The South’s Gonna Do It Again, Part One

Last week we took a little vacation since I had a break from school and Husband is a sweetheart.  We flew down to south Florida (see What, Me Worry? for an overview of my history with flight) and visited his parents because they are adorable and we haven’t seen them in months and I am also a sweetheart.  They surprised us and made dinner reservations for 7:00 pm which is pretty much the middle of the night for elderly people in Delray Beach and it was strange eating dinner with them later than two hours after we had lunch.

My mother-in-law, who I adore, again pointed out the things in her home I might want to claim after she dies unless her daughter has already put in dibs.  The first time she did this after I married her son it really threw me.  I wasn’t sure how to react and wondered if she was kidding or losing it or testing me or I don’t know what but I’ve since had conversations with other people about it and discovered it’s not so unusual.  Now I see it as a gesture of her affection for me and a desire to live on through her bequests although I continue to remind her that all I want after she’s gone are wonderful memories of our time together.  My daughter, who has visited them many times with us and is likewise adoring and adored, says I should just get over this sentimental tug-of-war and put my name on the cool chairs by the drop-leaf table before someone else does.  Like her.

After visiting the folks we drove up through central Florida and stopped at a gas station so we could continue to be violated by the oil producing nations and fill up our rental SUV.  While Husband paid the cashier and stocked up on enough York Peppermint Patties to get us to the panhandle, I was drawn to a large cauldron with a lid on it and a ladle sticking out underneath a sign that announced HOT BOILED PEANUTS.  I stirred the ladle around a little to see what the story was with this and all I can say is it looked like giant ovaries floating in squid ink.  I would never presume to diss another food culture but I was kind of repelled.  And I would be a person who once ate chocolate covered ants.  I may not have known what they were at the time but the important part here is I ingested them.

Chances are if I had a taste of what was in that cauldron I would see the lure of this roadside delicacy and maybe even want to move to Florida to keep it in my daily diet.  But I really can’t see us moving to Florida (sorry, Honey) so I’m going to stick with passing my petty judgment on a treat I have never given a chance and continue to live out my days in a place where Sunoco stations don’t ignite wet legumes for mass consumption.  I know, pity the fool.

We stopped in Gainesville on the chance we’d see friends living there who turned out not to be home since it was Easter Sunday and despite the fact that we’re Jewish and they’re not you’d think we’d have considered this possibility.  Also neither of us brought their cell numbers which is totally not like us since we’re both Taurus and incredibly – well, let’s call me anal and Husband meticulously organized – and how often do you plan to pass through a city 1000 miles away where you have friends and not bring their cell numbers?

I am blaming this lapse of ours on the paint job, the stress of my finals and a rash of last minute meetings Husband had before we left.  We still had fun driving around town and noticing all the bumper stickers that said “You’re either a Gator or you’re Gator Bait” in honor of the University’s recent NCAA victory.  For a while we rode behind a car with an amusing sign in the back window, “Watch for Finger, Horn Broken”.  And if you’re friends of ours in Gainesville and we missed you Easter Sunday we hope you had a great holiday and we’ll catch you next time around.

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