Fried Okra

Eleanor versus the scrambled eggs.

Today the wife and I made it to the DMV (Demonstrative Moving Vortex, Designer Milkcow Vicissitude, Deadly Miss Venereal, Dumbed-down Mosaic Vault, Dishwasher Machine Vent, Dastardly MILF Vehicle, Donut Mouth Viagra, Dewdrop Muffin Vamp, etc. etc. etc. in my brain as we stood in line waiting for our number to be called, with Eleanor writhing around like a minion on ice), where a public servant processed our vital records with efficient gusto and I (happily) learned that my driver's license wasn't suspended when I let my car insurance lapse (again). So anyway, the upshot is that now I'm all Iowa, baby. Word.

The public servant who welcomed us to Iowa was a transplant from Mississippi who clearly missed the South. In some ways, at least. "These folks up here be talkin' about it's hot, but they don't know hot, do they?"

"No, ma'am, they sure don't."

"Just like we don't know what's cold. But this Winter, you'll learn!"

She said she made one Hell of a gumbo with okra and that, if I ever tasted her gumbo, I'd discover that I like it. And I said, "Well...maybe. Only way I like to eat okra is fried."