When a Southern Woman Rambles..., L. Avery Brown [easy books to read in english .TXT] 📗

an important part of the day is greatly cherished. Which is why I cherished going out each Sunday to have breakfast with my mother. It was a tradition started shortly after my daughter was born. And up until the time my mother had a stroke and came to live with me, 'Sunday mornings with Mom' (or G-Ma, if my daughter came along) was a ritual. It was a constant that gave me a chance to decompress and her a chance to simply 'get out'. 

 

And another constant in our once weekly, early morning dining excursions is the type of breakfast places we would visit.  Neither one of us were ever big fans of the large chain restaurants like Denny’s or IHOP even though we will, on occasion, drop by for a visit. Sometimes the need for an IHOP Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘N Fruity or a Denny's Lumberjack Slam is hard to resist. Of course the two meals are essentially the same thing only with the Lumberjack you get piece of grilled honey ham and you don’t get any fruit compote or whipped topping on your pancakes. (Not whipped cream, mind you - whipped topping - which makes me wonder, just where do the ‘tops’ that are whipped come from?) But then again, I seriously doubt that any self-respecting lumberjack would dare cover his pancakes with fruit or whipped anything.

 

There were days when we'd brave the early morning crowds at the Cracker Barrel so we could enjoy the scrumptious buttermilk biscuits and thick, crispy fried bacon. But unless we got to the CB very early, we had to wait for all the traveling folks (those who'd been traveling on the interstate throughout the night to get to wherever they were headed) to be served. I must say, I loved listening to the folks from up North ask questions like 'What's Sawmill Gravy? Country-fried steak, for breakfast? Really? And then there was my favorite question . . .  Hashbrown casserole? How can you make hashbrowns into a casserole?'

 

My mother and I would just giggle as we did shifty-eyed glanes at them like the poor-unfortunate food souls sitting within earshot. After all, casseroles are one of the first things both she and I learned to cook. If it can't be made into a one-dish does all meal, is it worth making? My father used to call a good casserole 'sneaky fixins'. Now, when I go out with my own daughter we do the 'bless their souls' giggle whenever we hear similar questions. 

 

Oh, yes, Cracker Barrel is a nice place to visit. Especially the nifty Country Store you have to walk through before you are actually seated. It's filled with all sorts of uniquely Southern goodies. But Mother and I never had to wait too long since it was just the two of us. Only we never got one of the 'cool' tables by the fireplace or near the big tic-tac-toe boards. No. We were always seated at a four-top that really only seated two comfortably next to the wall. And sometimes, even if we were in the direct line of sight to the kitchen, we'd be forgotten because the big tables with ten, twelve, sometimes twenty guests always got preferential treatment. And after that happened every single time we would go there, it sort of lost its 'folksy charm'.

 

Now there were some Sundays when we would be feeling somewhat cosmopolitan and would find ourselves at Panera Bread nibbling on double toasted Everything Bagels or warm Spinach and Artichoke soufflés. Or better yet we might opt for something a bit more traditional like an egg sandwich complete with bacon and cheese. Of course, when it’s put between freshly sliced Ciabatta bread - it magically transforms from ‘traditional’ to ‘gourmet haute couture’. 

 

However, odds were most likely during our years of Sunday morning outings that my mother and I would wind up at one of the smaller, locally owned and operated places in town. There was nothing rootin’ or slammin’ or fancy-falootin’ about any of those quaint little restaurants because they were the sorts of places that couldn't afford all that glitz, glamour, or gourmet hoo-dooey. And you could be fairly well assured that there would be no expertly twisted paper thin slices of oranges carefully placed on a leaf of some sort of lettuce that looks more like a weed than anything edible so as to balance out the overall story of the food offered at any of the local eateries. 

 

Don't get me wrong. I’m all for fine dining. In fact, I love all the aspects of going out for a gourmet meal: the muted lighting; the soft, freshly cleaned napkins; and, the leather bound menus that offer delicacies like filet mignon with a light burgundy cream sauce or crispy pan seared duck. Yes, those are the kinds of things I enjoy when I step out for a night on the town. Likewise, I love and appreciate the beauty in a well presented plate, too. However, when it comes to my breakfast, what I’m looking for is a good, hearty, stick to your ribs sort of meal that will give me the get up and go I need to get my day underway. 

 

One of our favorites to grab Sunday breakfast was a little place off of Interstate 40 close to the Piedmont Triad Farmer's Market called Carolina’s Diner. Every time we'd make our way there I'd catch myself humming 'Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning...' because that upbeat sort of vibe is exactly what I'd feel whenever I opened that heavy door. 

 

And it really is a good, old-fashioned diner complete with a Formica covered dining counter and uncomfortable, well-worn, round stationary stools with seats that spin around and allow the sitter to look into the open kitchen. I remember being a little girl and always wanting to sit at one of those seats because they spun around. But I also remember not being allowed to because my parents worried about me spilling my juice all over me and everyone and everything around me. (It was a brief childhood phase . I out grew it. I hardly ever spill my juice now!)

 

Of course whenever I would look at those seats that familiar youthful longing to sit’n’spin was still there but I was (and still am) able to put it out of my mind. However, I don’t know if it’s because I’m older now or if it’s because I know that if I wanted to sit on one of those stools, I could which sort of takes the thrill out of being able to do it. But spinny seats or no spinny seats, the regular booths at Carolina's were just fine even if the seats were a bit too bouncy and tables had an annoying wobble tbecause those are the kinds of things that helped add to the ambiance of the whole place. (If the wobble ever got too annoying all I had to do was grab a few pink Sweet-n-Low packets and shove them under one of the wobbly legs. Then voilà! Wobbly problem solved.)

 

They was a jukebox that played all of 'today's hits' at Carolina’s, too. Although, technically it was a CD-jukebox but it still took quarters. Only I don't think I ever saw anyone use it because there was always bouncy music from the '50s and '60s piped though out the place. It could have been that people used it during other feasting times but never once in the years that we went there do I ever remember it having been used by a patron. Maybe it's because listening to bubble gum pop (or cross-over country rock) at 7:15 in on a Sunday morning simply isn't all that appetizing. 

 

The walls were decorated with photos of classic cars and long time patrons; many of whom used to own the cars in the pictures that adorn the walls. The waitresses, who refered to my mother as Miss Lavinia, all wore handmade name tags that they embellished with smiley faces, flowers, and pastel swirly lines. But I must say that one of the best part of going there was that we'd we were such loyal patrons we had a booth that was ‘our’ booth. And thos the staff there knew us so well they'd even have our usual drinks in hand as we make our way to the booth. Being such die-hard fans of the place, I always wondered if maybe one day our picture would wind up on one of the walls at Carolina's Diner.

 

Ambiance and a courteous staff are nice, for sure. But more important than that was the real reason why we frequented the place so often . . . the food. It was terrifically good. And there was so much variety. 

 

Bacon (Thick or thin cut? Traditional or maple seasoned?) Sausage (Links or patties? Mild or spicy?) Livermush (Okay so I'm not a fan of livermush in the least little bit but my mother swore up and down it was some of the best she'd ever had) Corned beef hash (Crispy of soft? Want the egg mixed with it or to the side?) Pork chop, steak, country ham, city ham, or maybe some chicken-n-waffles?

 

Once we decided on our meat because remember, if it doesn't have 'meat' it isn't a Southern meal, we had to pick our bread because bread came with every breakfast meal. White toast was the standard that would come with every meal and is buttered for you, unless we told them otherwise. And yes, they did have bagels there. (Good grief, we might have been in the South but contrary to popular belief, we southrons do enjoy a tasty rye bread or bagel on occasion!) 

 

But bread wasn't our only carbohydrate because we always got prebuttered grits* too. And by always I mean even if we ordered hash browns we also go grits. Essentially, I would not recommend Carolina's Diner to anybody trying to cut down on carbs. Nope.

 

Then, topping it all off were . . . the eggs. 

 

No. One cannot forget about the eggs after all eggs are the axis around which a good, hearty breakfast rotates. And at our favorite little breakfast spot the eggs were cooked to 100% perfection no matter what your point of perfection may be. For myself, the perfect egg is fried with the whites cooked (as in not one spot of clear, gelatanous looking goo anywhere on the plate) and the yellow is firm on the outside and runny on the inside. Sounds easy, I know but you’d be surprised how difficult that is for some cooks to accomplish. 

 

 Oh, how my mother and I would talk and laugh during that two or three hours every Sunday. And when my mother and I would leave, our bellies were always full and our hearts were so light. Yes, it’s true we probably ingested more fat, calories and carbs than a grizzly bear downs before it goes into hibernation. But hey, it was just once a week. And sometimes, you just have to let your hair down so you can enjoy an indulgence!  

 

Those Sundays were the absolute best. It's been a few years since we've been able to enjoy them that way. Now, we still have Sunday breakfast but it's usually a quiet, late morning affair. And we don't chat like we used to because it hasn't been easy to have long, fluid conversations with my mother since her stroke. But I have all those wonderful memories and she has them, too.

 

Breakfast. They used to say it’s the most important meal of the day. But I seem to remember reading recently that now they say it's not any more or less important than the other meals during the day. Well, I don’t know who they are but I think I would have to argue the point if I ever met them.