My cousin-in-law posted on Facebook about living in modern day cotton country. It brought back a flood of memories I thought I'd share. First, the view from our front step was not much different than the current photo at the top of my blog.
It was 1959-1960. I rode to school with my dad in his 1953 Chevy pick-up. Hank Williams was still getting radio air play. "I'm so lonesome I could cry..." struck a nerve in that flat lonely isolated landscape. I played my dad's Jimmy Rodgers, Hank Williams and Johnny Horton LP's. There was a Nixon-Kennedy billboard on the road into town. Our party line ring was two shorts and a long. Drinking water came from a cistern. Canned goods were stored in a dug out cellar, with its musty smell and refuge from tornadoes. There was one tv channel when the weather was right. It was there on that black little box I fell in love with Annie Oakley. Played by Gail Davis. My first unrequited love.
We lived in a rural community of Hester. It was on an old KATY spur and down the road was an abandoned cotton gin. Dad was pastor of Hester Baptist Church. The building was a converted WPA school house. There was no running water in the church. A his and her's 4 seat outhouse sat next to the fence. The farmer behind us ran some cattle there and he used an electric fence. On a dare, I once peed on that fence. You will only do that once. We lived in the parsonage next door. Surrounded by cotton fields, my anal retentive compulsive cleaning mom fought the dust there for 5 years.
This was still the day of migrant farm workers. Families from Mexico would travel north following the various harvests. Cotton was still picked by hand in those days. It was back breaking work. Stooped over, you'd drag this long duct cotton sack picking the cotton balls from the spiky, thorny hull. When your sack was full, you'd take it to the truck, it would be weighed. You were paid by how much cotton you picked. Many of the farmers still had migrant camps. They were old ramshackled huts that provided shelter for the couple of weeks it took to pick cotton.
Dad taught Spanish at Martha High School. This meant when ever there was problem, usually a birth, the migrants were sent to our house at all hours of the night so my dad could translate.
On a clear sunny day, I'd watch the crop duster daredevils spray the cotton fields. They would come in low, under the power lines sometimes. I would imagine them as P38 fighters coming in for a strafe on my bunker in the bar ditch.
We were poor in those days so steak was a real treat. Dad had a little tripod charcoal grill on the back porch and was grilling us some steaks. I imagine one of the church members butchered a calf and gave us the steaks. I look up and I see dad running down the cotton row, spatula in hand chasing the Ferrel cat that just snatched the steak off the grill. I once was playing in the irrigation ditch and caught a mess of small fish in the drain. I gathered them up in a box and took them home. I filled a wash tub with water and ran in to get mom to show her. When we emerged from the house, the tub was empty. Damn Ferrel cats again.
Thanks to Senator Robert S Kerr and the irrigation projects of the 50's, cotton farming in western Oklahoma was tolerable. Boll weevils were dealt with by harsh chemicals. The mechanized cotton harvester made migrant workers obsolete. Western Oklahoma and Texas are littered with small abandoned cotton gins. A cotton farmer can now farm thousands of acres instead of a few hundred.
I'd still like to once more travel those old country roads in an old 50's Chevy pickup with Hank on the radio.
COTTON FIELDS
by Huddie Ledbetter aka Leadbelly
When I was a little bitty baby
My mama would rock me in my cradle
In those old cotton fields back home
When I was a little bitty baby
My mama would rock me in my cradle
In those old cotton fields back home
Oh, when those cotton ball get rotten
You can't pick very much cotton
In them old cotton fields back home
It was back in Louisiana
Just about a mile from Texarkana
In them old cotton fields back home
When I was a little bitty baby
My mama would rock me in my cradle
In them old cotton fields back home
When I was a little bitty baby
My mama would rock me in my cradle
In those old cotton fields back home
Oh, when those cotton ball get rotten
You can't pick very much cotton
In them old cotton fields back home
It was back in Louisiana
Just about a mile from Texarkana
In those old cotton fields back home
In those old cotton fields back home...
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
"Get your freak on." TSA
If you have been following the news, a woman recently traveled carrying her personal battery powered phallus in her luggage. A TSA agent inspected her luggage and on the inspection notice left in her bag wrote, "Get your freak on girl." The passenger turned out to be a blogger and a lawyer.
I know that the busiest flying day of the year is coming up. It would be an interesting conceptual art piece if every flier on that day carried their own personal battery powered phallus in the luggage, their carry on bags, their pockets; if they wrote on it, "Get your freak on, TSA." If personal battery powered phallus' were piled up at airport security check points through out the USA. Art for Freedom's sake.
Who'd a thought the TSA has it's own blog?
I know that the busiest flying day of the year is coming up. It would be an interesting conceptual art piece if every flier on that day carried their own personal battery powered phallus in the luggage, their carry on bags, their pockets; if they wrote on it, "Get your freak on, TSA." If personal battery powered phallus' were piled up at airport security check points through out the USA. Art for Freedom's sake.
Who'd a thought the TSA has it's own blog?
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Inspiration in the Strangest Things
It has been a long dry spell. Since my mom died in late July, I have not been too inspired to make art. But sometimes you find inspiration in the strangest things. I read a headline about a woman being beaten by a frozen armadillo. I immediately envisioned my next painting. The working title is, "Awaiting the Secret Service."
While I was in Oklahoma for my mom's funeral, I learned Casa Vieja was having to close. They were major supporters of my art. I had just completed a series entitled, "Places of Corrales" to go with my earlier series, "Faces of Corrales." Now, I have no where to hang them. I miss Casa, the food, the bar, the friends. John, we need to meet for a beer.
When I was 13, my uncle let me use his Remington pump 22 to shoot jackrabbits and armadillos. His only instruction was not to hit any cows. I wish I had that 22 rifle, it was a fine weapon. Maybe if I sell a painting or two, I can buy me a new one. I recently looked at a new one, beautiful. Armadillos were filthy animals. Their ears were filled with all manor of entomology. Never ate armadillo, though like most rodent food, I hear it tastes like chicken. I can't imagine being beat by a frozen one or choosing one as a weapon. Death by Dasypodidae.
I read this morning that the First Lady is pissed at Paula Dean, queen of the fried Snickers bar. Apparently she dished the dirt on the First Food Nazi, spilling the beans as it were about FLOTUS' love of wings, ribs and all things fried, and her pigging out during commercials during taping of FFN's recent visit to Paula's set. Fear is this will hurt sales of "American Made," FLOTUS' book on the White House Garden and her secret life as a healthy person. I hope Paula stirs the pot here, I'd love to see a good cat fight, or in this instance a good food fight. I think Paula can take her. Long live freedom of food!
I was saddened by the death of Steve Jobs. I bought one of the first Macintoshes in 1984. Paid $2000 for it. I realized the world was about to change. (if only I had bought stock) I have been an Apple lover ever since. In the end, he too, like all of us will have to face the great Programmer in the Sky. Life has no on/off switch, only a reboot. Something only Windows' users understand.
Winter is upon us. Fireplaces are cleaned. Firewood stacked. Pellets in. Horse tank heaters and heat tape will be in by tonight. Ordered my winter bicycle apparel. Winter sweaters ordered. I still need to pull out my flannel jeans and long sleeve T's. My wife will want to buy her new horses blankets. Hun, don't read that last sentence, didn't want to give you any ideas.
I read about the Occupy movement and the Arab Spring with some consternation. I fear neither will result in freedom and individual liberty. The history of governments is tyranny. The American Experience has been so unique in world history. I fear we fail to see that. I fear my children will not know it.
As Gene Autry put it, "I'm back in the saddle again."
While I was in Oklahoma for my mom's funeral, I learned Casa Vieja was having to close. They were major supporters of my art. I had just completed a series entitled, "Places of Corrales" to go with my earlier series, "Faces of Corrales." Now, I have no where to hang them. I miss Casa, the food, the bar, the friends. John, we need to meet for a beer.
When I was 13, my uncle let me use his Remington pump 22 to shoot jackrabbits and armadillos. His only instruction was not to hit any cows. I wish I had that 22 rifle, it was a fine weapon. Maybe if I sell a painting or two, I can buy me a new one. I recently looked at a new one, beautiful. Armadillos were filthy animals. Their ears were filled with all manor of entomology. Never ate armadillo, though like most rodent food, I hear it tastes like chicken. I can't imagine being beat by a frozen one or choosing one as a weapon. Death by Dasypodidae.
I read this morning that the First Lady is pissed at Paula Dean, queen of the fried Snickers bar. Apparently she dished the dirt on the First Food Nazi, spilling the beans as it were about FLOTUS' love of wings, ribs and all things fried, and her pigging out during commercials during taping of FFN's recent visit to Paula's set. Fear is this will hurt sales of "American Made," FLOTUS' book on the White House Garden and her secret life as a healthy person. I hope Paula stirs the pot here, I'd love to see a good cat fight, or in this instance a good food fight. I think Paula can take her. Long live freedom of food!
I was saddened by the death of Steve Jobs. I bought one of the first Macintoshes in 1984. Paid $2000 for it. I realized the world was about to change. (if only I had bought stock) I have been an Apple lover ever since. In the end, he too, like all of us will have to face the great Programmer in the Sky. Life has no on/off switch, only a reboot. Something only Windows' users understand.
Winter is upon us. Fireplaces are cleaned. Firewood stacked. Pellets in. Horse tank heaters and heat tape will be in by tonight. Ordered my winter bicycle apparel. Winter sweaters ordered. I still need to pull out my flannel jeans and long sleeve T's. My wife will want to buy her new horses blankets. Hun, don't read that last sentence, didn't want to give you any ideas.
I read about the Occupy movement and the Arab Spring with some consternation. I fear neither will result in freedom and individual liberty. The history of governments is tyranny. The American Experience has been so unique in world history. I fear we fail to see that. I fear my children will not know it.
As Gene Autry put it, "I'm back in the saddle again."
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monday Ramblings
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| Random Thoughts of Children |
If you read my blog regularly, you know I hate most contemporary Christian music. It is just bad POP music done badly. A song leader with spiked hair, gyrating, making love to the microphone. Well, I saw something Sunday I thought I'd never see at church: A FOG MACHINE. Not only a fog machine, but a light show. What's next? Lady Gaga meat choir robes? Oh, how I long for an out of tune upright piano and song leader beating out 4/4 time to an old familiar hymn. Here is a link to an article that says it all. The Wittenberg Door
Monday evening it rained. First rain in almost six months. It sure smelled good, but not enough to register on my rain gauge. Work in my studio is going slow, the fact it's a 100 degrees in there doesn't help. I have eight new paintings; all in need of frames. Pray for rain and a painting sale.
Navel lint: My wife used to always ask me what I am thinking. Navel lint! Well, on the way to school this morning, I asked my eight year old son what he is thinking? "Nothing," was his reply. "Don't you think of nothing daddy?" We men learn early.
American Express called me this past week. Apparently I bought two first class tickets in Sal Paulo on the Brazilian National Airline. Hmmmm. Damn, I wish I could have enjoyed that trip.
I want to thank all my followers in the Ukraine, France and Denmark, let me hear from you. Hiram Ditty
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Veterinarians and Swine
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| A Coyote's View of the Growers' Market, 30 x 40 inches, Acrylic on Canvas, $2028.00 |
Some friends of ours just had kids. the four legged kind, cloven hooves and cud chewing. Small ruminates in veterinarian parlance. Can't get a vet out to see them and check on them; risking a future source of homemade goat cheese.
Most small farms don't have hogs anymore. When I was a child, a sow and some piglets were as common as chickens and fresh farm eggs. My uncle once raised the FFA grand champion hog in Texas. My house covenants prohibit pigs, I can have anything else, my neighbor has a camel, but not pigs! If that wasn't the case I think I would have a hog to fatten. Of course my kids would name it and not want me to butcher it and then they'd miss the experience of slinging chitlins.
Gone are the days when restaurants used to sort their wet garbage for the local hog farmers. Hog slop. We feed our chickens our vegetable scraps, they love it. Chicken slop.
When I was about eight, we were out at Bill Sheppard's place near Llano. His sow had just had a litter of pigs. I picked up one of the piglets. It squealed and here comes mama around the corner, teeth flared out ready to bite my chubby little ass. I dropped that piglet and ran to the fence, jumping up just in time to miss being swine behind.
Speaking of camels, our horse doc fixed that camel next door. I am curious, what question would you ask a vet who just castrated a camel? I await your answers.
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| The Old Church at Dawn 30 inch by 24 inch Acrylic on Canvas, $1,216.00 |
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| The Old Church at Dusk 30 inch by 24 inch Acrylic on Canvas, $1,216.00 |
Speaking of balls, my wife used to work with a real "caballo culo" who liked to toss his testes on the table. I bought her the biggest pair of pink truck balls I could find so she could show him she had balls too. They now proudly hang in my bar b q shack. The truck balls that is... she keeps his in her purse as a souvenir.
So the moral of this story is... don't throw your balls on the table with my wife, you just might lose them, if you want to be a veterinarian consider Iowa, after all it's only five years and you'll have no student loans to pay back, don't pick up piglets when mama sow is around and we need more goat vets. God Bless.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Ben Franklin's Letter to Madame Brillon
My father turned me on to the writings of Ben Franklin. We have all, at one time or another, paid too much for our whistles. Today's world makes it difficult to teach children the true value of their whistles. I wonder if we as a country we have paid too much for our whistles.
To Madame Brillon
I received my dear friend’s two letters, one for Wednesday and one for Saturday. This is again Wednesday. I do not deserve one for to-day, because I have not answered the former. But, indolent as I am, and averse to writing, the fear of having no more of your pleasing epistles, if I do not contribute to the correspondence, obliges me to take up my pen; and as Mr. B. has kindly sent me word that he sets out to-morrow to see you, instead of spending this Wednesday evening, as I have done its namesakes, in your delightful company, I sit down to spend it in thinking of you, in writing to you, and in reading over and over again your letters.
I am charmed with your description of Paradise, and with your plan of living there; and I approve much of your conclusion, that, in the meantime, we should draw all the good we can from this world. In my opinion we might all draw more good from it than we do, and suffer less evil, if we would take care not to give too much for whistles. For to me it seems that most of the unhappy people we meet with are become so by neglect of that caution.
You ask what I mean? You love stories, and will excuse my telling one of myself.
When I was a child of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children; and being charmed with the sound of a whistle, that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.
This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, Don’t give too much for the whistle; and I saved my money.
As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.
When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, this man gives too much for his whistle.
When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, "He pays, indeed," said I, "too much for his whistle."
If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, "Poor man," said I, "you pay too much for your whistle."
When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporeal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, "Mistaken man," said I, "you are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure; you give too much for your whistle."
If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in a prison, "Alas!" say I, "he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle."
When I see a beautiful sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured brute of a husband, "What a pity," say I, "that she should pay so much for a whistle!"
In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.
Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider that, with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John, which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put to sale by auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and find that I had once more given too much for the whistle.
Adieu, my dear friend, and believe me ever yours very sincerely and with unalterable affection.
To Madame Brillon
I received my dear friend’s two letters, one for Wednesday and one for Saturday. This is again Wednesday. I do not deserve one for to-day, because I have not answered the former. But, indolent as I am, and averse to writing, the fear of having no more of your pleasing epistles, if I do not contribute to the correspondence, obliges me to take up my pen; and as Mr. B. has kindly sent me word that he sets out to-morrow to see you, instead of spending this Wednesday evening, as I have done its namesakes, in your delightful company, I sit down to spend it in thinking of you, in writing to you, and in reading over and over again your letters.
I am charmed with your description of Paradise, and with your plan of living there; and I approve much of your conclusion, that, in the meantime, we should draw all the good we can from this world. In my opinion we might all draw more good from it than we do, and suffer less evil, if we would take care not to give too much for whistles. For to me it seems that most of the unhappy people we meet with are become so by neglect of that caution.
You ask what I mean? You love stories, and will excuse my telling one of myself.
When I was a child of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children; and being charmed with the sound of a whistle, that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.
This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, Don’t give too much for the whistle; and I saved my money.
As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.
When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, this man gives too much for his whistle.
When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, "He pays, indeed," said I, "too much for his whistle."
If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, "Poor man," said I, "you pay too much for your whistle."
When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporeal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, "Mistaken man," said I, "you are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure; you give too much for your whistle."
If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in a prison, "Alas!" say I, "he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle."
When I see a beautiful sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured brute of a husband, "What a pity," say I, "that she should pay so much for a whistle!"
In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.
Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider that, with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John, which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put to sale by auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and find that I had once more given too much for the whistle.
Adieu, my dear friend, and believe me ever yours very sincerely and with unalterable affection.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Yankees vs. Texans or the war between the condiments.
My wife (she hates it when I start sentences with "My wife.") is a Yankee. My wife was born in Connecticut. I was born in Wichita Falls. This has made for some interesting differences.
First, my wife grew up with lobster, clams and cod. Seafood. The only "seafood" I saw growing up was catfish, canned salmon and canned tuna. This all lead to the excessive use of tartar sauce. However, tartar sauce is French:
"Tartar sauce, or as the French refer to it, sauce tartare, consists of mayonnaise, mustard, chives, chopped gherkins, and tarragon, according to C. Owen's "Choice Cooking," circa 1889. In French, it is loosely translated as 'rough,' as the Tartars were considered rough, violent, and savage. It is commonly served with fish. Yum yum."
Now my recipe is mayonnaise, mustard, dill pickle relish, lemon juice, capers, minced onion, minced pickled jalapenos. This is great on just about anything! My wife is of French ancestry, now that she knows tartar sauce is a French concoction, she should look on it more favorably. Not!
Second, no one ever feed my wife fried okra growing up. My grandmother would dredge just about any vegetable in cornmeal and fry it in bacon fat: squash, okra, eggplant, green tomatoes, then add some animal teste, lots of ketchup and you got a real meal. When I met my wife 8 years ago, she'd never eaten fried okra. So if fixed some and she didn't like it. Now if I didn't love her, that could have been a deal breaker. Of course the first time she eat lamb fries, she oooo'd over them until I told her what they were. (she'll deny she liked um, but I saw the look on her face, she loved um.)
Third, my wife fails to grasp the virtue of condiments. Granted in the south, ofttimes, food was not as tasty as some Yankees had it. After all, Sherman burned so much of the south there was little left so condiments came into favor. My wife doesn't accept the fact that a spoon is an acceptable utensil for the dispensing of condiments, and that almost any food can benefit from the addition of a condiment.
What is a condiment? well, Mayonnaise, Miracle Whip, mustard-yellow, Dijon, Cajun, hot, course, ketchup, bar b q sauce, ranch dressing, soy sauce, Heinz 57, AI steak sauce, Tabasco and all its variations and brands, (I keep10 or so on hand at all times.), horseradish, wing sauces, Marie's Blue Cheese Dressing, malt vinegar, shrimp cocktail sauce, sport peppers in vinegar, Worcester sauce. If I forgot your favorite, let me know. I have found that the leading national brands make the best condiments. House mayo or ketchup are especially bad.
I am particularly fond of Bar B Q sauce, especially my own, "Hiram Ditty's." It is a variation of one my dad got from Joe Doughty. Joe was an army buddy of dad's from China. Joe was a real Kentucky hillbilly preacher. When dad was back in the service during Korea, he stopped by Joe's for a visit. Dad was in his mid twenties. Joe and his wife fixed dad up on a blind date. She was 15. Gotta love them hill folk. Once on a family visit when I was in grade school, Joe served up raccoon for dinner. Now there's a meat that'll make you appreciate condiments. It was once said you could eat a horse turd with enough ketchup. I have a relative who wouldn't let his kid eat mashed potatoes with ketchup, but he liked it on cottage cheese. Talk about inconsistencies.
Over the years, I have experimented with condiment variations. Cumin ketchup is one of them. It is great with sweet potato fries. Dust the fries with good New Mexico red chili powder. Mix ketchup, ground cumin and balsamic vinegar for a tasty compliment to the sweet and hot of the fries. If you want some of my favorite condiment recipes, let me know.
We are back in the studio and working on a series, "Places of Corrales" to go with my "Faces..." series. Hope to have a show later this year.
By the way, I have 20 Ukrainian hits this week. Either fans or identity thieves.
First, my wife grew up with lobster, clams and cod. Seafood. The only "seafood" I saw growing up was catfish, canned salmon and canned tuna. This all lead to the excessive use of tartar sauce. However, tartar sauce is French:
"Tartar sauce, or as the French refer to it, sauce tartare, consists of mayonnaise, mustard, chives, chopped gherkins, and tarragon, according to C. Owen's "Choice Cooking," circa 1889. In French, it is loosely translated as 'rough,' as the Tartars were considered rough, violent, and savage. It is commonly served with fish. Yum yum."
Now my recipe is mayonnaise, mustard, dill pickle relish, lemon juice, capers, minced onion, minced pickled jalapenos. This is great on just about anything! My wife is of French ancestry, now that she knows tartar sauce is a French concoction, she should look on it more favorably. Not!
Second, no one ever feed my wife fried okra growing up. My grandmother would dredge just about any vegetable in cornmeal and fry it in bacon fat: squash, okra, eggplant, green tomatoes, then add some animal teste, lots of ketchup and you got a real meal. When I met my wife 8 years ago, she'd never eaten fried okra. So if fixed some and she didn't like it. Now if I didn't love her, that could have been a deal breaker. Of course the first time she eat lamb fries, she oooo'd over them until I told her what they were. (she'll deny she liked um, but I saw the look on her face, she loved um.)
Third, my wife fails to grasp the virtue of condiments. Granted in the south, ofttimes, food was not as tasty as some Yankees had it. After all, Sherman burned so much of the south there was little left so condiments came into favor. My wife doesn't accept the fact that a spoon is an acceptable utensil for the dispensing of condiments, and that almost any food can benefit from the addition of a condiment.
What is a condiment? well, Mayonnaise, Miracle Whip, mustard-yellow, Dijon, Cajun, hot, course, ketchup, bar b q sauce, ranch dressing, soy sauce, Heinz 57, AI steak sauce, Tabasco and all its variations and brands, (I keep10 or so on hand at all times.), horseradish, wing sauces, Marie's Blue Cheese Dressing, malt vinegar, shrimp cocktail sauce, sport peppers in vinegar, Worcester sauce. If I forgot your favorite, let me know. I have found that the leading national brands make the best condiments. House mayo or ketchup are especially bad.
I am particularly fond of Bar B Q sauce, especially my own, "Hiram Ditty's." It is a variation of one my dad got from Joe Doughty. Joe was an army buddy of dad's from China. Joe was a real Kentucky hillbilly preacher. When dad was back in the service during Korea, he stopped by Joe's for a visit. Dad was in his mid twenties. Joe and his wife fixed dad up on a blind date. She was 15. Gotta love them hill folk. Once on a family visit when I was in grade school, Joe served up raccoon for dinner. Now there's a meat that'll make you appreciate condiments. It was once said you could eat a horse turd with enough ketchup. I have a relative who wouldn't let his kid eat mashed potatoes with ketchup, but he liked it on cottage cheese. Talk about inconsistencies.
Over the years, I have experimented with condiment variations. Cumin ketchup is one of them. It is great with sweet potato fries. Dust the fries with good New Mexico red chili powder. Mix ketchup, ground cumin and balsamic vinegar for a tasty compliment to the sweet and hot of the fries. If you want some of my favorite condiment recipes, let me know.
We are back in the studio and working on a series, "Places of Corrales" to go with my "Faces..." series. Hope to have a show later this year.
By the way, I have 20 Ukrainian hits this week. Either fans or identity thieves.
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