big hands, framing the moon and said, “About that big!” So, with that in mind, Mr. Mitchell headed back to the bakery with an idea. Upon his return he noticed some of the workers dipping graham cookies into marshmallow and laying them on the window sill to harden. So they added another cookie and a generous coating of chocolate and sent them back for the workers to try. In fact, they sent MoonPie® samples around with their other salespeople, too. The response they got back was so enormous that the MoonPie® became a regular item for the bakery.

By the late 1950's, the MoonPie® had grown in popularity, so much that the bakery did not have the resources available to produce anything else. The phrase "RC Cola and a MoonPie®" became well known around the South, as many people enjoyed this delicious, bargain-priced combination.


Visit the website here

:)