Over a recent girls' night outwith Maggie I lamented the recent loss of a t-shirt that had significantsentimental value to me (and was super cool). A boy I once cared for deeply hadsort of permanently loaned it to me and I just kept it forever. I suppose it isone of the only things I have left of him, besides my memories. This was yearsago, now.

Maggie then looked at me andtold me to forget about it. She said I keep a lot of stuff. I don’t need all of the stuff. It doesn’t necessarily need to have the gravity Ihave assigned to it. It’s a shirt.

Admittedly, that smarted abit. But she’s right. As tidy as I am and as often as I clean out my closet ofclothes, shoes and accessories that I don’t want, or no longer fit, I have aton of stuff. In addition to that signaturet-shirt left behind from most of the boys that have meant something to me, Ihave a Steeler’s glass that was Sam’s. I’ve carried it with me for a decade.When it broke last year so was I. I have cards Paz made for me from twentyyears ago, a matchbook with a joke from Michael Fancini from fifteen years ago,I have kept every journal I’ve ever written, have busted up furniture from mygrandparents, and even have a hat pin, all bent and rusty, that was found in ajewelry box my dad gave to my mom long before I was born. Let’s not evenmention the decrepit strainer, shaped like a triangle, with rust, from my dad’shouse from way before my time, that sits on a chest in my dining room, neverused, yet has no real, actual, sentimental value to me that I’m aware of. But Ilove it.

I’ve never actually shed allof my stuff before. And as a result, perhaps I find myself trapped in the pasta bit. “I used to do this with that person”, “I used to do that this way and thisthat way back in the day.” You know?

We can’t completely shedeverything really. Actually, even if we get rid of it, we still have all ofthis stuff anyway. Everything is part of the mosaic that makes all of us who weare.

These thoughts coupled withthis time of year have harkened me back to thinking about my family, my roots,my parents, the James River, youth, spirit, innocence, thunderstorms, cicadas,Yo! MTV Raps, Ca-Ca the Clown, Dinosaur Jr., my back deck; Richmond and GroveAve. Where I became me.

Those of you that read me onthe regular probably know all of this about me already. This is what I doperiodically.

But man alive, I also missthat food.

Where is it here, dear Cityof Angels? Where can I find brilliant (and unabashedly Crisco’ed) friedchicken, meatloaf, roast beef, fried catfish, chicken pot pie, chicken livers,collard greens, green beans, fried green tomatoes, pimiento cheese, deviled eggs, mashed potatoes (withmountains upon mountains of butter), corn on the cob, parker house rolls, tomato aspic, cornbread and sweet tea under the same roof? With a twist. In the right place. Andwine, too, please. WHERE?

Because I want it. And I’mpretty sure I’m not alone. Sometimes tried and true, and sometimes with atwist. In the right place.

 

I’ve mentioned thispreviously - but I’m redundant and you all know it – the South actually createdthe only cuisine that isindigenous to this country. Yes, it’s true. Look it up.

So last week Doug, Maggieand I had a Southern feast: fried chicken (with Crisco AND butter, mind you),buttermilk biscuits, slow cooked collards, and sliced heirloom tomatoes with adollop of Duke’s Mayonnaise, sun tea and, of course, wine. For dessert we hadbuttermilk pie (recipe coming soon).

I want more. I’m going homein October. I want my emotional Snuggie. I want to talk to Aunt Babe. I’m goingto ask her everything about everything. And I’m going to talk about her food.And I’m going to hug her.

And then I’m coming backhere to you, my City of Angels. And I’m going to make you some food.

Shirt? What shirt? I’ve gotcooking to do.