mychai's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I love black women! Ya know what separates the South from any other part of the country? Other than the massive amounts of loblolly pines and an equal amount of really gross looking people at Wal-Mart? It is a group of people I like to classify as "Big, Old Black Women," or BOBW, which is different than BBW, which is some weird sex fetish. And we here at JP-Land don't talk about weird sex fetishes because, well... we don't have enough space or time to write about them all. The BOBW of the South are the black women who have reached the age where they are no longer the Angry Black Women, hateful of The Man and everything even remotely associated with Whitey. These are the women who just want to be your grandmother and cook for you. They seem like they will help you no matter what kind of funk you are in. But that's not saying that if you crossed any lines that they wouldn't cut down a switch and tenderize your bottom. It is the BOBW that make the South a great place to live. I went to visit my mother yesterday at her work. She is a first grade teacher -- has been for the past 18 or 19 years -- and she works in a predominately black area of town. You know what part of town I am talking about. When I went to see her, I mentioned I was hungry. And, since being hungry in the South was made illegal under the Food and Hospitality Act of 1901, we had to rush to the school's cafeteria. Which is a cafeteria staffed solely by BOBW. When we walked in, this is the conversation we had: "Miz Browns, is thats yo son?" I have a talent for charming the socks off of anybody with food. So, I asked very nicely if they would be so kind as to feed my poor, empty stomach. Granted, they had already turned off the stoves and were in the process of cleaning up. But these nice, loving BOBW jumped right to it and -- as the Campbell's commercial states -- "Filled me up good." While they were making my lunch, I sat and talked to them. Flirted is a more accurate term. I told them how I make my gumbo. They told me how they fried their chicken. I told them I was a sucker for collard greens. They invited me home to taste theirs. And if I wasn't so goshdarned busy, I would definitely head over and eat some of their food. When I close my eyes and imagine what the bounty of heaven must be, I imagine a BOBW's house on Sunday afternoon. Big, black, Southern women can cook like there isn't going to be a tomorrow. There is a place in Jackson. My good friend Mike showed it to me. It is a shack made of aluminum siding and, I am guessing, a dirt floor. It is sooooo not up to code in any aspect you can think of. I don't even think the authorities even know it is a restaurant. If they did, they wouldn't dare try and shut it down. As much as BOBW can love you, they can unleash the wrath of hell on yo' ass. Tony Soprano doesn't hold a candle to these women. But this shack serves the best Southern food anywhere around. Well, all of this talk of food has made me hungry. My sister and I are going to go grab some grub. I'm sorry my entries have been so slack since I have been down. When I am on vacation, I end up being a hundred times busier than when I am home. It's fun in one aspect, but exhausting in another. Quick mention of Survivor: Did you notice that Brian's wife was in the crowd? You know... the one who pinned him down and tried to reshape his nose with her fists? The one I thought he was divorcing? Lucky for her. She's now entitled to 50% of that million. And I wasn't surprised at all by the finale. Though I was really, really rooting for Clay. I thought he was a funny, likeable guy. And a restauranteur. And someone who wasn't a porn star. And someone who didn't get repeated beatings by his wife. 11:03 p.m. - Fri., Dec. 20, 2002 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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