By way of a great southern tradition, I am very aware of that concept: The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I've heard many a story about the miraculous things a woman could wrench out of a man with a pot of spaghetti, and a few other ingredients which I continue to wish were only added to the story to increase the mysterious lore of women in "the old days". But to sit that issue aside for a moment, I know as a southern bred (not sure if I like that term) woman, there are exceedingly grandiose expectations placed upon my ability to not just cook, but burn...For those of you who aren't aware burn does not mean to overcook food, to burn is to throw it down, put your foot in it, damn girl can burn.
In recent weeks I've developed a curious desire for a cast iron skillet, the southern cook's essential. As a little girl I remember pulling the ridiculously enormous pans from under the counter for my granny or my ma. I'd watch as they melted some form of artery clogging agent, which could range from crisco to butter (sometimes both), and placed large pieces of chicken inside. The splash of the grease always catching me as I tended to get to close. So I wonder, what has me fascinated with this elaborate southern art: chicken, fried potatoes and onion, fried apples, macaroni and cheese, sweet potato pie, and not to forget corn bread. Am I yearning for my childhood, or maybe some relation to those strong women of the past who held it down for their men and their families...In the most thought stirring internal conversations I sometimes unnecessarily wonder "will this diminish my feminist self?" Of course not.
The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. While that is a nice idea, I'm still waiting on an equal and accurate way to my own heart. I want it quoted, laminated, and placed upon bumper stickers until the male species has it down just as us ladies do...The way to a woman's heart is through her mind; The way to a woman's heart is through great conversation, common sense, determination, and amazing hands...Great sense of humor, love for his family...I could continue, and I'm open to ideas.
**But please remember, phrase must fit onto your standard bumper sticker, as it is a necessity to have this monumental bit of information spread around for all men of the world to receive.
In recent weeks I've developed a curious desire for a cast iron skillet, the southern cook's essential. As a little girl I remember pulling the ridiculously enormous pans from under the counter for my granny or my ma. I'd watch as they melted some form of artery clogging agent, which could range from crisco to butter (sometimes both), and placed large pieces of chicken inside. The splash of the grease always catching me as I tended to get to close. So I wonder, what has me fascinated with this elaborate southern art: chicken, fried potatoes and onion, fried apples, macaroni and cheese, sweet potato pie, and not to forget corn bread. Am I yearning for my childhood, or maybe some relation to those strong women of the past who held it down for their men and their families...In the most thought stirring internal conversations I sometimes unnecessarily wonder "will this diminish my feminist self?" Of course not.
The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. While that is a nice idea, I'm still waiting on an equal and accurate way to my own heart. I want it quoted, laminated, and placed upon bumper stickers until the male species has it down just as us ladies do...The way to a woman's heart is through her mind; The way to a woman's heart is through great conversation, common sense, determination, and amazing hands...Great sense of humor, love for his family...I could continue, and I'm open to ideas.
**But please remember, phrase must fit onto your standard bumper sticker, as it is a necessity to have this monumental bit of information spread around for all men of the world to receive.
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