Black-Eyed Peas and a wink to the North

I'm officially a Southerner. Not just a Texan, but a Southerner because I'm making black-eyed peas for tomorrow.

This is something I really didn't understand when I first met The Dave. Even before we were married, he insisted we go to his parents' on January first and eat black-eyed peas. I was clueless. And hungover. And confused. Mostly hungover.

To sum up, everyone "down here" eats black-eyed peas on New Years' Day. It's a superstitious thing, but no one will say so. They just say it's "tradition" and "it's just what we do" but it's a good old pagan thing, as far as I'm concerned.

I love all things pagan. I also love my in-laws, who reject all outward signs of religion--their Christianity, specifically. There are no crosses displayed in their home. The only angels displayed are usually playing violins and usually a gift from my mom. For the record, there's also no crosses in their church. It's part of their dogma. Which they insist isn't dogma. But I won't get dogmatic at you right now.

This black-eyed pea thing--it represents abundance, or wealth, or fruitfulness or whatever in the coming year. I guess we're supposed to also eat collard greens, which represents folding money, but I don't quite picture myself making collard greens so I'll just eat some romaine lettuce instead. Oh, there's supposed to be pork, too, so the peas will be made in stock from the ham bone from Christmas. If the peas are the coins and the greens are the dollars, I don't know what the pork is supposed to be, but I know the peas would taste really bland without it.

It's really funny how my in-laws, with a very deliberate avoidance of any outward representation of their religion, always faithfully participate in this annual pagan ritual that's all about money.

So I'm making black-eyed peas. Because it's just what we do down here.

My Christmas present

Lovin' the alma mater today.

We tell him he's "special."

Sorry, re-post for Brent

I've recently heard from my hometown friend Brent, and I wanted him to read the following post, but for some reason the 2006 posts have dissappeared. Fuck them, but whatever.

This is from July 2006.



Bit of a travelogue this evening. You get bored, move on. But there
really is a point to this one.

This past weekend, I took a quick trip to the Homeland. You know, that
place near the Canadian border where I was cloned.

Here's the backstory:

The BeerHound has a not so secret desire to be "surprised" by a family
reunion. In the past, she's hoped that my brother would just randomly
fly to Texas when my parents were also visiting, and other suchlike
situations. She's a dreamer, that BeerHound.

So...she had planned a weekend with the Cloning Donors. They were to
come down to lovely southeastern Minnesota (along I90) to go to a car
show. Usually, the Donors come for medical appointments, or to stop by
while on their way elsewhere to points further South, but this was
just for a real visit, for once.

Offhandedly, my brother--The Boy--and his wife Little Deb-y said they
might also be able to make it down for the car show and family herding
opportunity.

So I started thinking. Always dangerous, that.

I conspired with The Boy and Little Deb-y to make the BeerHound's
dream a reality.

So I had to use subterfuge. To mislead. Bamboozle, if you will. (I
talk to the BeerHound daily.) She was frustrated (spittin' nails,
actually) at the changes the Clones and The Boy and put upon her, and
I can't lie worth shit, so I just didn't talk to her much.

Skipping the details, I booked the only flight I could to
Minnehopeless. It meant spending hours on my own at the Mall of
America, but it's not a bad place to spend time. Contacting several
college acquaintances (Doorkee had a golf tournament, Sandruska had
plans to be a lake bum), I made plans for supper with Shelley. Shelley
was my first college roommate. Shelley met me--as is required by law
at the Mall of America--in front of The Gap.

Shelley's exactly as she always was, but better. And I thank her
husband for letting her out for the evening. Thanks D!

Eventually, The Boy and Little Deb-y fetched me. We were rather
excited about our success at actually surprising the BeerHound. We
could barely sleep.

The next morning, they dropped me around the corner from her house and
entered and greeted in the normal manner. I snuck up to the house and
knocked. Duff Man (the boyfriend) answered. I motioned to him for
silence. I crept into the house, saw my mom's shocked face, and
motioned to her for silence. (Repeat with each family member,
until...)

I surprised my sister. She was overjoyed. Hugs, screaming, blah, blah,
blah, emotional outflowingcakes. Then she served breakfast. She can't
be less than she is, and one of those things is the perfect hostess.

Then, my dad finally noticed I was there. Hey, he turns 81 next week.
He's allowed not to notice.

We went to a car show. I shopped at WalMart and Kohl's with Duff Man.
The cheap bastard bought a cool shirt 'cause I said he should. Dogs
slept with cats. We went to Dave's Famous Barbeque.

Then we went to the Twins game. Since I showed up unannounced, we had
to scalp an extra ticket. The way that went down--and this is the
short version, I assure you--nine tickets were purchased for the lower
deck, outfield. We arrived and got the only thing available at the box
office, which was upper deck. Then we found a scalper who sold us a
lower deck ticket. He was a very nice scalper. I nearly kissed him,
and so did the BeerHound. Hell, if I weren't married, I would have
invited the guy to a private alley somewhere nearby. But he had
business to conduct, and I am indeed very married, so no go with the
private alcove.

The BeerHound made it to nearly the third inning before our
neighboring seatholders arrived, forcing her to her much better
scalped seat.

And the Twins were loosing, anyway, by three runs. BeerHound and I
shopped. Little Deb-y shopped on her own. Beers were consumed, peanut
shells strewn, and I couldn't find an Original Leinenkugel's to save
my life, though they supposedly sell them somewhere at the HHH
Metrodome.

At the top of the 8th inning, I bought my mom a beer. The turn of the tide.

It's all baseball talk, but here's the story of the 8th inning [link
didn't carry over. Go find it yourself if you can--keywords July 2006, Minnesota Twins, Santana].
Read at your leisure, baseball fans.

Best inning I've ever seen, live. Not that I've seen many, but I swear
I came, several times--all the while explaining what was going on to
Duff Man--the guy's not had much time for baseball in his life. (Try
explaining an Error to someone who's never had a reason to care what
it is. Can't do it.)

So, to recap. Big surprise for the BeerHound. Car show. Twins game.
What's the point of telling y'all this?

My dad's 81 on August 10th.

A few months ago I found a letter I'd written to myself at a New
Year's party, in 1989. Yep, 89. I thought my dad would be dead by
2000. Or in a nursing home. Or, something. Something that seemed
horrible in 1989.

But here we are in 2006, and we still have Dad. And he's still on the
farm, still mowing the lawn, still driving my Mom around, and taking
my nephew to play in Little League games and seeing that little squirt
hit a grand slam.

We're still here, still loving each other even when we don't like each
other. Still going to Twins games together. Having moments we won't be
able to have, come some time soon.

Scalping an extra ticket for a Twins game?

Priceless.