Gotta wanta needa havea Bojangles

Saturday was a day in the making for almost a year now. Ever since the first report that Bojangles was coming to DC. Actual DC, not a suburb. 

Bojangles. In my current place of residence. Accessible via metro anytime I need it. 

Bojangles. Too many people up here have never heard the word without a "Mr." in front of it. 

Bojangles. The North Carolina institution making home feel just a tiny bit closer. A home that, at least in this case, is made of seasoned fries, spicy chicken, biscuits, and sweet tea.

Our little piece of the South finally opened in this not-North, not-South city on Thursday. And on Saturday two Carolina girls planned their day around a visit to Union Station to partake of those famous chicken 'n biscuits. And it was just as good as we knew it would be. (Though, the fries could have used a bit more seasoning.)

The sign as we waited in the long line. A line that was never shorter than 10 people the hour we were there.

Getting closer! The counter and the menu. And a menu, by the way, that does not include my beloved cinnamon biscuits. I will be writing a letter.

Is there anything more lovely than the iconic yellow box filled with a four-piece chicken supreme meal, seasoned fries, and a biscuit? (Hint: No.)

Brandie enjoying her chicken.

Just a little bit excited. So excited, in fact, that I actually ordered the sweet tea. Even though I don't really like sweet tea. But it just seemed like the right thing to do.

I haven't been home since Christmas and last week was long and exhausting. And at one point I decided hush puppies were needed. Needed badly. But they aren't easy to come by up here so I tried to put them out of my mind. Then on Friday night I went to dinner with some friends and we ended up at a restaurant with hush puppies. In fact, they checked the menu before we even put our names on the list. So I got my hush puppies -- even though they were onion batter based -- and I felt better. 

Until Saturday when I just wanted to go home. But I have a busy month ahead of me and as much as I want to say screw it and just book a ticket South, it's not possible. So instead it was a Bojangles lunch with a best friend and things were ok again. 

Like a smell or a song, food evokes certain memories and feelings. And whether it's hush puppies or Bojangles, wedding soup or potato pancakes, I associate certain foods with my life, with my home. They have the power to take me back, even if it's just in my head, and make things better.   

Plus, it's just really, really good food.

Oh, sweet, sweet justice

I read this article in the New York Times over the weekend: Unlearning to Tawk Like a New Yorker. To begin:


"Andrew Ramos always believed it made him more charming, an endearing characteristic integral to his identity. But, finally, after too many people mocked him, he began seeing a therapist. ...'I was diagnosed with a New York accent,' Mr. Ramos said."

That's right. A segment of the Yankee population are undergoing therapy to cleanse themselves of their dialect.

Had I not been in public when I read this article, a happy dance would have shot out from my toes and fingers in an entirely un-coordinated and frenetic way. (Note: My happy dance is actually no different from any other "dance" I do. There is not an ounce of rhythm in these bones.)


"Those who seek professional help to conquer their accents make similar complaints, like,  ‘People don’t understand what I’m saying,’  said Sam Chwat, who is considered the dean of speech therapists. ‘I’m stigmatized by the way I speak.’ ‘I’m tired of people imitating or ridiculing the way I speak, or saying I sound cute.’ ‘My accent seems to imply negative characteristics.’ ”

Years and years of the Southern accent being ridiculed, mocked, and judged. Years and years of that sing-songy twang called ignorant or un-educated.


"A New York accent makes you sound ignorant,” said Lynn Singer, a speech therapist who works with Miss LoGiudice. “People listen to the accent, but not to what you’re saying.”

I read an article years ago in the Raleigh paper on Southerners being urged to take classes to erase their accents for similar reasons. Oh, sweet justice, thou art seriously sweet.

Though I rarely hear my supposed accent, I still feel a kinship with my Southern-kind and recoil at the derision they receive for their "ya'lls", "aint's," and "fixin's." I've always found a New York or Boston accent to be far more harsh and significantly more worthy of mocking. So I'm kind of happy they are learning how to "tawk" correctly.

However, we are a huge country full of a plethora of ethnicities, personalities, and yes, accents. Can't we all just get along? Or at the very least just to agree to adopt the Southern accent? I'll take a drawl dripping in biscuit butter over an ear-piercing squawk any day of the week.

Bad, Southerner

There are many stereotypes associated with the South. Many, many stereotypes. As a Southerner, I can confidently say that most of them are not true. Or, if they are true, they only apply to a small subset of the population and shouldn't be used to judge an entire region.

There will always be exceptions, of course. But to think that all Southerners are racist Republicans clinging to their Bibles and guns is about as fair as saying that all Northerners are pretentious yuppies swathed in tweed as they pahk the cah in the yahd.


However, there is one stereotype that is a little true. And it's something that Southerners enjoy and do very well: frying things. It's not like we invented it or are the only ones who do it but, let's face it, we have perfected it. Twinkies. Turkey. Doughnuts. Chicken. Green tomatoes. Hush puppies. Okra.

I just so happened to have purchased some of the latter at Eastern Market a few weeks ago. Came home, cleaned it, dipped it in some Ranch, and then prepared for the delectable result. Instead: blech. Not what I was expecting. It turns out I only like okra when pickled or fried. Good, Southerner.


Pickling takes too long so I moved on to my next option: deep frying! But first, a confession: I'm afraid of hot grease. Frying things scares me so I bake french fries, chicken, shrimp, etc. Bad, Southerner.

If I do have to use grease, it requires wearing long sleeves and oven mitts with a very long spoon to prevent the grease from piercing my skin. But I had these lovely okra pods and a deep craving so I set forth on a Google search. Because, sadly, I don't know how the whole frying thing works. And, judging by the results, I still don't know it works. Bad, Southerner.

They look rough, but they weren't bad. The taste was what I was imagining when I bit into the raw pod, so that was nice. Aside from a little charring, they were actually quite good. Part of the problem may have originated with the recipe. It said to "dredge the okra in the cornmeal mixture."

Thus I present, the Thought Process of Bonnie: "Dredge. That's a good word. Dredge. Isn't that what you do to a lake? Dredge. Sort of like drudge. Drudge Report. Ugh, I don't like that. Dredge. The cornmeal is sticking to my eggy hands. Dredge. Oh crap the okra is black and there is no grease left in the pan and it's so smokey in here. But dredge is a good word."

I just don't think I can be a lover of words AND a good cook. Good, Southerner?

In the South...

"In the South, the breeze blows softer than elsewhere through the pine trees, and accents fall softer on the ear. Neighbors are friendlier, and nosier, and more talkative. (By contrast with the Yankee, the Southerner never uses one word when ten or twenty will do.) The spring is prettier, the summer hotter and happier, the fall longer and sadder, the winter shorter than elsewhere on the continent. This is a different place. Our way of thinking is different, as are our ways of seeing, laughing, singing., eating, meeting and parting. Our walk is different, as the old song goes, our talk and our names. Nothing about us is quite the same as in the country to the north and west. What we carry in our memories is different, too, and that may explain everything else."

-Charles Kuralt

Leaving for the beach, home, and then Chapel Hill.

Just over the North Carolina border, Summer 2007