An Arkansas Autumn [Wordless Wednesday]
Arkansas
Happy Halloween
Confession: I’m not really a big Halloween fan. Mainly because I absolutely despise scary movies. Take for example the fact that Scream and Scary Movie (the movie that parodies scary movies) scare me. The whole obsession with horrifying ghouls and goblins and paranormal activity and haunted houses is lost on me. So yeah, I’m a wuss.
Since I am a past costume winner at the First United Methodist Church in my hometown [I dressed as a rockstar, complete with metallic Tina Turner-esque hair], I do enjoy the idea of dressing up as someone else. I just prefer that costumes involve cheerleaders, raggedy Anns, clowns, and ballerina princesses – not blood, ghosts, guts, or masks.
I like the Halloween innocence of bobbing for apples and participating in cake walks. I also enjoy pranks, as long as they aren’t played on me or, if they are played on me, don’t prey on my phobia of snakes or give me nightmares.
When you’re raised in a large 100-year old Victorian home it just seems to make Halloween easier to celebrate. The large front porch, the windows that sometimes rattled in the wind, occasional creaks when a door was opened…I’m sure it’s a Halloween enthusiast’s dream. I remember years of my dad putting on scary masks [somehow, when he put them on it wasn’t much different than his normal appearance. I kid. I kid.] and handing out treats while my mom had a spooky Halloween cassette tape playing for added effect. Later, they got even more into it, with jack-o-lanterns on the steps and spider webs stretched over the door frame. But, I think my favorite Halloween memory is the year my dad rigged up a ghost, which my mom had made from a white sheet and newspaper, with fishing line to mysteriously raise up in front of trick-or-treaters when my masked 6’8″ dad opened the spider webbed door.
That year? One kid was so scared he bolted off the front porch, through the yard, and back to his parents’ car. Without getting any candy.
Don’t Worry. Be Happy!
There are constants in life that everyone, in one way or another, can say make them happy. Family. Significant Other. Friends. Co-Workers. Home. Those are the normal day to day things that always make me happy, but what about the not-so-normal things? The things that you take for granted or further explain why you are the way you are? Here’s 10 things that make me happy:
iPhone
It connects me with the world, specifically friends and family, on a daily basis. Shopping alone and need advice about whether to buy something? Send a text to a friend. Miss your long-distance boyfriend? Call him. Visiting home where your parents have disabled the Internet? Thank God for the connectivity. In short, my iPhone keeps me sane and keeps me happy.
Sara Lee Pound Cake
Growing up, I remember occasionally finding this delicious food in my parents’ freezer and feeling like I had hit the jackpot. Something about the slices of moist, buttery goodness, straight from the freezer gives me comfort. And don’t even get me started on scraping the foil pan once all the cake is gone… It’s a rare treat, but one I’m happy to indulge in once or twice a year.
Sweet Tea
I’m a southern girl through and through. What’s more southern that a tall glass of Sweet Tea? Nothing. Now, if only I had a porch swing…
The Cuddler
My dad is like any other dad, his gifts are always practical. I’ve received financial self-help/guidance books, eye glass cleaning kits, and illustrated stock market guides over my 26 years, but the gift that I love the most from him is this fleece blanket. It’s pre-Snuggie construction, providing a pocket for your feet, is long enough for 6’2″ me to stretch out on the couch and STILL be covered shoulder to feet in its warmth.
Jazzercise
I never imagined I’d become one of those people that would NEED exercise or miss it when they couldn’t attend. But in the last year, I have and it’s all because of Jazzercise. It’s provided me with stress relief, laughter, and, above all, strength.
Needlepoint
Needlepoint connects me to my past, reminds me of childhood weekends spent watching The Sound of Music at Ottie’s house while she made needlepoint stockings for new grandchildren. It calms me, clears my head, and gives me control for a brief moment in time. Simply put, it centers me.
My Apron
It hangs prominently in my kitchen and as soon as I put it on I feel like an Anthropologie wearing Julia Child. It’s been worn through countless batches of Crack Cookies, Peanut Butter Oreo Pie, and Creme de Menthe Brownies. Through Bruschetta, Chili, and Israeli Spice Chicken. And sometimes, I forget I’m in my apartment in Central Arkansas and pretend I have my own show on Food Network.
Wait, I probably shouldn’t have said that last part. Forget I ever told you.
Music
6524 songs. That’s my collection. Each song put there for a reason, even if the reason escapes me when the song plays for the first time in several years. Music makes me smile, distracts me when I’m working on busy graduate school work, and gives me a beat to which I can bop my head.
Not that I would EVER bop my head.
DVR
My DVR is one of the only things, human or otherwise, I have been able to count on consistently. When I turn it on I know it will answer and won’t ignore me, no matter the time of day. It is always available to me, even in the worst of times. It is programmed to know what I want and desire, and knowing those wants and desires are only a click away makes me happy.
Pictures
They give me a glimpse into my past, support that spark of recollection I have about a certain experience. They tell MY story. Knowing that story is available to me whenever I feel nostalgic makes me so incredibly happy.
Do You Wanna Dance?
Middle School.
The most awkward period of everyone’s life. Marred by the burning desire to fit in and sit with the cool kids; the desire to please your parents, but be accepted by your peers. Easier said than done.
For example, take the 5th grade Christmas dance, where I decided it would be most appropriate to wear a sparkly gold sweater and velvet stirrup pants. Complete with matching purse and choker. Add to that my mom’s obsession of steam rollers, teasing, and hairspray and you got this…
I thought I was stylin’ and that all the girls would ask me for fashion advice. Looking back, I was clearly mistaken.
Then picture that awkward, skinny, towering 11 year old version of me dying for the chance to dance with a boy. ANY boy. Instead of sitting on the sidelines watching every other girl dance only joining in when the Electric Slide or Macarena played. I was so desperate, in fact, that I decided to chase a boy around the dance floor until he agreed to dance with me. Yes, you read right. I CHASED him around the dance floor, in front of teachers, classmates, parents, and the DJ.
Not my proudest moment.
E.T. [can’t] Phone Home…
When I was 4, I was put in the corner at The Learning Corner for not knowing my home phone number and while I don’t remember the actual events of the evening that followed, you can bet my mom [or maybe my dad] helped me memorize our number so that the next day I could proudly recite it.
Years passed and our number was written on countless school permission slips, emergency contact forms, doctor’s files, college applications, and summer camp forms. There’s no telling how many times I’ve written my home phone number down. Later, after the advent of “Zack Morris phones”, I received my first cell phone and stored the number simply as “Home”. I placed it at speed dial #5, always knowing Home was just a press away.
My first year at college there were innumerable calls to that number, then as the popularity of cellular devices increased, my parents “joined the bandwagon” and their individual cell numbers became my preferred method of reaching them. I never stopped calling “Home” though, nor did I stop writing it on contact forms. It always stayed one key press away.
In December of 2008, my parents disconnected their landline. To them it was no big thing, but to my sister and me it was huge. Even though we have a home to go back and visit and “Mom” and “Dad” on speed dial, neither one of us can remove “Home” from our phonebook. Because, if we do, we’d be “Home”less.
Isn’t it funny that a number I was once punished for not knowing, is a number that I no longer have to know?
image via splityarn on flickr
Life List
In my blog-stalking, I’ve recently noticed lots of “life list” posts or blogs and thought I should get on the bandwagon. One, because it’s probably a good idea to think about what I want to accomplish in this life. Two, because it’s a whole heck of a lot of fun to dream, isn’t it?
So, following in the footsteps of Walking the Long Road, Damn You, Little Rock and If You Ask Me here’s my life list.
- Go back to Prague and come home with crystal.
- Flip a house.
- Take a cruise in the Mediterranean.
- Gamble in Vegas (and maybe even win big).
- Buy a house and make it a home.
- Adopt a dog. [If it’s a Corgi name it Radar.]
- Read more classic literature.
- Watch all of Julie Andrews’ movies.
- Take the Sound of Music tour in Salzburg, Austria.
- Take my parents on a vacation.
- Trace my family genealogy.
- Make homemade ice cream by myself.
- Own a paperie.
- Take an autumnal trip through the New England states.
- Relearn how to throw pottery. [I was in elementary school the first time. Does that even count?]
- Travel abroad with Adam.
- Write a novel.
- Get aforementioned novel published.
- Visit Paris.
- Sit and sip in a Parisian Cafe.
- Win the lottery.
- Learn to surf.
- Visit all 50 states.
- Take a road trip through Tuscany.
- Have a street named after me (even if it’s just my driveway).
- Get my M.Ed.
- Update my blog on a regular basis.
- Resist the urge to change my blog address again.
- Visit the Storm King Art Center.
- Broaden my culinary horizons (aka find more foods I like).
- Learn to tat.
- Learn to crochet.
- Carry on the tradition of my Great-Aunt Lila and Great-Grandmother Mama Ward’s handmade snowflakes.
- Host Thanksgiving dinner for my entire family.
- Buy a real ironing board.
- Actually iron.
- Make fresh pasta.
- Get married. [once]
- Become a mother.
- Adopt a child.
- Find the most ridiculous items possible in a Dollar Store and share them with the world.
- Meet Meryl Streep.
- Go to the Ellen Show.
- Go snow-skiing in Colorado again.
- Volunteer with Ozark Mission Project.
- Grow a succulent garden.
- Attend the Olympics.
- Be an Olympic athlete. In curling.
- Go to the Oscars.
- Go to Wimbledon.
- Bowl a perfect game.
- Create a signature dish.
- Visit Nantucket.
Free graphics found on pugly pixel. Personalized by me.
Road Wars
This morning I risked my life for a bagel.
I woke up craving the cinnamon-y, sugar-y deliciousness of a Panera Bread Cinnamon Crunch Bagel. I got ready in record time – for a Monday – hopped in my car and headed to Panera.
Panera is relatively new in Conway and in a new development of both residential and commerical properties. [Which, by the way, is quite possibly the cutest little neighborhood I’ve ever seen.] This development has sparked the installation of some roundabouts and due to those roundabouts there is understandably some construction to navigate through. I’m okay with that, as normally it doesn’t cause that big of a delay.
But today, this is what I encountered as I approached my turn:
What you are looking at is a roundabout where the middle is blocked, making it impossible to make my left-hand turn to get to Panera. [Also notice there’s a curbed grassy median preventing me from just making my own turn lane]
Frustrated, I continued to drive a bit further as there is a second roundabout just up the road, it’s also new. Unfortunately, that roundabout was similarly blocked preventing me from making a U-turn.
This would be where I developed road Tourette’s.
I was bound and determined to make that left-hand turn and buy a bagel, so at the first opportunity I had where there was no longer a grassy median blocking me, I made a U-turn through an opening in the traffic barrels and into oncoming traffic narrowly avoiding a collision, but also starting a trend of 6 other cars making the same manuever.
I got skills. And I know how to use them.
At lunch I risked my life for a salad.
Now that my favorite Little Rock restaurant has opened a location in Conway, it’s pretty much become my regular lunch spot. To get there I take a series of side streets from work to get back to the aforementioned cluster-*bleep*. You’d think, since I’m making only right-hand turns this time it would be a breeze to get to ZAZA.
Well, you’d be mistaken, because this is what that same area looked like at lunch:
This time, the entire northbound road is blocked off. Not only that, what you don’t see is the madness I had to get through just to get on the road. The last 20 feet or so of the side-street I took was blocked off and had detour signs up. What these detour signs didn’t tell you, until it was too late, is that you were being taken to a coned off area that was running out of road; where making a right hand turn was virtually impossible given how close the cones were together and the narrow lanes of two-way traffic you would have to fight. You also had no option of backing up and turning around, because there was a line of cars in the same predicament as you.
As soon as I could make a left-hand turn, as it was much easier to make than a right, I bolted into the traffic then quickly made another left into a parking lot so I could finish my U-turn. And, wouldn’t you know it, I started a trend yet again. Skills.
I’m giving myself an imaginary pat on the back for being so resourceful when faced with adversity when I realize that the entire half of the roundabout I need to drive through to get to ZAZA is blocked. I do a quick scan for construction workers and equipment, of which there is NONE, and bolt through a gap in the barrels just large enough for my car to fit through.
Which brings me to this question:
Seriously, “road people”. What possessed you to block the ONLY entrance to 2 of the newest hotspots in town with construction? Is it to test my analytical thinking skills? Is it a subtle hint that I don’t need to eat a bagel? No? Well then, maybe it’s your way of really testing my patience first thing on a Monday? Either way I deserve an explanation. stat.
Sunday Shares
I was in a Cheese Dip Coma for most of Saturday, because I became a card carrying member of the Southern Cheese Dip Academy. Yep, that’s right, the Southern Cheese Dip Academy. It’s quite possibly my proudest achievement to date.
Even if I had to buy my way in.
This Cheese Dip Coma lasted into Sunday, but because Adam had to head back to Austin early this morning (9:30 is early for a Sunday, right?), I got an early start on Grad School work, in turn providing me with ample blog-stalking and random Internet-browsing time this afternoon. As a favor to my blog readers, all 10 of you (and that’s being generous) here’s a few sites worth sharing.
- Bank Drive-Thrus – The Perfect Place To Needlepoint! – Noelle is a new IRL [In Real Life] friend that I found through Twitter over a year ago. In this post, she may or may not talk about me and the opening of the new Little Rock Anthropologie store. In reading this post, I may or may not have laughed like a hyena.
- Recycled Magazine Flower Tutorial – This may be the cutest idea ever for old magazines. After Adam had the audacity to walk over to my side of the bed this weekend and then point out the amount of magazines strewn on the floor, it might be in my best interest to do something with them.
- Unsuck It – Are you stuck in a corporate job with co-workers that use annoying buzz words as often as possible? This is the site for you.
- Pugly Pixel – Graphics geeks like me will LOVE the free resources available to them on this blog. What are you waiting for? Go!
Grocery Lessons
See that window? That BIG window at the top of the picture? That’s the window that inspired me today as my mom and I enjoyed a day of shopping.
Growing up my dad owned a grocery store, Taylor’s Grocery, which eventually became Taylor’s Big Star. This grocery store was a part of my family for most of my adolescence. As a kid, it was AWESOME to have the store opened after hours by your dad to run wild in & get everything for “free”. Frozen pizza, popcorn, coke, magazines, comics. That store was my oyster. My sister and I were even the store mascots during the annual Chicken and Egg parade.
(Yep, my hometown’s summer festival celebrated poultry. Laugh. It. Up.) See Exhibit A.
Exhibit A
I learned many things by being the daughter (and mascot) of a grocer:
I learned the importance of properly sacking groceries, a skill that I still value to this day. You want squashed bread about as much as you want soap flavored apples, which is about as much as you want broken eggs, right? Never underestimate the importance of sacking your groceries. Ever.
I learned how to efficiently scan barcodes. Well, when the scanner cooperates. Which also explains why I almost always choose the self-checkout line when the option is available. That line takes me back to a childhood of playing on the scanners after-hours at the family grocery store.
I learned, thankfully not from first-hand experience, that those meat slicers in the deli can be awfully dangerous. I also learned that pricing guns aren’t dangerous and can actually be a lot of fun to use.
(No wonder why my dad always let me price stuff when I asked. Hmm…must’ve been the free labor thing. Though my parents would never encourage free labor. WOULD YOU mom & dad?)
I learned independence, because as a toddler my mom was known to wake up and see me toddling down the driveway to see daddy. Yep, I was an early riser. An early-riser who missed her dad. Thank goodness it was a straight shot, literally, to the grocery store from our house and that I never made it further than the driveway before getting caught.
I learned where to find my dog, Sugar, a Cocker Spaniel, when he wasn’t in his pen. 9 times out of 10 he had jumped the fence and went to visit my dad at the grocery store.
But back to this blog inspiring window…
At the back of the store there was a small window, behind that window was the most fun area of the store. A tiny private “office”, if you will. To get to this office you had to climb up some stairs. Often these stairs were blocked by pallets or boxes, but that never got in our way. My sister and I would go up to this office with a box of Gushers or Fruit Roll-Ups, a few Archie comic books, some crayons and coloring books, and a fruit juice jug of some kind. We would feel like the queens of the store.
(I’m generalizing here. Maddie may not have felt this way, in which case she can clarify her feelings in the comments.)
From that little-bitty window we could see everything. A woman thumbing through magazines, a man picking fruit, every.single.person that walked through the doors.
Unfortunately, we never witnessed some of the more interesting happenings of the store from that window. Like the time a guy decided to steal cigarettes, so he stuffed them down his pants then ran out of the store with the manager following him, leaving a trail of cigarettes along the way. Not to mention losing his pants in the pursuit as well. Or so I’m told.
But I loved everyday that we got to sit up in that “office” watching over the store. From that window we could see exactly what a small town is about. Smiles to strangers, friendships, support, gossip, laughter, family, and eating.
Being the daughter of a grocer taught me so much more than the importance sacking and scanning. It taught me the importance of a community that sticks together through thick and thin.
Shrimp Addict?
I should probably start this post with a confession. For the past 3 days, my main source of protein at each meal (except breakfast) has been shrimp. I may have a problem.
Okay, now that that’s out of the way…
I had mentioned earlier that my local K-Roger let me down, but luckily Fresh Market came through for me. I don’t normally drive 30 miles for groceries, but since I was already in Little Rock visiting my parents last night to pick up some things I was able to grab the 2 necessary ingredients for Sunny Anderson’s Shrimp in a Garlic Pepperoni Sauce from Fresh Market on my way home. Plus, stopping at Fresh Market gave me the excuse to pick up one of my favorite treats, chocolate covered banana chips. Some serious yum right there folks!
After imagining what this dish tasted like for 3 days, I was excited to make it after Jazzercise. Once I got home, I opened up my MacBook and cranked up my Eat & Greet playlist, because it’s the perfect mix to have in the background while you cook.
I’m not gonna lie, there was a bit of prep involved: chopping a full HEAD of garlic, dicing 16 ounces of pepperoni, removing the tails off a pound and a half of shrimp, but in the end the prep was worth it. The flavors were intense and not spicy like I was expecting, though next time I probably won’t use quite so much pepperoni or olive oil.
Karaoke Memories
When I was 2 or 3, my cousin introduced me to Janet Jackson and I danced and sang my way through “Nasty” and “Lately”. My parents further encouraged this behavior by taping it using their VHS Camcorder. They were cool like that.
When I was about 7, I remember receiving my own personal tape player and microphone set-up, perfect for rapping to MC Hammer or Vanilla Ice on my parents’ screened in back porch. I was dope.
When I was about 12, my family started having karaoke nights, despite the fact that none of us could sing…well, we could sing, we just weren’t any good. Our karaoke machine was well loved and our song selection was impressive. We had a binder of CDs from which to choose, but inevitably I always chose “Brick House”. Complete with a little self-choreographed dance.
My adolescence was marked with age inappropriate karaoke.
Then, I went off to college, got my first apartment and realized that I could own karaoke games. Karaoke competitions? In my own home? Count. Me. In. I bought SingStar, Karaoke Revolution, and Get On Da Mic and held karaoke parties with friends. Watching each and every person try to hit a perfect score was entertaining to say the least, but best of all it provided me with 3 karaoke standards, should someone every bribe me to sing karaoke in public.
These standards have proven invaluable already, after an overconfident and unfortunate group effort involving “Scarborough Fair”… [Did you know there are more words to it than “parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme”? We didn’t.]
Turn the Beat Around by Gloria Estefan
9 to 5 by Dolly Parton
Wannabe by Spice Girls
image via Cuba Gallery on Flickr
Shrimply Delicious
Yesterday, as I was watching Food Network in bed, I was absolutely delighted by the Shrimp in a Garlic Pepperoni Sauce Sunny Anderson made on Cooking For Real. I mean, I love pepperoni, I love garlic, and I looooove schrimp. Mmm mmm wonderful schrimp. [Don’t adjust your vision folks, I typed schrimp] My mouth was watering as she made it and I could practically smell its goodness through my television, so it should come as no surprise that I would make it for dinner Sunday night.
After my Sunday Jazzercise ritual, I went to my neighborhood K-Roger to purchase the necessary ingredients. Unfortunately, K-Roger had other plans, which included not having 2 of the ingredients I needed: Pepperoni that didn’t have Hormel in the name and Adobo seasonings. I was defeated and schlepped to the front of the store for a fresh start. As I schlepped, I remembered my go-to shrimp recipe that I hadn’t made in quite a while (okay, maybe a year), and my mood brightened. Garlicky Lemon Shrimp anyone? I promise it will change your life.
Garlicky Lemon Shrimp by Rocco DiSpirito
Ingredients
- 1 lb medium shrimp, peeled, deveined, and cooked
- 3 tbsp lemon juice (I use the juice of 2 large lemons)
- 1/4 cup Olive Oil
- 3 cloves garlic, finely chopped
- Salt and pepper
- 1/2 cup Parmigiano-Reggiano (I use shredded)
- 3/4 cup bread crumbs (I use Italian Style)
Directions:
- Preheat oven to 500 degrees.
- In a medium bowl, toss shrimp with lemon juice, olive oil, and garlic.
- Season with salt and pepper.
- Add cheese and bread crumbs (coat evenly).
- Spread shrimp on a baking sheet in a single layer.
- Bake 5 minutes or until golden and cooked through.
Serves 4
Road Trip Revelations
About 2 months ago, I took a road trip to Austin, Texas with a friend. I was visiting Adam, she was visiting family [and IKEA. It’s amazing how much you can fit into a 2-door convertible]. During this trip, she decided that it would be best if I scrolled through all 6,524 songs on my iPod while she drove and made note of the songs she wanted.
Approximately 16 roundtrip hours, a cramped left thumb and 6,524 clicks of the next button later, she had chosen 1,607 songs.
It was during this trip that I realized just how revealing an iPod can be about someone. She learned things about me that I’ve made her promise never to share with anyone else, mainly because I don’t want people to know that I own every Paula Abdul album or that I enjoy Disney music or that “Barbie Girl” can be found on my iPod.
But for everything I’ve sworn her not to share I’ve got equally embarrassing dirt on her. Like that she requested both Taylor Hicks and Spice Girls. The best part of this experience was the realization that we both have guilty music pleasures that are equally embarrassing, and many of those are the same.
Here’s three embarrassing songs from my collection that I love no matter what…
Spice Up Your Life by Spice Girls
Step By Step by New Kids on the Block
Straight Up by Paula Abdul
A World Without Ro*tel?
Arkansas: The Birthplace of Cheese Dip.
Cheese Dip: The State Food of Arkansas. The staple appetizer at practically any restaurant you visit. The required tailgate food. The perfect topping for chips, chili, rice, and, yes, even burgers. It’s simplicity can be summed up in 2 ingredients: Velveeta and Ro*tel. A match made in heaven if you ask me.
Being raised in Arkansas, I’ve never even considered that some people have never had the pleasure of tasting this delightful dish, not to mention being oblivious to the mere existence of Ro*tel. This weekend, however, I learned that one of my dear friends “up North”, Jules, was one of those unfortunately oblivious souls. Upon finding this out, it became my mission yesterday to force her to make Ro*tel Cheese Dip, or as I like to call it – Ro*tel. In a series of IM conversations, a phone call, tweets, and the offer of a Skype session, I convinced Jules to gather the necessary ingredients and make Ro*tel for dinner.
Me: So in two weeks, I’ll be attending the World Cheese Dip Championships in North Little Rock with Adam.
Jules: What IS this obsession with cheese dip in Arkansas?
Me: Well, number one it’s fabulously delicious. Number two it’s the perfect dish.
Jules: I’ve never understood why a restaurant in Arkansas, no matter the cuisine it serves, has cheese dip on the menu. Are you all really that addicted?
Me: Yes.
Jules: So tell me this, how does one buy cheese dip?
[I tweet this question.]
Me: Well, what kind of cheese dip are we talking about?
Jules: You mean there’s different types?
[I tweet this question.]
Me: Yes, yellow and white are the most popular.
Jules: What’s the difference?
[Jules tweets.]
Me: In my opinion, yellow is not as smooth or spicy as white. I typically order white cheese dip whenever I’m at a restaurant. But at home I make yellow, using Velveeta cheese.
Jules: I’m not a big user of Velveeta, but my husband was raised on it.
Me: Okay, then you HAVE to make Ro*tel. If your husband was raised on Velveeta, he’ll love you more than ever after you make this dip.
Jules: What’s that?
Me: Ro*tel? It’s diced tomatoes and green chilies.
Jules: How do you spell it? R-O-W-T-E-L-L-E?
Me: [laughing] No, R-O-star-T-E-L.
Jules: You mean there’s actually a star in its name?
Me: Yes.
Jules: Can I buy it up here?
[I look up where to buy Ro*tel online]
Me: Yep, there’s 5 stores that carry it in your town! Go. Now.
Jules: Where will I find it?
Me: Probably in the canned vegetables, next to the tomatoes. You’ve seriously never seen or heard of Ro*tel before? Wow.
Jules: Okay so besides Ro*tel, what else do I need to make this cheese dip?
[Jules tweets again.]
Me: 1 pound of Velveeta and 1 can of Ro*tel.
[I tweet a reply correcting Jules.]
Jules: How do I prepare the Velveeta?
Me: Dice it up and throw it in a bowl, then pour the Ro*tel on top. Nuke it until it’s nice and melted, stirring about every minute and a half to 2 minutes. I usually drain the Ro*tel because I like a thicker dip, but you can leave the juice if you want a thinner dip, totally up to you.
Later that afternoon…
Jules: I have my grocery list ready! What goes good with the dip for dinner?
Me: Ha! It’s always just my meal.
Jules: Seriously?
Me: Seriously, but you could do tacos, burgers, fajitas, or chili.
Jules: We should just dip our burgers in the cheese dip. Just kidding.
Me: Even better, you could top your burgers with cheese dip…and bacon. I’m serious.
Jules: Ok, I’m heading to the store.
Later that evening…
Jules: So 2 lbs velveeta and a can of rotel?
Me: NO!!!! 1 lb to 1 can.
Jules: So if I make 2 lbs I use 2 cans?
Me: Yes, that’s typically how math works.
Jules: Ok, heating up now.
Me: Ok, how is it? I need an update?
Jules: It was verra verra good! I am stuffed. We all enjoyed it, ate lots.
Me: Yay! Nothing makes me happier than a new Ro*tel lover.
And that, my friends? Is how I convinced Jules to make Ro*tel for the very first time. Everyone loved it and her daughter Caity, who I’m told does not like Velveeta, deemed it “pretty good”.
So to Jules and her family: I’m glad I could educate you on the state food of Arkansas. May you have many many more bowls of cheese dip and Ro*tel in your future!
And for anyone who’s interested in the history of cheese dip here’s a video:
“In Queso Fever: A Movie About Cheese Dip” from Nick Rogers on Vimeo.
image via Adam Kuban on Flickr
Where I’m From
I am from a two stoplight town, from Flywheel Pies, Sonic and chocolate turtles.
I am from the “big yellow house,” with intricate woodwork, Santa hanging from the front porch, and fireplaces alive with crackling embers.
I am from the fragrant gardenias and tasty honeysuckle, the peaceful fireflies and pesky mosquitoes.
I am from Wards and Owens, Ottie and Grand Merle – storyteller and gardener, Spaghetti maker and Oatmeal Crème Pie giver. Teacher.
I am from stature, grocers, Hog fans, volunteers, and friends.
From the parents who walked 3 miles uphill in the snow – barefoot and the relatives who offered wooden ice cream bars to innocent children [read: me].
I am from hearty Thanksgiving meals after raking leaves in toboggan caps and indelible family karaoke nights.
I am from faithful Methodists, from a sanctuary illuminated by stained glass, the kneeling pads sewn by my grandmother.
I’m from the South, great grand-daughter of Curtis. From Old Mike, El Spotro, Curley Wolves, and county fairs. From fried chicken and banana pudding.
From women who sew, smock, tat, needlepoint, and crochet, from a Vietnam veteran.
I am from white-bordered photographs, stored in boxes, yellowed with age. The crunch of tires on a dirt driveway and the snap of tree limbs breaking under ice. A daughter shaped by her small southern town and the food she ate.
meggieslife.com 