I love cookbooks. I especially love old cookbooks. I have begun to collect them, starting with the old church cookbooks from the county where my grandparents live. I am partial to these because I recognize many of the peoples’ names … Continue reading
Having recently moved to my first big-girl apartment, I needed a lot of stuff. I needed dishes and glasses and living room furniture and a cake stand and a compote dish. Who doesn’t need a compote dish, right? Many of my … Continue reading
Moving to the South has given me the opportunity to visit my grandparents much more often. I am so excited about this not only because I get to see them more often, but also because they know how to do … Continue reading
Today is my seeester Eugenice’s birthday.
She came to visit me this weekend and boy did we have a BIG time.
First, we shopped around in downtown Franklin and had an early lunch at Puckett’s. We left the restaurant to check out a cute little bakery and stumbled upon this completely normal scene on Main Street:
The latest in hybrid vehicles.
Thankfully this guy kept his road rage under control.
Apparently the dress code for this event was formal.
Somehow (perhaps inspired by our canine acquaintance’s fashion statement), we wound up at the mall where I purchased these VERY tall shoes. I thought that I was going to sneak one by Eugene and finally be taller than her. But then she also bought some VERY tall shoes. So I got to be tall and she got to be VERY tall. At least I was tall.
Here are some very professional photos we took of ourselves dressed to go out to dinner.
I’m not sure what’s going on with my right eye here. I think it got stuck.
Eugene’s poof was not cooperating.
We take ourselves very seriously. Obviously.
This makes me laugh uncontrollably every time I look at it.
The point of these pictures was to capture our full outfits, especially our sassy new shoes. Clearly we succeeded.
Not.
We ventured down to the Gulch and had a delicious dinner at Sambuca’s, where we enjoyed some great live music in our VERY tall shoes. We also had a celebrity sighting, which was a special present that I organized for Eugene (not really, but that’s what I told her. I won some major points).
After enjoying ourselves thoroughly at dinner, we started toward the door and realized it was pouring rain outside. We decided to wait it out for a little while, but then it just started raining harder.
Wonderful.
So, we agreed to cut our losses, take off our new tall (and suede) shoes, stick them in my purse and run for the hills (the car). I hope someone witnessed this and had a good laugh.
The next morning I whipped up a gourmet breakfast of Eggo waffles, butter and butter-flavored syrup. I then served this delicacy on my formal storage bin table next to the sofa. I know this made Eugene feel really special.
As I tried to take a picture of Eugene enjoying this beautiful breakfast spread, my camera went off like a machine gun. Evidently, the night before as we tried to take pictures before going out to dinner, Eugene had adjusted my camera to a timed, rapid-fire setting so we could back up and get a picture of ourselves since there was no one else to take a photo of us. I was not aware that my camera was still on this setting when I turned it on the next morning. As it went off, my instinct was to find cover because I had no idea what was happening.
Eugene just shook her head.
All in all, I would call it a very successful weekend of birthday/sister shenanigans.
Welcome to the third decade of your life, poodle. I hope you had a stupendous Birthday.
I LAHV you.
Y’all be careful and take an umbrella,
Sugarlump
I love farms.
Every summer as a kid, when I visited my extended family in Kentucky, I loved to ride around with Papa and my cousins and check out the family farms. Because I only saw the farms once a year, I never really knew them that well. Now that I live closer and can visit more often, I have asked Papa to take me around and show me the farms more thoroughly as well as some of the really beautiful spots around the county.
Last week, he took me to one of the farms that has been in the family for several generations. Most of it is covered in trees, but it’s still fun to drive around hear Papa tell me the history of it.
Apparently, before there was a paved or gravel road to the farm, this was a back way through the creek to get to the farm.
I see you hiding back there, little barn.
Papa said this hollow goes for a mile or two.
Maybe I can convince my cousin Lauren to explore up to the head of the hollow with me this summer. Perhaps we could fix up Julio for our journey. I’m thinking “Ain’t Skeered: Part 2” might be in our future.
Now, let me tell you a story about me and this fairly moderate incline.
Growing up, I was obsessed with cars and driving and could not wait to get my license. In the summers before I was 16, I always looked forward to driving Papa’s truck around on the farm, where no other parties were subject to harm.
One day, I was having a grand old time driving up and down the gravel road when I decided I needed to go across this little ditch and up the hill to this barn on the left. I didn’t (and still don’t really) know how to drive a truck on this mixed terrain. Evidently, I did not give the truck enough gas because I proceeded to get stuck just past the ditch as my wheels slid on the gravel/grass/dirt hill. Scared for my life, I yelled to my Uncle Brian who was standing nearby and he instructed me on how to put the truck in 4-wheel drive. After a few dicey moments, I made it up the hill, all 50 feet of it. Thank goodness I didn’t start to slide backward because I could have been seriously injured as I ran into…..a grassy field.
Ok, so maybe it wasn’t really a life-threatening situation. It seemed very serious at the time.
For my farm touring adventures, I’m going to let Papa do the driving.
Y’all be careful,
Sugarlump
I would venture to say that every Southern cook knows how to fry chicken. Not all recipes and preparations are the same; in fact, almost no two are exactly alike. I have read dozens of recipes about frying chicken and they all offer different tips and approaches that they claim are the key to the best fried chicken. I have yet to try any of them because I don’t know where to start.
I decided to go directly to the source of fried chicken in my life: Grandmother.
While visiting my grandparents in Kentucky last week, I requested fried chicken from my Grandmother, per usual, but I put in a special request for her to allow me to document the process so I could learn how to fry chicken once and for all. She obliged and thought it was cute that I wanted to take pictures of everything.
So we started out with 2 chicken breasts that had been cut into 2 pieces each, for a total of 4 pieces of chicken. Grandmother likes the pieces to be a little bit smaller so they cook evenly and all the way through without burning the crust.
(And by we, I mean Grandmother. She was handling all of the chicken because she knows what she’s doing and I didn’t want any chicken gunk on my camera. That would not be sanitary.)
It was just me and Grandmother, which is why we were cooking only 4 pieces, but when the whole family is together, she fries 2 or 3 times that amount (in several batches) and sometimes fries dark meat as well.
The first step is to brine the chicken (salt and water) to help the chicken stay moist and seasoned. While you can let the chicken brine overnight, Grandmother says a few hours is fine.
The next step is somewhat controversial: selecting the frying agent. This can be peanut oil, canola oil, vegetable oil, lard, vegetable shortening, etc. Part of the selection usually depends on if you are frying or deep frying. Grandmother fries her chicken with Crisco and uses enough of the vegetable shortening to cover the chicken about half-way, but not enough to deep fry it.
Grandmother added a couple of HEAPING cooking spoonfuls to the pot. Translation: a lot of Crisco.
I thought this was probably adequate. Grandmother said not quite. She then added another big spoonful of Crisco.
Surely this was enough.
Nope.
One more spoonful. I would say this was about 2 cups of Crisco in all. Grandmother concurred, but like any good Southern cook, she doesn’t measure. She just goes by look and feel.
The phrase “ignorance is bliss” comes to mind. But even knowing about the quantity of grease involved, I’m going to eat the chicken anyway.
Then turn the stove top to 5 and heat the Crisco.
That’s what Grandmother told me and just laughed because of course she knows that 5 is not a universal stovetop temperature. We decided 5 was equivalent to about medium heat.
Meanwhile, coat the chicken liberally in self-rising flour. Grandmother uses self-rising because it creates a crispier, more airy crust.
Let the chicken hang out in the flour bowl until the Crisco is heated. Grandmother says it is ready when you sprinkle in a bit of flour and it sizzles. Be careful not to get it too hot that it crackles and pops and “carries on.”
When the Crisco is ready, place the chicken, meat side down, in the pot and cover. Covering the chicken helps to keep the meat moist, but you must let some of the steam escape so your crust doesn’t become soggy, says Grandmother.
To fry the chicken, Grandmother uses a Club Aluminum Dutch oven that has been in the family for approximately 75 years. She thinks it’s important to cover the chicken so she prefers a Dutch oven to an open cast iron skillet, but she says to be careful with some of the newer, enameled cast iron because they seem to hold in too much steam. She recommends cooking with the lid slightly askew to allow some of the steam to escape.
Check on the chicken after about 10 or 15 minutes. If the crust on the bottom is nice and golden brown, it’s time to flip the pieces! Then let cook another 15 minutes or so, covered.
And please wear an apron, velvet house shoes, and your best Wilma Flintstone necklace while fryin’ chicken. (Picture courtesy of Grandmother)
Then, as the chicken is finishing to its golden brown on the second side, allow it to cook uncovered for about 5-10 minutes to crisp up the crust.
When chicken is crispy and golden brown (after about 30-35 minutes of frying total), remove chicken from pot and allow to drain on a paper towel for a few moments before transferring to a serving dish.
Then, stand back and admire this beautiful work of art. (Don’t take too long or it will get cold.)
And then, most importantly, please eat it blissfully as you forget about the amount of Crisco used in its preparation.
Thanks for teaching me how to fry chicken, Grandmother!
Y’all come back now, ya hear?
Sugarlump
Hello, Nashville!
19 driving hours, 1150 miles and 8 states later, Amarillo, my mom, my dad, Gus, Scarlett and I arrived in my new hometown of Nashville, Tennessee. My dear mom and dad, as well as Amarillo (my moving truck that I grew attached to) were along for the journey to help me move.
Although my cat Gus meowed constantly for about an hour straight after we left, the cats traveled much better than I thought they would. I think their pleasantness had a lot to do with my ingenious set-up for them in the back of my car. I purchased the largest animal crate that would fit into the back of my Jeep and used the divider (intended to be used vertically) to create a mezzanine level so the cats wouldn’t be on top of each other. Scarlett took the main floor and stretched out in the camper while Gus opted for the upper deck and was able to see out the windows and enjoy the scenery. I realized about an hour into the trip that Gus’ blanket (“the mommy”) was outside the cage so at our first rest stop I put the blanket in his bed in the cage. He snuggled right in and the meowing abruptly ceased. What a weird cat.
They were much more relaxed when we were moving at a steady pace than when we were stopped. I think the might have thought that a stop meant we had arrived at the vet’s office. They do not like the vet.
The drive was especially beautiful in some of the states we passed through, particularly Virginia and eastern Tennessee. This was my view for about 500 miles. Not too shabby.
I love me some hills.
This was a very pretty sky. I can’t remember if this was late Thursday or very early Friday. It’s all a blur.
Here is my naked apartment right after I signed my lease and my life away.
Love the pale pink counter tops. Not.
I will be painting as soon as I have some energy after packing up, driving across the country and then unpacking my life. Maybe I’ll feel up to it by the time my lease is up.
My seeeester, Eugene, and my cousin Lauren drove down from Lexington, Kentucky (where they both go to school with the 2012 NCAA Men’s Basketball Champions. No big deal).
They were such great helpers and I really don’t think I could have gotten everything carried up into my 3rd floor apartment and pretty close to set up without them. I think I’ll keep them around. I tried to get them to stay at my apartment but they gave me some spiel about having to get back to school for class. Lame.
Who could say no to this?
After a few hours of unpacking the truck and carrying my ridiculous amount of stuff up to my apartment on Friday, we were all starving and we went to one of my new favorite spots in Franklin called Sol. It’s kind of funky Mexican or Mexico meets the South or something like that. Whatever you want to call it, it is obnoxiously delicious. We started out with some freshly made table-side guacamole. YUM. As our entrees were ready to be served, our waiter took the guacamole bowl and I was very displeased because I had not yet scraped the bowl clean with the homemade tortilla chips so as not to leave a morsel of deliciousness behind.
I quickly got over my outrage as soon as my dinner arrived. I ordered one of the evening’s specials: chipotle honey pan seared salmon with herb and parmesan polenta (and some sautéed spinach that I ignored). This was heaven on a plate. I have a picture that will surely make you hop in your car and drive however many miles (it doesn’t matter how many) to taste a bit of this wonderfulness.
After dinner, we were all drifting off into food comas and wanted to pass out. Eugene, Lauren and I had to make a quick trip to Walmart, however, because I had no food in the house and no couch for my sister or cousin to sleep on. As with all Dyer Walmart trips, this was an adventure. We were delirious at this point and must have circled the bedding department 43 times before I made up my mind on which sheet set and blanket would coordinate best with my décor (even though they were going on an air mattress).
I expected to find an air mattress in this section also, but I was informed by my cousin Lauren that such an item would actually be found in the “camping and recreation” section. I mentioned to her that I was impressed by how well she knew the departments and that I was grateful to have her along because I never would have found it on my own. Her response:
“Honey, I was practically raised in Walmart.”
Her parents might find this statement troubling, but I thought it was hilarious.
We got back to my apartment and Lauren blew up the air mattress (inflated it, rather. She didn’t explode it. That would have been real bad). And then we all passed out at the thought of more unpacking the next day.
More to come.
Y’all come back now, ya hear?
Sugarlump
I’ve spent 13 years, the majority of my life, in Boston.
I went to middle school, high school, undergraduate and graduate school here. It’s where I learned to drive and where I started my business. It’s where I have met people who have been very important in my life. In large part, it’s where I became who I am.
But there’s always been a part of me that belonged to the South. It’s where my family is from and it has always felt like home. I have visited my extended family in Kentucky at least twice a year for my entire life. I used to cry on the way back from visiting Kentucky when I was little because I wanted to live there so badly.
I guess as I was planning my move to Nashville I was thinking mostly of the excitement of living in a new city, in the South, within an easy car-ride of my extended family. I knew that would mean leaving behind some great people, but it didn’t really sink in until this week as I said goodbye to my clients, my friends and people who have become like family to me. I always loved the South because of the genuine people, but it turns out I have found some really wonderful people in these Northern parts, too.
I will miss my friends. Even though most of them are dispersed throughout the country (and even the globe), there were a few good friends who stayed in Boston that I saw regularly after we graduated. I will certainly miss our get-togethers and those last remnants of college. I guess we are officially grown-ups now as all of us start new phases in our lives with new jobs and new homes.
I will miss my neighbors. The kids I once babysat are now driving, but they’ll always be those cute little kiddoes in my mind who kept it real.
I will miss my clients. When people invite you into their homes, even though it’s for business, there’s no getting around the fact that you will learn about their lives and often develop a friendship. I have had many wonderful clients that I have gotten to know well and I will certainly miss our meetings.
I will miss my trade network. Working alongside people in the design and building trades, you make small talk to make the day more pleasant, you see how hard they work and how they are just good, down to earth people.
And then there are people who don’t fit into just one category, but span many. Although we are certainly an unlikely pair as she is 44 years my senior, I will greatly miss a woman I have known for over a decade, who has made window treatments and pillows for my parents and then for my clients after I started my interior design business. She gave me great support and advice as I was starting my business and she has become a very close friend and mentor. Whenever I would bring fabrics over for a job, we would quickly go through the details and then just talk. Sometimes we would be so deep in conversation that an hour would go by before we knew it. Even though for most of my day I am in a hurry, I’ve always cherished my talks with her.
It goes without saying that I will of course miss my parents terribly, but my hope is that they will move back to the South to be near me and my sister in the very near future. So I’m just thinking of this separation as temporary because that’s the only way I can get through it.
I’ve had some great times here with some really great people, but I am excited to finally get my wish to live in the South. Just like the best chocolate, it’s bittersweet.
Thank you for everything, Boston. I will miss you.
(But don’t worry, I’ll be back to visit 🙂 )
Sugarlump
I have mentioned my sister, Eugene, in several of my posts. You may be wondering if her name is really Eugene since that is not a girl’s name nor has it been popular since 1950. It’s not technically her given name, but it’s what I call her.
Her real name is Petunia.
Just kidding.
It’s actually Gloria…..
Ok, fine. It’s Julia. But there was some confusion about her name as an infant so for a few seconds it was Gloria.
My great great aunt (my great-grandmother’s sister-in-law. I promise I’m not lying about that one) stopped by my grandparents’ house when my family was visiting just after Eugene/Gloria (Julia) was born. My great great aunt sat down on the sofa and my mom handed her Eugene/Gloria (Julia). My great great aunt looked at the new creature adoringly and asked her name.
My Mom: “It’s Julia.”
Great great aunt: “Oh GLORIA! What a beautiful name!”
Everyone in the room: “No, JULIA.”
Silence. The child was then handed back to my mother.
Just kidding. Everybody moved on pretty quickly and my great great aunt still thought my sister was precious. But you see the beauty of her being born in the 90’s is that we have this gem on tape and I like to watch it whenever possible for a good laugh. What really sends me over the edge is that Gloria is not in the top 99% of names my mother would choose for her child.
So now you’re probably wondering why I call her Eugene. If you knew her, you would realize that she is such a Eugene. I think the name actually originated from me morphing her name from Julia to Uja, which naturally then became Eugene (duh, isn’t that an obvious progression? No? Well, humor me then). Needless to say, it stuck and I can’t remember the last time I called her Julia or Gloria. She is even listed as Eugene in my cellphone.
You may also be wondering if my sister appreciates me calling her Eugene. I don’t think she minds and she responds to it when I call out to her in public, so I’m going to continue calling her Eugene.
We share a very bizarre sense of humor that only the two of us seem to understand and I believe me calling her Eugene falls into that category. It’s just part of our special sisterly bond.
If you saw us together, it would be clear instantly that we are sisters.
We’re practically twins!
Not.
(Heels? Really Eugene? Throw me a bone here, would ya?)
So that’s how Eugene got her name.
And every Southerner knows you need a good country name. You’re welcome, Eugene.
I LAH-ve you.
Y’all come back now, ya hear?
Sugarlump
Hi there,
I’m Emily. I love the South.
Although I was born and raised in the Northeast, the South has always felt like home to me. All of my family is from and (mostly) lives in Kentucky, the place where I have spent every Christmas and a few weeks every summer since my birth. What amazes me is that even though I only see my grandparents and extended family two or three times a year, we are very close.
I have come to the conclusion that there must be something special and Southern going on here to allow such a bond to develop and I have an idea of what that might be: great stories, sayings, food, and care (always served together, at all times and by great people).
So, in the spirit of sharing great stories, sayings, food and care, I have decided to blog about the sweet morsels in my life, the things that make me smile.
And why is this blog called “the sugarlump”? Because one of my grandmothers used to call me “sugarlump” when I was little and I think it captures well the intention of this blog (to compile the sweetness in my life) and is extremely Southern.
Side note: When I told my grandmother I was thinking of starting a blog and calling it “the sugarlump,” she was quick to reassure me that “sugarlump” was a term of endearment. It had never occurred to me that she meant it otherwise, but I suppose she was just clarifying that she wasn’t calling me plump, which I was not even borderline close to as a child. In fact, my level of nutrition was questioned a time or two due to my extremely spindly physique. As evidence, I have provided a photo of my knobby knees (pictured right, sporting my tap recital ensemble):
Some other things about me:
1. I do not enjoy tap dancing.
2. I’m a residential interior designer. Helping people create a home is very important to me. I decided to make a career of it and started my own business quite young. Here I am on my first day:
3. I consider myself a private person and am mildly allergic to all of the oversharing of mundane details of one’s life via social media. I also surprise myself sometimes. I suppose I have justified sharing my life in blog form by 1) giving it a specific purpose/flair and 2) only sharing things that are meaningful/noteworthy/extremely profound/absurd.
4. Oh, and did I mention that I don’t really care for writing? I would rather complete an entire SAT II prep book of Algebra problems than write a five paragraph essay. So I’m going to keep this informal and more conversational; however, I will try to use correct grammar for the sake of coherence.
5. I don’t like odd numbers, except when arranging accessories or making points. And this one makes five. Ha!
I hope these posts make you laugh and rejoice.
Y’all come back now, ya hear?
Sugarlump
The Sugarlump 