Baptists and their Beverages

                I spent my childhood smack dab in the middle of the Fundagelical paradise known as The Deep South (LA, MS, TX), specifically within the confines of the Southern Baptist Church.  Southern Baptists set themselves apart from other Fundagelicals in many ways, but the most interesting and least understood is their view on beverages, especially those consumed on the grounds of the church.

                Baptists don’t drink alcohol at home, so why would they defile the sanctity of the church by drinking actual wine during the Lord’s Supper, which is what we call Communion.  It’s the main reason Baptists think Catholics are headed straight to hell.  That and their worship of Mary, Jesus’ Mama.  The Baptist interpretation of verses found in the Bible when referring to wine, is that it is often called new wine, which to them means unfermented grapes which is grape juice.  Ah, grape juice.  The nectar of the god, or rather, God.  I know, what you’re going to say.  What about the wine at that wedding in Cana?  To that they will say, it was also grape juice.  If you press any further, they will call a prayer circle about the condition of your soul. 

                Baptists think Mormons are in a cult and that is unacceptable.  However, Baptists do insist on the children “drinking the Kool-Aid”.  The way it is not cult-like is the fact that the Kool-Aid is served in Children’s Church or Vacation Bible School or other moments when children should be seen and not heard.  Of course, the recipe does nothing to encourage enjoyment or fun as the recipe seems to be nine parts water, one part Kool-Aid mix, one part prayer and one more part water, just in case.  Red Kool-Aid, which is a flavor by the way, was something precious, akin to Frankincense and/or Myrrh.  How else would you explain the all-encompassing need to water it down to a shade of red that more closely resembles the color of your white underwear after it’s been washed and dried with a new red t-shirt because you can’t be bothered to listen to your mother when she gives you specific laundry instructions, Dustin Terryll. 

                The most important water, Baptistry Water, plays a very important part in baptism, the full immersion kind.  The best way to describe the baptistry in a Baptist church is to imagine there is a hot tub behind a curtain directly behind the choir loft which is directly behind the altar where the preacher preaches and the unclean become ‘washed in the blood’.  Right above the hot tub may be a simple cross.  There will not be a carving of Jesus hanging on that cross, because that reeks of Catholicism and we are having none of that all up and through here, do you hear me?   Back to the water: the best way to ensure you are well and truly saved is a full immersion baptism, like John did for Jesus in the Bible, y’all.  Real Christians don’t get sprinkled with water like those uppity Presbyterians.  You must be held under the water for a minute or two, so you can let your old spirit die there in the watery depths like the victims of a shark or jellyfish (if you’re allergic).  Only then can you say that you are saved.  Sprinkles are for cupcakes, heathen. 

                According to Dolly Parton, sweet tea is the house wine of the South.  While we don’t necessarily like that language, sweet tea is everywhere, especially during the dinners-on-the-grounds that happen every month where there are five Sundays as well as Easter and Mother’s Day.  It was all a part of the tradition that allowed you to discuss the various sins of the other Baptists, who happened to sit at a different table than you.  If you fell into a discussion of the strength (or lack) of their walk or their level of maturity as a Christian and what, specifically, they need to do to atone themselves in your…I mean, Jesus’s eyes, it wasn’t gossip; it was fellowship. 

                Finally, there is a particular beverage, served at Baptist weddings, that only exists in space and time next to a cake, several bowls of Jordan Almonds and nowhere near anything resembling food.  Baptist Wedding Punch is delicious and helps you identify the female members of the wedding party.  Any young lady who is wearing a dress the same color as the punch is a bridesmaid.  The recipe consists of your choice of the three flavors of sherbet available at the Piggly Wiggly (orange, lime or raspberry) mixed with Sprite or any off-brand lemon-lime soda.  Ginger Ale comes from Canada and we are not having any of that Yankee nonsense.    

Obviously, this limits your color schemes to variations on pastels.  If you are looking for colors outside that narrow list, your heart is not right with God.  Yellow means you are a hippy and worthy of scorn.  Brown means you are tacky and is proof you weren’t ‘raised right’.  Black means you are trying to be fancy like an Episcopalian and they worship Queen Elizabeth II or some other gobbledygook and you need to sit down and listen while grown folks tell you all about yourself.  If you are planning red dresses for your bridesmaids, you are a harlot.  And not like that heroine/wayward soul Rahab, who helped the Israelites capture Jericho.  You’re like Jezebel right before she was torn asunder by dogs, much like your marriage will be torn asunder by Satan himself. 

Now that you understand a little more about the Baptist section of the Fundagelical Buffet, you can loosen up that Bible Belt, grab your choice of the aforementioned beverages and get to fellowshipping with your brethren and sistren about all the poor souls who are not as sanctified or enlightened.  But don’t enjoy yourself too much.  Church is about anguish and laying (figuratively) prostrate on the altar, waiting to receive atonement.  If you want to have fun, go be a Methodist.  They may smile and clap without repercussion, but we all know where they’re spending eternity.  That’s right, smack dab in the Lake of Fire, y’all.  And no beverage, Baptist or otherwise, will quench your eternal thirst.  Nothing but the (figurative) blood, brought to you by Welch’s. 

Can I get an Amen?

The Dad Makes a New Friend...Sorta

              When Shontyl arrived at school the Monday after The Dad’s arrival, she told everyone, including the excitable Amy, that he was firmly ensconced in her guest bedroom, his enormous recliner wedged beside the bed he will most assuredly not use.  Amy clapped her hands like a back-up singer in a Pentecostal gospel band and said, “I can’t wait to take him out to eat!”

               

                A few days later, Amy told Shontyl that she had stopped by her house when she saw The Dad’s truck in the driveway.  “I thought it would be a great time to stop by and say ‘Hey’ to Odis.  I feel like I know him, from reading the book.”

                The conversation as reported by Amy:

               

                When she arrived, The Dad was sitting on the front porch.  The Dad looked at her, saying nothing.  “Hi!” she said, “I’m Amy.  I work with Shontyl at the Boy’s Ranch.  I wanted to come by and introduce myself.”

                The Dad said, “Who the hell are you?”

                Amy laughed and said, “Oh, you’re so funny.  I loved the book about you.”

                The Dad continued to sit quietly, staring.

                Amy said, “I’d love to take you out to eat sometime so we can talk.  I’ll bet you have lots of stories!”

                The Dad said, “I don’t know you.  I’m not goin’ nowhere with you.”

                Amy laughed and said, “You’re so funny, Odis!  I’ll see you soon.  We’ll plan a dinner at Rooster’s (a local restaurant)!”

                The Dad said, “What the hell?”

                Shontyl was perplexed.  The Dad had said nothing about this interaction.  When she got home that night, she asked him, “Did my friend Amy come by and talk to you?”

                The Dad said, “Is that her name?  Yeah, some woman came by the other day.  She called me Odis.  She was real nice.  She said she wanted to buy me dinner.  Is Rooster’s good?  When are we goin’?”

                He’s an enigma, y’all, wrapped in bacon, sittin’ on the front porch, dreaming of gravy.

I Think I Know What Kind of Kool-Aid I Drink

               The Dad has never been big fan of religion, other than the potluck lunches at whatever Baptist Church we attended.  Trust me when I tell you that every tiny town in the South has at least one, if not multiple options for Southern Baptists, be they Primitive, Friendship or First.  I don’t think he could tell you about any of the denominational peculiarities as he doesn’t follow dogma, much less pageantry; however, the one Baptisty thing he has always adhered to is not drinking alocohol.

                The Dad hasn’t touched a drop of any kind of drink since he and my mother started dating in 1963.  That substantial belly of his is not from beer, dear friends, it is from fried chicken, steak, taters, chocolate ice cream, pork rinds, and the occasional chicken gizzard.  What does this particular redneck drink, you may be thinking?   Well, the answer is (sugar free) Kool-Aid.  There is no other liquid in his diet.  When I told him he should be drinking more water, he asked me, “What do you think Kool-Aid is, JD?  It’s made outta water.  Didn’t they teach you that in college?”

                Suffice it to say, I told my sister she would need to have a ready supply on hand because, to his mind, having only one unopened container is the same as having no container and he will get all wound up until he has the requisite amount.  And when he gets his mind on something, he will not let it go.  He’s like a racoon with a shiny penny, y’all; like a televangelist with a dollar.

                 I spoke to my sister this past weekend and she shared that he had gotten “on her last nerve” on Saturday when she headed into town to run some errands.  Town is Amarillo, Texas, as the only place to buy things in Vega (where she lives) is Dollar General, a fancy boutique and two truck stops.  The Dad asked her to get more Kool-Aid as he only had one container left and he was afraid he would run out.  “Don’t forget,” he said when she left. 

                On the 30-minute drive to Amarillo, The Dad called her to tell her “don’t forget the Kool-Aid”.  She assured him she wouldn’t forget. Less than five minutes after she hung up, he called her again and asked, “Did you just call me?” When she said, “No, I just hung up with you,” he said, “Oh.  Ok.  Well, since you’re on the phone, don’t forget the Kool-Aid.  I like Hawaiian Punch or Grape.”  She replied, “Yes, I know.  It’s on my list.  I won’t forget.”  He hung up.  As a side note, who on earth likes grape Kool-Aid?  It the worst flavor; by far, the worst Jolly Rancher as well. 

                He called her two more times while she was running her errands.  After she had gone to The Wal-Mart and gotten all her items, including both Grape and Fruit Punch flavored Kool-Aid, she was headed home when he called again.  “Sissy,” he said, “Did you get the Kool-Aid?”  She had reached her limit and decided to mess with him, so she said, “Dammit, I forgot.”   He bellowed, “What?  How did you forget it?  You went to The Wal-Mart just to get my Hawaiian Punch Kool-Aid!”

                She said, “Oh, calm down, I got your Kool-Aid, but just so you know, It’s not Hawaiian Punch, it’s Fruit Punch.” 

                “I think I know what kind of Kool-Aid I drink.  It’s Hawaiian Punch.”

                “Hawaiian Punch is a different brand.  You drink Fruit Punch Kool-Aid.”

                Enunciating, like he does when he’s irritated, he said, “I.  Drink.  Hawaiian. Punch.  Kool.  Aid.”

                Always one to help people manage their expectations, she said, “I’m gonna give you a Hawaiian Punch, if you don’t stop bothering me.  I’ll be there in a minute.”

                He very wisely hung up.  He's all about survival, y’all.  True story.

Gladys Kravitz, Lemon Soap and Cast Iron Skillets

              Just as I suspected, The Dad, indeed, informed Shontyl (The Sister) that her cast-iron skillet, or black skillet as it is often referred to in the South, was too small for whatever beast he wanted to roast in the oven along with ‘taters and gravy’.  So off to the skillet store she went.   They have those in Texas, do they not?

                I told her to expect The Dad to be ‘all up in her business’ as he is nosier than a next-door neighbor from a 60s sitcom; like Gladys Kravitz, with more facial hair but about the same level of annoyance for things he finds to be strange, which could be something as mundane as hummus, which he truly in his heart believes is something I invented to be "fancy".

                When we talked later in the week, she told me The Dad had been peppering her with questions about her personal life, anticipated frequency of trips to The Dairy Queen and state of her wardrobe and hairstyle.  When The Dad lived with me, I discovered that the way he looks at the world is frozen in place from around 1989, when he got hurt offshore and was forced to retire.  It took him about a year to ‘remember’ that I was a real adult with a job, home and ability to function independently.  She said they had, that very morning, an odd conversation.

                The Dad, “Why is your hair so straight?”

                Shontyl, “I use a flat iron to straighten it.”

                The Dad, “I like it curlier.  When did you start straightening it?”

                Shontyl, “It’s been years.  You’ve seen it straight, at least every year at Christmas.”

                Incredulous, The Dad said, “Do you think I just fell off the turnip truck?  I remember you had curly hair not too long ago.”

                Shontyl said, “Oh, good lord, Daddy, the last time I curled my hair, I think, was at my wedding.  In 1989.”

                He just stared at her, feeling confident that she was wrong.  This came as no surprise to me, y’all.  I’ve met him before; I am familiar with his work.

                However, she surprised me when the conversation segued to telling me that he had used her fancy, locally-made lemon soap from the one little over-priced boutique in their town, “even though I bought him that giant bar of soap from The Dollar General.” 

                I said, “Well maybe he wanted to be fancy.  I don’t believe all my bougie-ness came from Mother.  I mean, there so much bougie-ness; it has to be from both parents, right?”

                “But he told me he didn’t like the smell of all that lemon-scented lotion you sent me.”  At first, I was as confused as she, but then I remembered how inscrutable he can be.  And he is the master of plausible deniability.  This was a tactic he used with my food that he swore he didn’t like or said was weird, so when it disappeared, he could swear it wasn’t him because “(I) don’t even like that stuff.” 

                I shared the concept with her and told her she needed to hide her fancy things somewhere The Dad couldn’t find or reach.  To be honest, that would be any location more than 6 inches from his outstretched arm, as he cannot bend over, reach up or walk very far.  As long as she doesn’t place the lotion in his hand and then walk away, she should be good to go.   My parting advice was, “Just in case, though, pretend that janky soap you bought him at the Dollar General is fancy.  He’ll be more than happy to use it.”

                She said, “Well, he can keep that lemon soap he already used.  I’m sure not gonna use it after him.  Lord only knows the stories that little bar could tell.”

                Indeed, dear sister.  So many stories, and none fit to ponder or share, y’all.

The Dad is on The Move, Y'all

                The Dad is on the move again, people.  I would have warned those in the states between Ohio and Texas, but he left without much notification, barreling through the Polar Vortex, daring Mother Nature to try and stop him while he made the 16 ½ hour journey only stopping for food and gas.  This time he’s headed to the Texas panhandle to live with my sister and I needed to give her the benefit of my experience with her new roommate.  There is a very particular process for the care and feeding of the Redneck Man.

                When tackling a project of this scope, there are categories of likes and dislikes that are surprisingly specific for a man who will literally take a bite of anything you place in his hand and has been known to wear the same pair of pants for seven days.

                SMELL- He can smell bacon cooking 26 miles away, but cannot smell himself at any point in the say, regardless of level of ripeness.  You need Febreze.  Lots of it.  When you think you've bought more than you should, buy more.  When it gets to the point that people are pointing and laughing at your buggy in The Wal-Mart, buy two more bottles, just in case.  Her GoFundMe website should be up later this week.  I am not kidding.  Fortunately, he has no problem with anyone spraying his chair and, truly, being sprayed himself, unless the scent is Green Apple or Watermelon. 

                FURNITURE – He comes complete with the largest recliner manufactured in America today, a La-Z-Boy.  It will smell, regardless of covering.  His Old Man Smell will penetrate leather, y’all.  He also comes with a power wheelchair, a very fancy reading lamp, a TV and a special chair for Lulu, his Boston Terrier, to sleep in.  I informed the sainted Shontyl that she needs to decide where the chair will be located as that room will then become his bedroom as he sleeps in his recliner and only in his recliner.  Just like his European forefathers, when he plants his chair (instead of a flag) that is where he shall reside, henceforth and forevermore.  

                KITCHEN IMPLEMENTS – He will require a coffee pot; he doesn’t care if it’s fancy or not.  It simply must be able to brew his Folger’s Country Roast every morning.  He will also require a cast iron skillet.  It must be larger than the one you already have.  Regardless of the size of your skillet, it will be too small.  One roughly the size and shape of Oklahoma should suffice.

                FOOD – Fortunately, he will eat anything you put in front of him unless it is spinach, salmon or hummus, which he pronounces as ‘hoo-muss’ and truly believes that is a foodstuff that I invented in my efforts to be fancy.  He will require an extensive amount of red meat or pork, which is plentiful in Texas.  He prefers his steak rare.  Really rare.  And I quote, "Just cut the horns off and knock the 'moo' out."

                TOWN – He prefers a place that is almost not a town.  Somewhere small enough to where people often say, "Is that a real place?"  The boonies is where he wants to be.  He truly loves it when there is an end to a town and then several miles of nothing before the next town starts.  He disliked the Bay Area of California because “town never stopped.”  He was over-joyed to hear that there is just the one main street in Vega, on which sits my sister’s house, a Dairy Queen, a library and a truck stop.  There is a Baptist Church across the street from the Dairy Queen.  Odds are he will not venture there unless they have a potluck on Easter Sunday and even then he'd prefer a to-go plate.

                DOCTOR – He requires a doctor for his myriad ailments and prescriptions.  Fortunately, there is a VA Medical Center in Amarillo, less than 30 minutes down the road.  I may need to give them a heads-up that he’s coming.  They need to prepare.  I informed my sister that she would need to go with him to his first appointment to meet his Primary Care Team and let them know he is an unashamed liar who will only occasionally follow his Dr’s orders because, and I quote, “what do they know?”

                FAMILY –He doesn’t want to see everybody every day, but he wants you close by.  He doesn’t want to go anywhere with you, but he wants to be invited.  He doesn’t want to babysit, but he wants to see the great granddaughters; he now has two.   He is happiest in the boonies with kids and dogs and the occasional cow. 

                It’s going to be interesting to see how this goes.  When he lived with me, it was like Frasier.  Living with my sister will be more like if Uncle Jesse from The Dukes of Hazzard moved in with...well, the closest I can come up with would be Katie Otto from American Housewife.  

              I promise to keep you informed after gathering the pertinent info from my Saturday calls with Shontyl and the Sunday calls with The Dad.

              Somebody should throw up a prayer, or two.  Seriously.

THE SUPER BOWL...is not what this blog is about

              While most people in America, according to my Facebook friends, were watching the Super Bowl, I did not.  I am disinterested on a good day and since my beloved Saints were cheated out of their right to publicly shame Tom Brady and the rest of those persnickety New Englanders by giving them a Louisiana-style whoopin’ all up on the TV, I was looking for other things to do, do you hear me? 

                Apparently, my SoCal circle of friends wasn’t partying down either, so there were no invitations to overeat wings and such that Ben and I would have turned down.  Watching “The Football” is not something Ben is inclined to do either.  So, we ventured home and after cooking our Spanish Salmon with Farro, Zucchini and Dates, from Blue Apron, it was chores, chores and more chores.  One of those chosen for me was cleaning the shower.

                Like everyone else, I dislike cleaning but not enough to actually pout about it.  I will do what is necessary to reside in a clean environment, but I was already irritated with the shower curtain liner, so I wasn’t looking forward to getting back in the vicinity. 

                You see, our old shower curtain liner had long outlived its expected expiration date, considering I bought it at Dollar Tree about 6 months ago.  I don’t normally buy home goods at Dollar Tree but when you need a liner and you remember that fact while you are in said Dollar Tree, stocking up on Trail Mix, paper plates and off-brand Ziploc© bags, you buy it while it’s handy.  I had every intention of buying another one, should this one not work out.

                Any of my fellow Dollar Tree-uns (Dollar Tree-tees?) knows that some of the stuff you buy there is actually good quality, some of it is not.  I buy Snickers and mylar balloons and dental floss and cold medicine with no thought whatsoever that it would be inferior.  I would not buy air freshener, chips or a home pregnancy test.  Yes, they have those for the budget conscious lady in need of said item.

                And the Dollar Tree liner worked very well; it knew it’s place.  It did right every time.  It didn’t touch me or try to be all up on me when I was taking part in my daily ablutions.  But, like many loyal objects, the Dollar Tree shower curtain passed on and I had to buy another one, so I went to a much nicer establishment thinking it was time to upgrade.  I have a good government job and I was going to treat us, y’all.  True story.  So, I bought a very nice shower curtain liner; a thick plastic one with little magnets that were supposed to keep it anchored to the side of the tub, protecting our lovely floral shower curtain by Isaac Mizrahi, that I bought on triple clearance at HomeGoods; you know when they have the yellow sticker that pretty much means “Take this now before we throw it away”?  I wondered if tubs are magnetic.  According to Google, many old tubs are.  As our bathtub appears to be old enough to have lived through The Depression, I figured we were good to go.

                I brought it home, hung it up and decided to take the inaugural shower.  Needless to say, the magnets did not work, and that shower liner clung to me like a new puppy.  It was all up on me, y’all, and I wasn’t having it.  It wouldn’t behave even when I told it all about itself.  And I assure you I did.  I have no problem telling inanimate objects to “do right”.  Ben heard me in the shower saying, “Look here shower curtain liner.  You better get up off me and do right or I’m taking you back to the store, do you hear me?  I promise you I’ll take you right back to Big Lots, don’t make me do it!”

                That’s what I get for trying to shop at fancy stores. 

Yearbooks, Queso and Middle-aged Teenagers

 

Almost a year ago I traveled to my hometown in East Texas to have lots of queso.  Well, I also went to visit lifelong friends, have a book signing and speak at my old high school, but my main focus was the queso, or in layman’s terms, cheese dip.  You see, queso is not a ‘thing’ in California; it’s not part of the authentic Mexican menus at the restaurants we have in Long Beach or Los Angeles or San Francisco or San Jose or Sacramento or Palm Springs or San Diego. 

Whenever I’ve requested queso, I usually get confused looks.  When I try to clarify that it’s cheese dip or melted cheese, I still get confused looks, although one time they brought me a fajita skillet filled with melted cheese that I had to cut like it was meat and eat it on a tortilla like a taco.  Don’t get me wrong, it was delicious, but I wanted something I could dip my tortilla chip into.  Y’all picking up what I’m throwing down? 

                When I landed at DFW, Terminal A, I made a beeline for Pappasito’s Cantina where they have delicious queso available as early as 9:30 am.  After my craving was sated I Uber-ed to the hotel where I had queso as my lunch (with a brisket taco or seven).  Later that night I had dinner with a friend, and we ate Korean BBQ tacos or some other bougie fusion delight.  After searching for BBQ chicharrons at Whole Foods, Ricky and I called it a night.

                The next morning Juli (½ of the infamous Wood Twins of Red River County) swooped into Dallas proper, flung me into her Buick and we made a beeline for the bustling metropolis of Bogata, TX, population 1,100 (which I find hard to believe, but didn’t feel was my place to say).  After gathering the other ½ (Denise), they asked what I wanted to eat and I asked for Tex Mex, specifically queso.  We drove toward Clarksville and stopped at a tiny, locally owned place and had two different types of queso, yellow and white.  I have returned to the land of my people, y’all.

                Later that night I believe Denise made homemade chicken and dumplings and cornbread and we ate that plus some sock-it-to-me cake and possibly a steak sandwich from Braum’s and maybe a caramel sundae (also from Braum’s) and enough sweet tea to give 36 grown men diabetes.  I don’t know if it’s just men, but when I am on vacation, I have the mindset that I am impervious to the excess weight and gas brought on by such activities. 

Unsurprisingly, the next morning I was in gastric distress.  So much so, that I actually brought it up as a topic at breakfast. Even though Denise and Juli know the real me, I still hold onto the delusion that I am considered fancy by all and sundry and everyone is enamored of me with few exceptions.  I’m not sure what we had for breakfast that morning, but I swear it was tater tots of some sort and possibly leftover queso, which I ate despite how I felt. I didn’t want to be rude to my wonderful hosts.  When I mentioned my ailment, Denise called her venerable mother Dee to ask if she had any medicine for my condition. 

                Not having seen Miss Dee since we moved from Bogata in 1986, I was not surprised that the first thing she mentioned after giving me a hello hug was that it was good to see me and that she had not forgotten that I was responsible for losing Denise’s senior yearbook.  In my defense, I told her I hadn’t lost the yearbook, that my cousin Kendra had lost it, which she had (sorry to throw you under the bus Kendra).  Her response was that it was sent to me and was not returned, therefore it was my responsibility.  Knowing it was true and having always been slightly terrified of Miss Dee, I agreed that her logic was flawless, turned about six kinds of ashamed, apologized again and wished I could have teleported to that restaurant with the two kinds of queso.   I may have a problem, y'all.  

                Of course, Miss Dee being the mother of all mothers, had a remedy and sent Mr. James (her husband) to the rescue of those vacationers who had been eating queso non-stop for three days. When he rang the doorbell at Denise’s house, where we were staying, I opened the door and he handed me a box, stepping back.  I invited him in, but he said, “No, I don’t want to catch whatever y’all have.”

                I laughed and said, “No sir, this is Gas-X, no one is actually sick.”

                He stepped further back and said, “I definitely don’t want none of that” and walked quickly back to his mini-van.  Wise is the one who avoids the turbulence of life, y’all, said the 48 year-old irresponsible teenager.

               Kendra, can you help me out here?