Beat the Heat with Buttermilk Popsicles?

A good and longtime friend shared recently about making buttermilk popsicles at home with family, using a recipe presumably which came from Steel City Pops, a trendy nouveau foodery in Birmingham, AL. And giving credit where credit is due, Alabama has some mighty fine eateries, and an amazing wealth in it’s diversity of food. As evidence of that fact, Chef Frank Stitt, owner of Birmingham restaurants Highlands Bar and Grill, Bottega Restaurant, and Chez Fonfon has been on the James Beard Foundation Award‘s radar for quite some time, and most recently, NPR recognized the excellent oysters produced by Murder Point Oysters using farming methods in that Bayou La Batre, Alabama Gulf Coast town, which were also feted by Chef Emeril Lagasse. Alabama food is a literal treasure of gastronomic proportion. And it’s not just limited to the holiest of holies… barbecue.
(👉Get your Alabama Barbecue Trail app here!👈😋)

Now, I confess an aversion to buttermilk except in cooking. And the reason, of course, is that I’ve tried it. And not just once. In fact, I recollect as a youth visiting with relatives in

Thanksgiving Carp (or should it be “crap”?)

My Thanksgiving this year was unremarkable.

I said jokingly – although with serious intent – that I should’ve gone to the homeless shelter to eat. At least that way I would’ve had some turkey, dressing and traditional food!

The ironic part of it all, was that I bought enough groceries to feed an army: 25 lb turkey, 20 lb ham, 10 lb pork tenderloin, 7 lb of three types sausage, 2 lb slab-cut bacon, mushrooms (shitake, portobello & white), onions, leeks, fresh spinach, cream, genuine maple syrup, pecans, walnuts, tomato paste, salad dressings, cheeses, and much, much more (over $300 worth)! The meat is now residing in the freezer, while the other perishables are in the refrigerator’s cooler drawer.

Perhaps it was my Matthew 22:9 moment. The well-read will recall that is the parable of the feast taught by Jesus Christ, in which the king made ready a feast but the invited guests didn’t show up. So, he commanded his servants to go out into the city streets, highways and byways and bid all to come to the feast.

My roommate is “vegetabletarian,” wasn’t invited anywhere by anyone she knew, and I didn’t get the invite from my folks because they were invited by my brother’s in-laws (Clifford & Jolene) to their place. I thought that was kind’a ass-holey of them, not my folks, to not invite me. I’m the elder of two, have neither spouse nor children, and don’t lead a secret life. Which is to say, C&J and all the gang know that. I guess they gave me the great big “FUCK YOU” this year.

But oh, dear LORD… don’t let ’em think for one moment they might be “dissing” me – their artificially nice world would cave in around them. But know what’s weird? He’s a Baptist-turned-Independent “holiness” preacher.

See what I mean? At least if I ate with the homeless folks, I’d have been around some folks that would’ve taken an interest in me.

As it was, I enjoyed the fellowship of one human being – my roommate and her dog Atticus – and one other… Mr. Jack Daniel’s whiskey.

Okay, enough carping.

So, the first turkey I had this season was at – of all places – a Chinese restaurant, the Sunday after Thanksgiving! Oh yeah… I also had some of my favorites: octopus salad, raw oysters, shrimp and kimchi, along with some beef – cooked, of course (though I’ve eaten it raw… yum! *LOL*).

I had a couple of laughs that day with my waitress and the folks at the table next to mine. I’m a personable fellow, and I like to laugh and smile.

Folks that know me, know that.

In retrospect, I suppose it all worked out for the best… though I still think it sucks.

There’s no place like home

Don’t much follow a whole lot’a sports.

Not even the holy grail of NCAA Division I’s SEC – by many, the standard by which all other football teams are judged.

On occasion, however I will watch an Auburn game and make every diligent effort to tune into the Iron Bowl – THE gridiron rivalry to end all rivalries.

And, I confess to rooting for Auburn. Been that way for a long time… rooting for Auburn, that is.

You see, when you quite literally owe your life to Auburn, you know where your priorities are.

Yep, that’s owe my life to ’em, as in I-wouldn’t-be-here-if-it-weren’t-for-Auburn kind of owe my life to ’em.

So, flipping through the pages of the paper today, I happened upon an item that headlined a Crimson Tider. (For you medical folks, I refrained from titre… it’s just not that punny.)

Anyway, the article told about how MRI confirmed that Inside Linebacker Dont’a Hightower suffered ligament damage and would most likely be sidelined for the remainder of the season… for appropriate surgery and recuperative therapy.

I wish him a speedy recovery and the team well.

But what aroused my curiosity more than anything was this fellow’s name: Dont’a.

My fingers have a hard time wrapping around that apostrophe, so it seems. Because almost every time I type it out, I find myself needing to back up and correct.

Don’t.

No… Dont’a.

Just exactly what kind of name is Don’ta… er, I mean Dont’a?

And having never heard the fellow’s name pronounced, I’m unsure of the pronunciation. I mean, is it properly pronounced “dah-n-tay,” “doughnna,” or what?!

Then I thought again, who names their child something like that?

It’s definitely not an American name… at least I couldn’t find it anywhere I searched.

And what does it mean? Names have meaning… at least that’s what we’re taught when we begin learning to speak. We associate a word and sound with something. And eytmologists – that’s not the folks that study bugs, but the folks that study the origin and derivation of words – tell us that most of all language can be traced back to a common tongue.

That got me to thinking.

Dont’a you do that no mo! I’se gwine ta’ whip ‘yer arsicle if’n ya’ do!

The pleasing sounds of the varieties of our Southern dialects continues to amaze me, and hearing the sweet-as-honey sounds, and the tenor twangs of the many voices we’re blessed to have in ‘Bama is a rich cultural hearitage… er, I mean heritage, that rivals any place I’ve ever travelled.

From the mountain foothills of Northern Alabama’s cuCumberland Plateau, to our wiregrass fields and blackbelt forests, to the Mobile Bay’s oysters and shrimp, the vocal tonalities and rhythmic cadences of our speakers all contributes to our state’s mysterious and equally lovely appeal.

As many attest, her greatest appeal is her people.

For example, I’ve rarely ever heard of anyone moving to Alabama that moves out. I guess it’s the adage, ‘You’ve tried the rest, now stay with the best!’

Sure… what state or location doesn’t have their own idiosyncrasies? But we love our idios, to be certain! I mean, we love you, don’t we?

There’s no place like home… there’s no place like home… there’s no place like home.

Amen.