A Simple Tradition To Last A Lifetime

Chocolate pudding is that special meal that reminds me of my birthday. To many people it is not considered a meal but more of a dessert or a side dish but in my mind it was considered breakfast. Since I was six years old I would wake up on January 17^th every year to a crystal dish filled with chocolate pudding with a dollop of whip cream on top. This was the meal that my mother would serve me every year for my birthday.

            Since I can remember I would get the feeling of excitement when I would of walk down the stairs and hanging a sharp left at the bottom to walk through the dining room and into the kitchen on my birthday. The long tacky “happy birthday” sign written in metallic alternating colored letters hung in between the archway with balloons attached to my dad’s chair at the head of the table. Presents would be strayed across the kitchen table and my mom would always be standing there with her camera ready to take the same exact picture every year of me looking ecstatic on my birthday. I would sit down in my chair with the giant crystal bowl staring me back in the face with the silver spoon right next to it. My mouth would salivate to the thought of taking the huge first bite and before I could I would always think about the conversation my mother and I had when I was in the first grade.

            My mom always loved to make birthdays special whether it was throwing you your favorite party or serving you your special meal, she always went the extra mile to make it your day. For my brother she would make him homemade cheesecake every year. For my dad it was strawberry rhubarb, which he loved even if he acted like he didn’t totally appreciate it. But when my mother asked me what I wanted for my special meal when I was in the first grade my instant response was “a big bowl of chocolate pudding!” My mom never bought food that was super junky or full of preservatives but I had been on a chocolate pudding kick that week from having it at a play date and she agreed that I could have it. Now being twenty years old having a big pile of brown sugary greatness has become a tradition on my birthday.

            Every year until I graduated high school I could always expect it to look the same and taste the same considering the fact that it came from the small instant JELLO cardboard boxes. I was always a simple kid so I never wanted my mom to go through making homemade pudding for me when I knew that I would always like the kind from the box better anyway, and trust me she never took that for granted. But as my senior year of high school rolled around that morning when I turned eighteen I realized that it would be my last birthday at home for the next four years. I found comfort in knowing that I could expect the same decorations from last year and the same crystal bowl waiting for me as I came down the stairs. So knowing that the next year I would probably wake up to a voice mail from my mom wishing me a happy birthday and that she wished she could be there to make me pudding made me sad a little. But I did not let this sentimental thought take away from my last birthday at home in the slightest bit, and I should have known that when it came to my mother I should never worry about being disappointed.

            January of my freshman year rolled around and so did my birthday. Knowing that things were different and that I wasn’t about to run down the stairs and into the kitchen like I would at home, I felt out of place. But I should have had more faith in my mother and her kindness. I opened my bedroom door at the sorority house and walked down the front stair case which led to the kitchen. I turned the corner to find my best friend sitting at the large table in the dining room with a bowl of chocolate pudding. I instantly felt tears filling up in my eyes as I tried so desperately to not let them fall. I sat down at the table with my best friend Olivia who was from my hometown who knew about my birthday tradition. Olivia had called my mom to make sure that she got the right kind of chocolate pudding to make sure that I would have the best birthday.  She knew that it was something that meant a lot to me and she wasn’t going to let the fact that I was away from my mom stand in the way of me having my special meal on my birthday.

Something as simple as chocolate pudding on my birthday can make me smile from ear to ear. The memories that the instant four minute dessert has brought me over the years would be something I would remember for a lifetime. And even when I went through a life changing experience by going off to college this tradition on my birthday made me feel like I was sitting at home staring at the tacky decorations and the presents covering the kitchen table. That moment when I took the first bite that day brought me back to sitting down at the table with my mom while I would eat every last bit of the creamy mouthwatering treat out of the crystal bowl. Not only was chocolate pudding one of the simpler aspects of my life it was one that would last a life time and carry so much meaning along with it.

The Night I Met Charlie Bob

I had never experienced a night quite like this one. As my parents were in town visiting and my dad wanted to go out to dinner with one of his old friends that lived in Tuscaloosa that he knew from high school. I already felt the feeling of extreme warmth flowing through my body just being in the presence of my parents but I would soon feel more at home then I had ever felt in my entire life.

            I pulled open the heavy door to DePalma’s and stepped through the entrance into the dark restaurant. Right as I walked in I was greeted by a man in a wheel chair. A smile that could have stretched for miles, a body that seemed frail and weak but a personality that could have lit up a room. I looked him in the eyes through his glasses as I introduced myself and shook his left hand. “Hello sweetheart, I’m Charlie Bob your dad’s friend from high school,” he replied. He whipped around his wheelchair and signaled to the hostess that we were ready for our table now. She instantly led us to a table that was accommodating for Charlie Bob and his wheelchair and no longer than a second after sitting down a blonde older woman walked over to our table. She seemed excited to see him and asked why they hadn’t gotten lunch in a while. I started to get the vibe that I was sitting at a table with someone that came here often and knew almost everyone in Tuscaloosa.

             As Charlie Bob insisted I order anything on the menu, I did not back down from the offer. I had a favorite meal at DePalmas that always tasted just as great every time I had it. I ordered the Spinach Fettuccini Alfredo with Grilled Chicken on top. This was almost my ultimate comfort food. It was consistent in taste, and the warm full feeling you get when you eat something heavy is exactly what I got when I ate the creamy alfredo sauce. As we sat and waited for our food the conversation never died down. Charlie Bob had stories that could go on forever and the laughter never stopped. There was something about his character that drew me in to wanting to know more. And as I had the impression the he was someone that everyone knew and loved, that idea kept growing as the night went on. Every ten minutes or so I would say, someone that was walking to leave the restaurant would spot Charlie Bob and stop at our table. Everyone just as excited as the last person to see his smile and to tell him that they had to get together soon. This not only showed me why my dad liked him so much but also why Tuscaloosa is a close knit community. Learning about Charlie Bob’s life living in Tuscaloosa being born and raised he also gave me the history of the building that DePalma’s was in. From the time he can remember DePalma’s was first a bank and then it was a women’s clothing store. He told me how he remembered having to go to this clothing store with his mother and two older sisters and sitting there for hours just itching to leave. “And then Depalma’s came in,” he said with excitement in his eyes. “I didn’t have to go to the women’s clothing store anymore and wish that it would go up in flames, but I could eat a nice meal in a family environment with people I loved.” Hearing those words come out of his mouth brought a smile to my face. Something about being able to sit in this restaurant that I call one of my favorites in town with my parents and a man that is so loved by the community made me feel very blessed.

            That night not only did I feel the great family atmosphere in the air due to the people I was with but also because of the environment in the restaurant. The close tables and hundreds of wine bottles surrounding the perimeter of the room give it a unique feel. The sound of the fresh veal being pounded in the background and the subtle noise from the other conversations going on around us gave it a homey feel. This is one place in town that I can go to and expect the same environment and food every time, and I take comfort in knowing that.

            As the night when on I learned more and more about Charlie Bob and his life and it was something that will probably change my life forever. He informed me that when he was twenty five he was hit by a drunk driver.  The drunk driver hit him on the driver side of his car and the crash broke his neck which ended up paralyzing him for the rest of his life. Even though he is paralyzed though, speaking with him and getting to know him throughout the night I didn’t even really notice it. His amazing personality and warming heart took over his body and made it seem like nothing was wrong with him. Every person that walked by us that night after having a great meal greeted Charlie Bob and showed him that they were there for him.

            That night was one the I would always remember. Not because my parents were here, or because we had a great meal together, but because I got to meet one of the most influential people in my life and he showed me what it meant to make great relationships with people to last a life time. I think that if I had been in another restaurant though the feelings and the atmosphere would have been different. Because I was in a place that I was comfortable in and loved the food, I think it made that night something special for me. Now I will always love going to Depalmas and I will always remember the night I met Charlie Bob.

The Meal in the Sticks

Unique is the word that came to mind as I walked into Nick’s in the Sticks. Being greeted outside by a man with a t shirt on and a scruffy white beard I didn’t know what to expect as I pulled open the creaky door. I stepped inside and tried to let my eyes adjust to the lighting. It was dark inside and the main source of light was coming from the sun setting outside. Not many people were there due to the fact that it was only four thirty in the afternoon, so my friends and just sat at any table. I sat down in the metal chair and found myself fixated on the ceiling. My eyes glazed over the wooden beams up above almost in amazement. Variety is what I saw, two hundred or so dollar bills covering the entire ceiling except for one small corner that had not been filled yet. All of the bills covered in names or sayings of the previous customers that had eaten there. Originality is what I saw in Nick’s in the Sticks.

            The menu was what you would think and expect in the typically burger place. Burgers, steaks, fries, potatoes, and chicken sandwiches covered the double sided laminated menus handed to me by the waiter with the pony tail. With what seemed like not much to pick from I decided on the cheeseburger and french fries and expected it to taste like every other burger I had ever put in my mouth before. But little to my surprise this meal would soon turn into something I had never imagined.

            Three metal dishes sat before my eyes starring me in the face. Not knowing what any of them were I hesitated to try them. One white, one orange, and one a musky looking brown, all of them creamy I just starred. I went with my gut and what I knew and doused my chefs side salad with the white dressing. Looking like bleu cheese but also like ranch I thought I could not go wrong with either of those, that I was bound to enjoy it. The first bite touched the tip of my tongue with the ice burg lettuce and the homemade dressing and I soon felt like I was in heaven. The creamy dressing covered the inside of my mouth and I felt the curiosity start to build, like it did when I noticed the dollar bills on the ceiling. The feeling of comfort and originality crossed my mind as I savored every bite of lettuce, like I never had before. Adding the other two dressings to my meal I didn’t want the salad to end. As I reached for one more scoop of what I thought was the homemade ranch, I was interrupted. My hand barely got the spoon back into the metal dish before the three prong holder was ripped from the table. It was almost as if the waiter didn’t want me to get a hold of their homemade dressing and steal the recipe or even just the thought of the taste. Disappointed in the fact that I could not eat my last few bites of salad drowning in dressing I wondered why he did that. I wouldn’t say that it was considered bad service, because maybe he just thought that I was finished, but I still could not believe that the unbelievable dressing was just ripped from my taste buds. But sooner before I could become completely disappointed with what had just happened the dressing returned. My friend Hanna had ordered a salad for her main course and my mouth began to water again. I asked Hanna to pretend as though she was still using the dressing again when the waiter came back with my main dish as well so that I would be able to dip my fries in them. Right as she picked up the spoon as though she was going to take another spoonful of dressing when he walked over he picked up the dressing holder and moved quickly. I could not understand why he would not leave the dressing on the table with us until we were all finished. As I asked myself that question I realized that it brought up a lot of other questions in my mind. Why the water cups were clear plastic cups and the rest of the serving cups were red? Or why the right side of the restaurant had more dollar bills on it than the left? As I thought of all of the little things that I noticed I realized that all of these things are what made Nick’s in the Sticks unique.

            From the moment I walked in the door I knew that this was a place that would not be able to compare to any other restaurants.  The atmosphere was special, the dim lighting gave it almost the feeling of the unexpected and the employees were able to keep me on my feet without even knowing it. The excitement that the salad dressing gave me when I tasted it was something I noticed that carried over to every aspect of being there. I felt a thrill by what Nick’s in the Sticks looked like. My eyes amazed about the sites around me and my body trying to take in every smell and sound. To the interactions I had with the people. It was almost like a game to me with the waiter that he kept stealing the homemade dressing back every time I tried to keep it. Many other waiters would ask if you wanted to keep it or if my hand was still on it they would not take it. But he did not give a care in the world or even think to ask if I would like to keep it. All of these attributes are what make Nick’s in the Sticks unique to me. I’ve never been to a place where I felt uncomfortable but right at home at the same time, and at Nick’s I felt that. The feeling confused me but it was something that I know I would crave to go back to, and especially if I got to taste the homemade ranch dressing again.

When the Oasis Met Johnny

The Oasis is my Johnny’s away from home. The eerie tingle that moved quickly up and down my spine when I walked in the front door to the old rugged building brought an unexpected shot of warmth to my body. I got this same feeling as I always had as child when went to Johnny’s Diner with my dad, as I had when I stepped foot through the door of The Oasis. But instead of the warm welcoming good afternoons that my father and I would receive from Johnny himself and our favorite waitress Wendy, I felt as though I was being inspected by the regulars. The Oasis is clearly somewhere that locals find as an escape from the world outside not just the run down brown building that I saw it as. The menu seemed almost bare but in a way that was not intimidating and left little to the imagination, or so I thought it had. I skimmed over every category that was offered and it seemed almost identical to Johnny’s menu. The typical cheeseburger with french fries, chicken fingers, and side salads consumed most of the options. As we started with our appetizer, the mountain of fried onion rings filled my nose with the thought of greatness. Each bite I took slowly returned me to the booth that I sat at with my father every Saturday afternoon as a child, as we would share a small plate of french fries. Even though I was not in the same comfort I had always felt at Johnny’s something about the dark atmosphere that surrounded me and my classmates that day made me feel like we could relax and enjoy our time that we had. As I looked around at the walls that enclosed us I took my time and tried to take everything in. The pictures that hung above my right shoulder, that depicted the drunken nights of karaoke by the brave souls that attempted the act brought laughter to my mind. But not only did these photos bring my joy and amusement they reminded me of the family pictures that were hung about the silver ware trays in Johnny’s. These photos gave Johnny’s that family kind of atmosphere could make you feel comfortable without even knowing them. The correlation of the pictures showed me that The Oasis was something more than just your home town spot where you could go to receive a great meal but also enjoy memories with people that you knew.

         As I continued to be amazed with the similarities between The Oasis and Johnny’s I could see my food coming around the corner from the waitress who looked like she had been there for some time. She knew what she was talking about when people asked what something was on the menu, and she knew the local middle aged men that had staked out their spots at the bar already. I looked at her as The Oasis’ Wendy. Wendy was everyone’s favorite waitress. She knew everyone by their first names and would finish her coworkers’ sentences for them. Wendy had worked at Johnny’s since I was a little girl and brought me my chocolate milk before I even had to ask her. This moment of my childhood stuck out in my mind as I watched the blonde haired waitress bring the older man at the bar with the mullet another round of beers before he could even open his mouth to order another. She seemed as though she knew what made the customers happy and her goal was to please them.

She handed me my plate filled with the typical crinkle cut french fries, alongside with my chicken finger sandwich that was doused in mayo and stuck between two pieces of white toast. I looked around at my classmates to see what else everyone had ordered and it seemed like the classical food you could find at a diner. With a few exceptions like the Bear Burger, and the bacon chili fries, everything looked like something I had seen before.  But as I picked up my sandwich to put it to my lips the feeling of grease and the smell of fried chicken was something different. It finally came to my mind that The Oasis was my “southern” version of Johnny’s. With the same aspects of the family oriented type of place but with a little bit more batter and roughness around the edges. I tried to listen to all of the different conversations that were taking place but the background noise from the Divorce Court that was playing on the TVs kept interrupting my concentration. Seeing as it was the middle of the afternoon and  clearly many good options for great entertainment were not apparent this is what would happen at Johnny’s as well. The TV would play on the same channel everyday even if no one cared as to what was on the screen. You could tell that the people don’t come to The Oasis for their mid-day TV selection but they came for more. The Oasis was not just about the juicy hamburger the guy at the bar would order every day or the refill of beer that the waitress would keep bringing him. The Oasis consisted of more than what was apparent to the public eye.

Being able to digest my thoughts as well as the last few fries that were on my plate, I realized that having a restaurant to go to where you feel like you are welcomed with open arms every time you walk through the door is something that is more appealing than the taste of good food. Yes, I enjoyed the greasy feeling that the chicken finger sandwich was able to leave in my stomach, but I was more pleased with the idea of a place that was not your typical chain restaurant. The Oasis fulfills the notion of being that classic so called “local” place in Tuscaloosa. From the view of the road it does not seem that welcoming but the feeling you get when you walk inside gives you so much more than that. Johnny’s Diner and The Oasis are from two totally different worlds but have so many of the same characteristics that make them the unique home town hot spots that they are. 

The Marathon Meal

As I set my mind on what I have to do, I take small sips of water to start my metabolism and get my mind ready. The thoughts in my head race from the hard concrete to the uphill battle of pedaling my bike faster and faster to accomplish my goal.  I brace myself for the hardships that I am about to enter and that I will have to push myself through until the end. I think about the three phases of the adventure that I am about to endure.
 First is the long three mile run that intertwines through hills and woods that will push my legs to keep going but will warm up my muscles for what comes next. I start out slow taking small strides and keeping a steady pace, to make sure that I will have enough energy to keep going. My steps move through the path trying to get a taste of everything but not wear myself out. I feel my heart beat start to increase as if I am excited to see what will be ahead of me. I can smell the trees and the grass filling my nose of greatness and I can almost smell the aroma of the salt from the ocean that will be ahead of me. Smelling all of the different smells outside reminds me as if I were in a kitchen and I could smell all of the different kinds of food being cooked.  I pump my arms to push myself to the next level so that I will be able to enjoy it all. My legs start to feel hungry for more and my mind wants to keep moving faster to the next course. This run through the woods, the beginning of the marathon is what I call the appetizer. A small taste of what is ahead but not too much that you don’t want to keep moving forward.  It is like a preview of the harder level that is coming up next, bracing your mind for the slow pace that I will have to take so that I will be able to save my energy to finish the main course. As I approach the next part of the marathon I mentally prepare myself.
I strap my shoes into the straps of the bike and get myself comfortably sitting on the seat. Almost as if you would readjust yourself sitting at a table getting ready for the amount of food that you will consume. In my mind all I can think of is the twelve mile bike ride that I have started and a part of me wants to move so quickly so that I can get through it and touch the last course, but on the other hand I also want to enjoy my time and see the scenery around me. It’s almost as if I was to stuff my face with an entire steak, slurp down my three glasses of water and pile mashed potatoes into my mouth. I want to finish the race quicker than I can even think about what I am doing that it almost doesn’t seem real. But as I think to myself that if I am going to endure such a journey I want to be able to appreciate what I am doing. I take my time and experience each piece of the land around me as if I could smell the flowers and know what they would taste like. My mind moves slowly through time as I pedal at a steady pace to make sure that I am able to push through the next couple of miles. I realize that the phrase “slow and steady” is not only used for things such as sporting events but also things in life that you would not really expect. Being able to move slow and steady lets someone truly enjoy what they are experiencing in the moment in every aspect. I start to feel my muscles beginning to ache and I just hope that I will be able to push through until the end. I can almost taste the finish line and what will come after I finish this marathon. As I move closer to the end my muscles feel fatigued and my body feeling weak I want to power through and be able to reward myself in the end with the taste of victory against my tongue. Pushing through to the last second I can feel my blood starting to boil with excitement. Out of breath with a salty after taste of sweat I crave sweetness in my mouth.
Changing my attire in something more comfortable that allows my body to stretch and flow freely my bathing suit molds my body as I prepare myself for the last part of this marathon. The half a mile swim is short and sweet practically like a dessert. After my body is tired and sore from the previous events the current helps glide my body to through the water as I press on to reach my final destination. My abdominals are sore from all the different types of movements that my body has experienced today to the point where I am not sure if my stomach will expand any farther. The last course is the sweetest, you can taste victory and you can also reflect over all that you have accomplished.
 Starting out small and experiencing all of the different smells, sights and feelings and moving slowly to the next level your body starts to feel the pressure. As you wait patiently why moving steadily you enter he main course where you must prepare yourself for something that will push yourself to the limits. You are unsure if your body will be able to handle it but you want to be able to experience everything to the fullest. You push yourself so that you can achieve each level to the point of where you feel success. Feeling extremely fatigued and over worked pushing myself to the last limits my body could handle and reaching the last course I knew it was worth it. Finishing that last part and crossing the finish line after tasting all kinds of victories in all three courses my triathlon can be related to a three course meal. Progressing through time and succeeding to a bright finish I know that what I worked through was worth every second.

A Magical Experience

People have always said that when you fall asleep you typically dream about the last think you were thinking about, but lately I questioned if that was fact or fiction. My mind would always race before I fell asleep. It felt like it would be traveling at the speed of light and I always tried to slow the roller coaster down. I would lie in bed trying to count backwards from ten to one over and over but my mind would always race. It would do this until I eventually I would get so tired from thinking. My brain would turn exhausted and would force itself to shut down. The next thing that I could remember was something that always puzzled me when I would awake the next day.

I found myself entering a fantasy land night after night. My mind would take me to a place that I never wanted to wake up from. The oversized double doors that lead me to this magical place were extremely heavy and a gorgeous shade of gold. Every time I would walk through them I would always pray that I would never have to walk back out of them. I would step through the doors onto a fluffy red carpet. It stretched throughout the entire so called “land”. This long carpet would lead me to something different every night I entered this world and I was never disappointed by what it brought me too. Surrounding the carpet was an array of colors that filled my eyes. They were all so vibrant and bright that it was almost painful to look around but they intrigued me so I let my eyes graze. These colors covered objects that resembled machines. Some were large, and some were small. But they all would create different things. Some would beep and some would tic. But they would never stop spitting out pieces of food that would make my mouth water. The first machine I could see was to my left. It was large with purple and orange stripes that made me feel dizzy if I stared to long. There was a huge handle the hung by its side that had a “pull” sign hung above it. I gave all of my strength and pulled down as hard as I could on the handle. The giant machine started ticking and clicking and it sounded as if it were about to explode when I heard a tiny “ding”. At the bottom of the machine there was a small tray that resembled almost a candy dispenser. On top of the small tray was a chocolate chip. My eyes were amazed. All of that work to only produce the tiniest chocolate chip I had probably ever seen. But before my mind could take me to see more I was awoken by the blaring sound of my alarm clock. The entire day I craved the taste of the small chocolate chip and desperately wanted to go back just so I could let it melt on my tongue. I hoped that I would be able to fall asleep and created the same images in my head.

As I had wished the next night when I fell asleep I found myself pushing open the heavy golden doors. But something was strange when I set both feet inside. I felt something appear in my hand. I opened it up to find the chocolate chip as if nothing had ever happened. I was back in the same spot that I had left the night before. As I seemed to be puzzled by this discovery I kept walking. The red carpet led me to the next contraption which was located on the right side. This one was red and green polka dots that made me think of Christmas time. I looked down in front of me to find a large looking “button” on the ground. Like the handle that said pull this one said stomp. So like the sign told me I stomped on the circle on below me. The machine rattled furiously before it finally made the same dinging noise that the first one had made. A small piece of what looked to be a candy cane popped out at me. I carefully took it with my handle and held it open with the chocolate chip. Starring at both of them I wondered to myself why? But before I could have my question answered the terrible noise of my alarm rudely awoke me again. This morning I woke up with drool on my pillow. Thinking to myself of the small piece of candy cane I could feel it getting stick in between my teeth but mixed with the taste of the rich milk chocolate made my taste buds tingle. Never would I think that I would like the taste of those two items put together but dreaming about them two nights in a row made them seem like they were my favorite food. I just couldn’t piece together in my mind how I was having the same reoccurring dream and that I would pick up right where I left off.

As I lied awake in my bed just praying that I would fall asleep soon so that I could see what would happen next I found myself trying desperately thinking about the red carpet and where it would lead me. After thinking for hours I finally was there. I found myself pushing through the doors again as if I never left. But this time everything seemed to be in fast forward. It was almost as if I raced past the chocolate chip and candy cane machine to the end of the carpet. My jaw dropped to the ground and my eyes widened. My hands fell to my sides and I almost dropped the chocolate chip and piece of candy cane that I still held from the last two times I was there. This machine was the largest one I had ever seen. It was a billion different colors, purple, red, green, yellow, blue, and pink. There was no specific design it was all just splattered on there. There were handles, buttons, levers, and switches. With no form of guidance on the machine anywhere I just went ahead and pushed the red button. I sat and listened to the whistles, clunks, beeps and ticks and just starred at the steam coming out of the top. This one took much longer than the previous ones did, to the point where I was becoming impatient, until I heard a “ding”. On a tray was one cookie, just a single cookie. Holding the chocolate chip and candy cane pieces still in hand I picked up the cookie with my other hand. I went to put it into my mouth hoping that I would be able to taste it. The warm sweetness touched my lips and the sugary scent filled my nose. I bit into the cookie and could taste the warm chocolate melting into my tongue. Then I was able to feel the hard candy cane as my teeth crushed through it. The machines I had visited each night were the ingredients to a little piece of heaven. With the millions of milk chocolate chips that filled this warm cookie and the small pieces of candy cane that would get stuck to my teeth, my dreams finally let me taste what I had been wishing for. Before I could begin to think of what else was in the decadent treat I was once again awoken to reality.

I woke up to my finger in my mouth as if it was trying to pick a piece of the sticky candy cane out from between the crevasse in my teeth. For nights after myself finally trying the cookie I never returned. I wished and hoped that my dreams would take me back to that fantasy land that lead me to greatness, but I was never blessed with such a wish. As much as I would think about the large golden doors before I fell asleep I never dreamt of it again. But just being able to taste the warm sensation of the milk chocolate and the peppermint candy cane was something that I always wanted to return to.

Recipe:

1 cup chocolate chips

1 cup crushed candy cane

 1 cup butter, softened

1 cup white sugar

1 cup packed brown sugar

2 eggs

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

3 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

Sitar & The Nan

As a child my experience with food had always been pretty limited. I ate nothing except for crispy chicken fingers, extremely salted french fries, and the occasional hot dog, but only if it was covered in ketchup. My taste buds were terrified of anything that was green whether it was a dark green or light, the thought of putting anything that color in my mouth petrified me. When my mother would force me to sit at the table and eat my broccoli before I left I would find different ways to hide it and just pray that I would find its way to the garbage can. I would carefully hold my hand under the table hoping that the dog would come over and take a bite but I was never successful. I found a kind of comfort in the battered fried chicken, it was something that I could always rely on to taste typically the same as the last time I had it, and this made me feel safe. Accompanied by the brittle crunch of the yellowish french fry next to it on my plate, I knew that I could not go wrong with this meal. All of my life I would be dependent on the three chicken fingers and heap of french fries that would be on my plate.

            Little to my surprise my dependency on this meal did not diminish as I grew older. Yes my horizons of appetite may have increased in some areas, like the fact that I could bare eating a small caesar salad now, but only if it was dowsed in dressing and had croutons spilling over the side of my plate. But other than that my mind was still as picky as it had always been and I did not see that changing anytime soon, until I got to college.

            My eating horizons were forced to expand quickly when I came to school. I learned very rapidly that I would be stuck eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and easy mac every day for the next four years of my life if I didn’t teach myself that I needed to start eating different things. I started out slowly by easing myself into eating grits and more foods that would count as being a part of the “southern” culture. I started realize that the gravy, everything fried and sweet tea wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Seeing that these foods did not make me keel over and die at the instant touch to my tongue my appeal to trying new foods grew greater every day. But I still would always rely on that special kind of comfort food which I knew would always taste the same.

            All of this brings me to the feeling I felt when I entered Sitar. I instantly felt that sense of nervousness and did not know what to do with myself. The bland off white walls covered with some random pieces of art work made me feel not at home. I felt like the atmosphere was almost cold and unwelcoming. As I started the walk over to the buffet line which seemed like it took forever I could feel my taste buds starting to water, but not in a good way. I knew that this would be the kind of experience where I had to suck up my pain in my altered and unnatural eating habits and just try some new foods. As I turned to hand my teacher a plate trying to act polite in hopes to cover up my nervous feeling that I feel like everyone could see, a pit in my stomach started to kick in. A huge part of me wanted to just turn around and sit back at the table and drink the ice cold water in which I knew would not disappoint me. But in order to get the full experience I knew that I had to go through with this and fill my plate with items I previously would have just shaken my head at and kept walking. I started at the beginning of the buffet table and read each label to know exactly what I was about to eat even though I had no idea what they would entail, until I came to one item. It reminded me of a mix between matzah and cooked pizza dough. It was a light brown and off white mix that had crispy parts almost as if they were slightly burned. It was plain with no bright orange sauces on top of it, and there were no seasonings on it that would make my mouth turn on fire. I took two of them because I had a feeling that the “nan” would be my so called “chicken finger”.

As I sat down at the table afraid to put the fried cheese balls in my mouth I took comfort in the taste of the Nan. Compared to the fried cheese balls the Nan tasted plain and bland, kind of like the walls inside of the restaurant. I moved the cut up pieces of cheese balls, white rice, and chicken curry around my plate occasionally after I would take a bite of the Nan. I found myself taking bigger bites of the Nan and wound up going to get seconds, not of anything else just the Nan. This was something that I found comfort in eating. The plain taste with a small hint of sweetness was something that I knew my taste buds would keep enjoying.

 I felt almost guilty not wanting to try all of the other items in the buffet like everyone else at the table, but as I had always been as a child I was too afraid. I had always been the type of person to not be too adventurous in trying new things such as food or wanting to meet new people. I had always thought that when I got to college though my feelings would change on these matters but as time went on I realized I would always be that girl who did not want to try new food. Going to Sitar and trying Indian food was like entering a whole new world for me. I felt uncomfortable and out of place, but being able to find something so simple and plain such as the Nan I felt okay. I found that anywhere in life I will be able to find something like a chicken finger, something that I feel comfortable eating and that makes me feel at home. 

Favorite Food Memory

My mother’s vegetable garden is where it all started. Outside growing in the rich brown soil was the beginning of my favorite meal. The home to the roots of the bright green and red peppers that would pop in my mouth, that grew right next to the gigantic tomatoes.  These ingredients along with many others were the ones that made my favorite meal complete. This meal is something that makes me feel at home, in a place that makes me comfortable. I remember as a small child I would help my mother in the garden picking the vegetables that would soon be chopped and diced before being thrown into the huge metal pot on the stove. She would show me how to pick out the peppers that would be the right size and the tomatoes that did not have bruises on them. She would carefully help me pick the lettuce and make sure that I did not break every leaf. Whether it was rain or shine we always took our time and it was something that we could share together. As I got older, she did not need to teach me what vegetables to pick, and the silences would grow larger as my as did my age, but this was something that we would always do together.

            Picking the items from the garden was just the beginning of what made this meal special. Lugging all of them inside in a huge basket I would plop them down on our kitchen table. This table is not just an ordinary table though. The table was old and wooden with many scratches and marks on it so my mother painted it.  She painted the table to make it look like there is a checkered table cloth on it. The perfect one inch by on inch blue and white squares that alternated filled the entire table. Each square measured to perfection and painted so meticulously. Not only was this just a hand crafted table that sat in the corner of our kitchen but it had a matching bench that fit flawlessly with it. The bench as well had the same kind of design to match the table. This table was the place that only the four members of my family could all sit together comfortably and there was no big extra space that made it feel cold. This set of furniture was the first thing that made our kitchen so unique.

            I would sit at the table for hours helping my mother chop the vegetables into tiny pieces that would soon be added to the pot. This was a one of the only jobs that my mother would let me do because it was something she knew I could not mess up, and I was okay with that. As I would sit on the bench I would watch her while she would stand at the off white counter as she would prepare the other ingredients. Our counter was something that was not typically in other kitchens either. It was the same size on both sides of the extremely oversized sink. This sink was not your normal size though; when I say oversized I mean it. When my brother and I were little we would sit on each side of the counter and wash our feet off in it after a long day of playing outside. Then one side of the counter was the home to all of the different shapes of cutting boards including a pig, a paint pallet, and a shoe. My mother was always one for unique looking kitchen items. The pig cutting board is something that my mother will probably keep until the day she dies, and this is not the only pig that you see in our kitchen. She has a whole collection of objects that are pigs. Our towels, salt and pepper shakers, napkins, place mats, pictures, coasters and more all have pigs on them. This is another thing that makes the kitchen in my house something special and not just your ordinary kitchen.

            As she would assemble all of the other ingredients such as the beans and the cilantro you could always hear the bubbles from the pasta boiling almost over the top on the stove. Our stove has a painting that hangs right above it that is something I have never seen anywhere else. My mother being an artist painted it herself. A picture of a large metal pot sat on the same table that was in our kitchen in the painting. Then coming from every direction there were vegetables flying down into the pot that were all different colors. The background of the picture is a deep purple that draws your eyes into a small saying written in tiny black cursive letters which reads “Home is where the heart is, and the heart is always warmer in the kitchen”. I never really understood what this saying meant or where it came from but it was one that I would always remember because my mother had written it in the bottom left corner of this painting.

            After the pasta had become warm and soft we would drain it and add it to the pot full of sweet red onions, chopped celery, crispy red peppers, a million black beans and tons of diced tomatoes. Then the added spices such as ground cumin and salt and pepper which made my mouth always water would be sprinkled and dashed on top to give this meal that special something. All mixed together I would scoop some into a giant bowl, probably enough for at least two or three servings, and I would add shredded cheddar cheese all across the top. The heat from the hot black bean chili with penne pasta would instantly melt the cheese. Sitting at that kitchen table with my mom, dad and brother all eating together was something that I would always cherish. But it was the atmosphere and the experience that I got while making this meal that made it one that would be close to my heart forever. Those hours spent in the garden picking vegetables to perfection to sitting at the carefully painted kitchen table dicing every vegetable would make the memories of this meal special. This was something that my mom and I could always call our own, but something that in the end could always eat as a family.

Recipe For Black Bean Chili with Penne Pasta

Ingredients

12 ounces dry whole grain penne pasta, uncooked

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

1/2 cup chopped red onion

1/4 cup chopped celery

1/4 cup chopped red bell pepper

1 tablespoon finely chopped jalapeno pepper

1/2 teaspoon minced garlic

2 can (15 oz each) Ranch Style® Black Beans, drained, rinsed

1 can (15 oz each) Hunt's® Tomato Sauce

1 can (14.5 oz each) Hunt's® Fire Roasted Diced Tomatoes, undrained

2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro

2 teaspoons ground cumin

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper

1 cup Shredded Cheddar Cheese 

Maggie's Diner

As the dust began to clear from my car pulling into the dirt and rock covered parking lot, a vision of history starred me back in the face. I parked my car and just sat, my eyes fixated on the white colored brick building ahead of me. I let my eyes wander between the barber shop and Maggie’s Diner, only to imagine of what was on the inside. It reminded me of a place in my hometown that had been standing since the revolutionary war. It was called Southport center, a row of brick buildings such as the post office, an insurance agency, a small market, and a boutique. Still today those places stand and the exteriors have not changed. It reminds me of a mirror image of what I see in Maggie’s. I wait for moments to gaze around me to try and take in the environment. The scenery looks like it is right out of a scene from the movie “October Sky”. A factory and coal mining town, that was close knit and worked together to create a life for one another. Looking at Maggie’s I knew that there was more character in that one building than I could ever imagine.

I got out of my car and walked across the street, I stopped in front of the building to read the signs on the outside and I found myself hesitating to go in. I don’t know what it was about me but part of me was nervous. I thought in my head of what my mother always said to me “never judge a book by its cover”. I didn’t want to judge Maggie’s by the appearance on the outside but I can’t lie and say that I didn’t.

As I opened the door it creaked as though it had not been greased in a while, I let it shut slowly behind me and turned my head around to amazement. There were so many things to look at and the smells overwhelmed my nose. As I walked forward my mind concentrated on the immense amount of pie that was individually sliced before my eyes. The cookies that sat neatly in row right next to it grabbed my attention as I so badly wanted to grab one. I gazed up at the menu when suddenly I had a flash back to my childhood. I vividly remember the dry cleaners, it was called Connie’s. My mother used to take me there when I was a child and while she chatted for hours with the three old African American women I would wander in between the nicely altered dresses and climb the alteration stairs. The carpet that was worn in and fraying at the edges and would hold my balance while I would try on all of high heels as I would model them for all of the women. All of them chuckling as I would stumble my way across the floor.  My memories from that store were ones that warmed my heart, it was somewhere that I always felt like I was at home, and I began to feel that way at Maggie’s. Abruptly my thoughts were interrupted by the women behind the counter saying “honey, you ready to order”? I starred at all of the food that was in the steam plates and wondered what everything was. Trying to think quickly on my feet I said “may I please have one of the pancakes”. She replied “honey, that’s corn bread, do you still want one”? My cheeks started to turn red of embarrassment and I instantly replied “yes please”! Both of the women behind the counter clearly got much amusement out of my ignorant request, and when they started laughing I could tell that they knew I was not from around here. Being a girl from the North, my experience with Southern food is slim to none. I had never tried grits, or ever eaten much fried chicken. Nor did I have any idea what “soul  food” was. I was clearly extremely naïve to any thought of Southern food. As Ms. Maggie explained to me what all the different types of food were behind the counter I felt more comfortable, I felt like I could ask question and maybe try to learn more about the culture. My plate filled with all different kinds of food that I had never heard of before I was ready to experience it all.

Sitting in Maggie’s dining room I was too busy to even eat because I was looking at all of the different things that made up the room. The wall paper looked old but almost vintage in a sense and it allowed the art work to hang perfectly on top. All of the different paintings covered the wall and gave your eyes something to look at. All of them completely different in look, size, and color there was nothing that looked like it was a duplicate. Everything looked like it was original. This gave the atmosphere a homey and warm feel to it. Even looking at the window unit air conditioner I felt as though this was some place I could call home.

When I finally got to eating my food, I first off tried to corn bread pancake and I had never tasted something so good. The moist feel of the bread hitting my tongue and the sweet after taste was nothing I had ever tasted before. With that and the mix or creamy macaroni and cheese my hunger was instantly filled with greatness. Trying the chicken stuffing my taste buds became nervous but once it hit my mouth I realized that I had nothing to be afraid of.  The mix of spices and the textures reminded me of a thanksgiving meal at home. At that moment I understood why they called this kind of food “soul food”.

Not only did I feel like I was somewhere that I could be myself and ask silly questions, but I felt a warm feeling in my heart not just from the hot mac and cheese flowing down my throat but from the hospitality I felt at Maggie’s. Being so far from home this was a place that I felt comfortable in. If I could I would sit for hours in Maggie’s and just stare at my surroundings trying to soak up some of the history that I knew grew in the walls. Maggie’s is not just a place where you can order good Southern cooking; it is full of experiences and love that I have never felt in any other place.

Bad Eating Experience

It was one of those days where it was just one thing after another. It started off by me waking up twenty minutes late for my 9:30 class. Then I proceeded to spill my cup of water all the way down my shirt as I walked to class, mind you it was pouring rain outside and I did not have time to grab my rain boots so now my Sperry’s the shoes they claim to be “boat” shoes were completely ruined. So not only was my shirt soaking wet but so was the rest of me. As I sat in my own puddle on my chair I then came to realize that I had forgotten my homework for a class that does not accept late submissions and I was late, so basically I received no credit for even being there. So now I was soaking wet, failing chemistry and it was only 9:45 in the morning. By the time lunch time came around I just wanted the day to be over, but lucky for me that was not the case, it was just the beginning. The rain still hadn’t stopped and I still had two more classes left for the day, and I had promised my friends that if the rain stopped we would play tennis. This day was going to be anything but short.

As the day went on the rain died down and the warm breezes started drying everything up. My friends and I decided that we would still play tennis since the courts were starting to dry so we drove over to the rec. On our way there we noticed that not that many people were still out walking around campus and that campus seemed almost dead. The sky still seemed dreary due to the rain from earlier that day but there was something else, it was almost like campus had a strange aura to it. It seemed deserted and spooky and in my mind I was convinced that it was because of the rain. We had played for about an hour when we saw eight cop cars drive by the rec center and tennis courts. We all looked up and pondered the thought as to why they were all following each other and what for, but with no answers and no words between any of us we just kept playing. Time past and we hadn’t seen any more cops in a while but we also hadn’t seen many other people either. Which was strange for an afternoon mid-week at the rec center, because typically it is packed. As we packed up our equipment I took out my phone to see if I had any messages. I had one text message from my mother and one email from the university. The text from my mom read “have you checked your school email? Bomb threat?” So immediately I got nervous and my palms began to sweat as I opened the email from the university to read “The University of Alabama is under a bomb threat warning. Students in the areas of sorority row, fraternity row, The Ferguson Center, and so on should evacuate those areas immediately and return when instructed.”  As any person would I began to panic as I read the message to my friends and we got in the car to leave. None of us could go home seeing as we all lived in the sorority house together so we decided that we would go out for dinner to try and make the time pass. We thought that we were making a great decision to go somewhere a little farther away from campus, so just in case we wouldn’t be in harm’s way, little to our knowledge we had just made a big mistake.

We chose to go to a restaurant that all of us had gone to before and no one had anything bad to say about it. I think I can speak for all of us in saying that we will never return after the outing we experienced the night of the bomb threat. We arrived around six o’clock and were seated within five minutes of arriving. Everything was going great, the hostess was very polite and sweet and we instantly had water on the table. But what I was about to experience was something that was going to blow my mind. Our waitress did not come to our table for another fifteen minutes of us being there, a little busy maybe I though in my head?  But as I looked around for confirmation I realized that there were only eight other tables full out of the twenty that were there. So let’s just say we had some extra time to look at the menus. As time passed we were finally greeted by our waitress, and all of us being the impatient people that we are decided to put our orders in with are appetizers and drinks. Well for us this was where it all went wrong. Apparently that was far too confusing for our waitress because not only were the drinks all messed up but we never even received our appetizers. After “arguing” with our waitress about who ordered what drinks we gave up on the thought of even eating any appetizers, at that point we just wanted our meals. Two of us had ordered steak dinners, one ordered the crispy chicken strips and two of us ordered the chicken and pasta dish. We waited and waited, but the food never came. From the time we walked in the door to then we had been there for almost an hour in fifteen minutes. Having a father that works in the food industry I have learned that drinks should be delivered to the table in less than five minutes, appetizers in fewer than 15 and your meal within twenty five to thirty minutes, this was clearly not the case for us. So not only were we worried about our entire school being blown up by some crazy bombers but we had waited for our food for over an hour now. I finally saw the waitress come around the corner approaching our table when everything flashed before my eyes. She tipped her carrying tray slightly to the right and the steak dinners flew off crashing onto the floor and splattering everywhere. She was able to salvage the chicken tenders and the chicken and pasta dinners somehow but I just knew in my mind this dinner had just begun. When the new portions of steak dinners arrived we were instantly disappointed with them as well seeing as both of their side items were wrong, but at that point waiting a total of almost two hours for all of the meals we were not going to send anything back. As to be expected my meal was anything but impressive as well. The chicken was dry and tasted like there was no flavoring and the portion of pasta was maybe enough to feed a small infant. As you can imagine the chicken tenders although they looked appetizing the uncooked raw middle tasted anything but divine.

            Being the unhappy customers that we were, all we wanted at that point was the check, we didn’t care if we hadn’t been instructed to come back to campus, I would rather risk being blown up than sitting in that restaurant any longer. So we asked for the checks very politely and the snarly attitude that we received back from the waitress was anything but friendly. We waited and waited and at the time we had been there for two and a half hours and had been waiting for our checks for about forty five minutes. Little to our attention though our waitress had been trying to divide the appetizers we never received between all of us and trying to add the two dropped steak dinners to our checks as well. One of us went over to the manager and asked if we could speak with her about our service. We explained that we had never experienced such a rude waitress and that we demanded not to be charged for the oh yeah food we never received and for the dinners that had been dropped on the ground. The manager feeling entirely embarrassed fixed our bills for us and paid for our drinks. But in my mind that still did not change the terrible experience I had just had and the entirely unsatisfying meal either. I never thought that I would hate one meal so much that I would rather risk my life being on a campus with bomb threats, but I can assure you that night I would have done anything to get out of the restaurant.

My Guilty Pleasure of Food

There is nothing worse than waking up with an awful headache and feeling like there is a drought in your mouth because you desperately need some water due to the massive hangover that you are starting to feel, oh wait there is something worse. Realizing that you ate entire box of messy fries the night before by yourself, probably without breathing in between each bite. I am always terribly disappointed when I wake up that next morning and find the oversized styrofoam box on my night stand with a bunch of dirty napkins accompanying it. In that instant I know I have done something that I always regret and I start ask myself, why do I do this?

The big box just stares me in the face as I start to feel the guilt starting to set in. Apart of me just wants to roll over and pretend that I didn’t actually eat that last night, and that it is my roommates. But I know in my mind that that is clearly not the case and yes I have successfully done it again.

            Messy fries is the type of food that I would not dream of eating sober because I know how many calories it actually contains, nor would I be able to finish the massive portion of them in the right state of mind. The best part about this meal is I go the extra mile to actually break into the sorority house kitchen and into the refrigerator just to get the ranch dressing so that I can drown all of contents inside the box, as if it isn’t bad enough.

            All of the individual items that are put together to make this mess of food are fattening by themselves, but then added all together it creates something that you should not eat on a weekly basis, but apparently every Friday night I think differently. I did a little research just to show myself how bad messy fries actually were for me not like it has stopped me, but this is what I was able to find. The chili by itself is about 300 calories, then you add the french fries which are about another 300 or 350. Then add cheese onto all of that you get around 280. By adding all of that together you get a total of around 900 calories. Now don’t forget I smother them all in ranch dressing which adds about 150 calories, which brings this grand total to 1150 calories. This can be the total amount of calories some people eat in just one day; I on the other hand though take the liberty of eating them in about 20 minutes I would say. And these calculations are for a normal portion of each ingredient, and I can assure you there is not much portion control when constructing this master piece. But then again don’t let me fool you when you add french fries, with pounds of melted cheddar and monetary jack cheeses, with spicy chili that makes your tongue tingle, then suffocate every fry in ranch dressing you get a little something I like to call heaven.

The name “messy fries” is ironic due to the fact that I am typically highly intoxicated when purchasing such an item and I probably look and am acting like a “mess” as well, I can only imagine what I look like while eating them. I guess I could take a wild guess by the amount of napkins I normally find in and around the empty box and the few fries that dropped onto the ground next to my desk, and could say that I clearly do not use a fork. Digging my fingers through the chili and ranch dressing just to find a french fry is a battle in itself. But then being able to find the perfect bite is what takes the longest amount of time. You wouldn’t think that this would be important when I can barely even see straight, but it is. The amount of grease that typically seeps into my fingers from the pulling the stringy cheese apart so that I can get the perfect ratio of chili, cheese, ranch dressing and fries is in a way disgusting. But from the smears of white and brown on all of the napkins I guess you could say that enjoyed eating them.

I think the best thing about the messy fries is the experience you get when you are waiting anxiously to take them home with you. The fact that the Indian man behind the counter recognizes me from last weekend and doesn’t even need me to tell him what I will be ordering is a scary thought. Or when he laughs at me when I try to hand him my debit card but I mistakenly hand him my fake i.d. or the times when I am short a few dollars and they still give them to me because I am such a frequent customer, I can’t decide what situation is more embarrassing. Clearly none of these are too embarrassing though seeing as I always end up with the messy fries.  

Then I also think about my dedication to a food when I am in a totally different state of mind and how I go to great measures to make sure that I can have them. The fact that I have stood and waited in the rain or sat in 20 degree weather just so I can be disappointed with myself in the morning, in my mind could count as an addiction. My sober mind will admit that the messy fries are indeed delicious but my intoxicated mind will go on for days explaining just how delicious they actually are to anyone that will listen. This is a food that I will always have a secret part in my heart for but I will hate to admit to myself and anyone else that I eat these and how much I consume of them on a regular basis.