So for the last week I have been in The South. My good friends T&A (tee hee) were whisked away to magical Durham, North Carolina where A researches how to make time travel possible and T uses math to cure cancer. This is my rudimentary understanding of what my friends do for a living.
Now, I have been to NOLA, but New Orleans is its own world. This was my first real South Eastern experience (as indicated by the map of Where I’ve Been below).
I honestly don’t remember if I’ve been through Iowa. I’m taking the classy road and assuming that I haven’t, rather than assuming that Iowa is a vast wasteland that apparently isn’t worth remembering.
Although I guess you could argue that North Carolina, by the very virtue of having “North” in its name, isn’t Southy enough, but I dunno. For this Yankee girl, it was pretty real. While much of the trip was spent cowering inside their air-conditioned home to escape the oppressive humidity, we did manage to visit the Museum of Natural Sciences complete with butterfly sanctuary, attend a minor league baseball game (where I had soaked up enough Southern hospitality to stifle my instinct to boo a guy wearing a Red Sux hat), film a 15 second segment for Empire Strikes Back Uncut, and paddle a canoe down a moonlit river (which was awesome). But we also ate.
Folksy signs — a North Carolina tradition
And then ate to wash down the alcohol.
We had fried chicken, biscuits, gravies (multiple), hushpuppies, fried green tomatoes, ribs, slow-cooked pork, various mac’n’cheeses. We drank beer, averaged a bottle of wine a day, sipped Southern sangria (very different, spicy, like chilled mulled wine), imbibed French martinis and lychee martinis, and guzzled Cheerwine and sweet tea. These people aren’t kidding when they say sweet tea. It’s a “Would you like some water in your glass of sugar so that it will make it easier to drink?” sort of deal.
Basically the trip was awesome. There’s not terribly much to do, but it’s quaint and polite. Lots of green, swaying forest. And while I can see how saying “hold the bacon” for everything you order from salads, soups, sandwiches, and milkshakes could get old before you eventually just give up and eat a pound of bacon daily, it wasn’t the backwoods cultural nightmare feared by West Coast elite. I mean, they do have a Broadway house.
When I got home, I couldn’t ingest a full meal for two days. M Fox bought a beautiful vanilla cupcake with pink frosting and a juicy strawberry slice on top to welcome me home. And when I saw it, I gagged.
Don’t worry folks, his hurt feelings took a backseat to his glee over not having to share. Also, it was later revealed that another purpose of this cupcake was to soothe my inevitable break-down when I found out that the car we purchased six months ago needed a $2,800 repair job. Yikes.
M Fox’s pH chemistry set. Because when you grow plants in a bucket of water in a box, you need to add nutrients.
Now here’s the thing about M Fox and I. We are awesome together. We complete each other. It’s sickening, really. But when we’re apart? We’re both crazy. I go into delusional panic attacks and usually end up eating everything in the house and pacing in circles. M Fox, on the other hand, gets Ideas. With a capital “I.” This time it involved a 5′ wide by 5′ tall by 2′ deep hydroponic plant incubator.
Because I once lamented that our deck didn’t get enough sun for me to grow tomatoes, he decided to add a sun-swept wonderland box to our basement. Oh, he also purchased some sort of cloning serum so that “we can grow whatever we want!!!!!!” (exclamation marks his)
If I wasn’t terrified of our basement, I would go down there and take a photo for you. Maybe later.
Honestly, it’s a very sweet sentiment and the idea of being able to pick homegrown tomatoes in February does have some appeal, however Monsanto-y. Certainly his Ideas are more constructive than my self-pitying No Husband routine (unless it’s right before Pesach. . . because then I could suck the hametz out of every corner of that kitchen, trust me). But the most bizarre thing about this last round of Wife’s-Not-Here-To-Talk-Me-Out-Of-It impulse buying, and the reason for the title of this blog, is this.
While I was gone, the favored husband replaced me with a carnivorous plant.
I’m not entirely sure what this says about me or our marriage, but there is one thing that I for SURE did not utter when I returned: “Feed me.”