AHHH -- The South. It's been my observation that Tampa cannot rightly qualify as The South, although the accent of true Tampans fooled me at first. But Louisiana, Alabama, and Mississippi are the cradle of Southern living, the real deal. This trip back to Doug's roots has been my only prolonged exposure to the gentile hospitality and importance of family wedded with food and church that embodies this region's philosophy.
We have tried over the years to attempt daily low fat/carb/volume eating, with one of us having considerably more willpower than the other… In the wake of recent obesity research publicity, I was eager to find that The South was on board with the rest of the country.
Backroads are more interesting than traveling the highways, and since we aren't under our usual time constraints, we are availing ourselves of this luxury. The Louisiana byways were blanketed in dark clouds and intermittent rain as we tooled through arrow straight pine and oak tunnels broken by occasional crossroad communities. Our stomachs signaled lunchtime when we spied a log building boasting many cars. Why eat generic when you can taste the local culture? The Riverhouse Lodge, Alexandria, La., sporting a fishing decor complete with outboard motors hung between the booths, did not disappoint.
We were greeted by an energetic gal who quickly explained the deal. With the three main courses so many sides and breads and desserts and drinks were included that my little brain stopped comprehending. I guess my eyes gave me away. She smiled, "You won't go away hungry!"
Behind the cafeteria line, the wide-bodied cook, complete with her bandanna, was scooping up generous portions, impatiently waiting on my choices. Overwhelming comes to mind. I ended up the heaps of meatloaf, 3 inches thick, mashed potatoes, gravy, stewed okra and tomatoes, lima beans and sausage swimming in gravy. She was ever so disappointed that I refused the corn bread and yeast rolls and grits. Puddin' was a requirement. I inquired about the salad bar. "Oh, that's included." The pale lettuce couldn't have passed as a green vegetable, so I added a few carrots and cherry tomatoes for conscious' sake.
Did I say overwhelming? Doug's plate was also groaning as we dug in, feeling like we were taking part in some food network reality show. The rest is history, evidenced by my ever burgeoning abs. And this was just lunch.
In Vicksburg, MS, we lurched from our Holiday Inn Express into torrents of rain, to find the recommended eatery up the road a piece. Of course we had no umbrella. After the mad dash in, I was so soaked that my chair was still wet when we finally left. It was freezing in that A/C, a condition I'll not likely experience in SA.
Still full from lunch, we opted to share the fried catfish (when in Rome…) with the steamed broccoli, being the only "healthy" option in print. First the ubiquitous basket of crackers and toasted breads accompanied by two bowls of dip. My entree was the house salad. Our waitress set a saucer-sized plate before me with a sprinkling of lettuce, albeit green, a halved cherry tomato, a one inch slice of onion, and a tiny weeny corn on the cob. Another surprise. My honey mustard dressing came in not one, but two dishes, thankfully on the side.
Then came Doug's order. With the ordered catfish (four pieces), came french fries, hush puppies, a large plate of fried onion rings, and yeast rolls with real butter, of course. The steamed broccoli had to be the piece de la resistance. The sought after green was obliterated with melted cheese, and, underneath, swimming in butter. Who knew? Of course I couldn't let my husband suffer through this challenge alone.
And what does our Lord have to say about all this?? "What one sows, then shall one reap." I'm sure that's in the GOOD BOOK somewhere.
DISCLAIMER: Doug doesn't have an overweight member in his family. I couldn't help but notice at the recent reunion dinner where 25 cousins, aunts, uncles, and assorted grandchildren gathered to fete us, I held the heavy-weight title.
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