art of bein’ suthun’

I guess hospitality is a southerner’s coat of arms—their honor and their battle cry. It is my personal belief that to “host” means to “not let the guest do anything,” a sentiment of which I approved of wholeheartedly as the guest.

So, when I went down to Carolina territory I learned extensively how to “make myself at home”—which meant in the car ride from the airport (chocolate chip cookies), the Piggly-Wiggly (southern ginger ale), at a fast food restaurant (real pork barbecue), at L’s house (homemade pizza). My job: take what is offered and prettily say “thank you.”

L’s husband B made my bed up for me, I was adequately supplied with all the napkins and towels I could use, we had waiters come to our table to bring us more water (and more napkins) at the fast food restaurants. By the end of the trip, I just started stealing things, figuring they were going to let me have it anyway, and I would just avoid bothering people by asking.

The best position in the whole state of North Carolina would be the short term guest. I started considering how to hop from household to household to be waited upon. My hostess, L, informed me excitedly that she was going to make me real “suthun” biscuits and gravy for breakfast; she was going to wake up at 6 a. m. to start them.

“Do I have to wake up at 6 a. m. too?” I asked, horrified. I appreciated the sentiment, but that seemed a little early for biscuits. I played the guest card. “Maybe I’ll get up at 7, then…”

I blissfully and peacefully slept the sleep of a guest with no cares and no worries, until the fire alarm went off because L and B over-browned the biscuits.

She was horrified to say the least; I just thought it was funny—and it was good gravy.