Being Southern is much more than livin' down South - it's a frame of mind and the Southern Humorists are here to educate y'all in the Southern way. Sit back, slice yo'self a piece of lemon ice box pie and get to grinnin'!

Thanks for readin', y'all!

Make sure y'all visit http://www.SouthernHumorists.com for more Southern Humor!

| Southern Humorists discuss "What exactly defines being Southern?" | Beachin' | It Might Be a Redneck Wedding ... | Queen of Kudzu | Slipping Into Southern | Cletus on Bein' Southern| Dixie on My Mind | South of Where?| Gravel Gertie Explains Being Southern! | Tornado Games | Southern Fu| Hillbilly Heritage | Size Isn't Important - Yeah Right! | Fathers-to-be Should Get the Support They Need| Amid the Magnolias | Southern Angel's Mid-Summer Southern Supper |

Chase Jackson said, "Being southern means you don't have to retire to the north."

David Decker said, "Being southern means a myriad of things... One thing for me is... Being Southern means that I don't buy into the idea that sliding around a frozen pond whilst trying to hit a piece of rubber into a net qualifies as a bonafide sport. 'Hockey' was and shall always be merely the completion of the hyphenated phrase of rejection known as 'Horse-Hockey.' Being Southern means that I know for a fact that some animal somewhere must have given either its life, or at the very least its hide, in order to provide the main projectile involved, for something to rightly be called a 'sport.' That ought to get the pot good and stirred up. Happy Mother's Day, ladies."

Pam - perpetually curious - Dragon asked, "Er...you know of a way to get the hide off a critter without having its insides spill out onto the ground, thereby killing it?"

David D. responded, "I was neither validating nor condemning the process of how the projectile gets made, Pamela. I was simply making an observation. Your leather purse, belt, and shoes got here in much the same way."

Pam - extremely carnivorous - Dragon said, "Hey, I got no problem with offing critters to eat or wear or play with, just wondered how you got their hide without killing them. This could be a rather remarkable way of having your critter and wearing it too."

David D. offered, "Happy Mother's Day, precious ladies. May you all be thought of by the words of Proverbs 31:10-ff."

Sheila Moss remarked, "I just came home from an air show, ya'll. Now that's a good ol' gal's way to spend Mother's day. It was great, all the stuff I like: hammerheads, Cuban eights, loops, twists, near passes. The Thunderbirds were there. First air show since the Blue Angels were canceled the weekend after 9/11. I'm glad they brought it back. It was hot out there on the asphalt, though. Somehow only my left foot got sunburned. Weird. "

Chase responded, "You must not be very far from me, Sheila. We talked about going to the air show but decided to save gas money and go to our local spring art show here in Foley, AL. I've been to a couple Blue Angel shows in Pensacola. They're spectacular."

Tempa Worsham said, "[Being Southern is] A way of life! Peanuts inside a bottle of Coke-Cola is considered a delicacy. Highways and back roads where every passer-by extends an index finger from the steering wheel or gives a nod of acknowledgment. A truck is considered the family sedan. Buttered biscuits with homemade preserves are breakfast, lunch, supper and desert. A lifestyle where parts of the pig no northerner, easterner, or westerner would eat are the food staple. When good manners run as deep as well water. A world were the phrase 'your Momma' will get you in a whole heap of trouble I don't think you can define Southern, it is a way of life! If I had raised my boys somewhere else I couldn't have given them southern. They'd have seen it in me, like the child of a germen grandmother witnesses German. But they couldn't have become it! You can't fake it. You can't create it. Those who have run from it always come back (even if just for a visit). Those who mimic it in fun, don't understand it. Those who love it, have lived it!"

Angela Gillaspie added, "And y'all don't forget, it's Southern with a capital 'S'!"

Marta Martin said, "I'm a genetically altered Northerner....sort of like a cyborg Southerner. For us, this is what it means to be southern-----It's my kids rolling their eyes in northern restaurants when sweet tea is not offered on the menu. It's my son packing Dr. Pepper in his suitcase and not understanding why he is offered Root Beer instead by unsuspecting Northerners. It's wearing shorts and sandals as late as Halloween and as early as St. Patrick's Day, weather permitting. It's having people I grew up with telling me, 'You talk funny now.' It's telling people who ask, 'When are you moving back north?' that I am already home."

Ben Baker proclaimed, "Southern is attitude. As is redneck. My brother, who is more well-traveled than me, has met rednecks in Canada. Except for saying things like 'aboot' and not meaning a type of foot covering and being covered in snow for entirely too many days during the year, Canadian rednecks are the same as South Georgia rednecks. I do put this caveat - This is information from my brother who has a master's degree in Latin and English and teaches English. His redneck license is under constant review. Southern is having a sticker on your boat that reads - Eat More G.R.I.T.S. and then not being able to haul your boat to your Grandma's house for fear of having to explain the sticker. Southern is knowing what kaolin is used for. Southern is understanding God, Guns & Guts made this country what it is and anyone who tries to take away any of the three is in danger of finding out exactly what all three can do. Southern is deep-fried. Anything. Seriously. You can roll a corncob in flour & meal and fry it in peanut oil and a Southerner will at least try to eat it. While I'm here, if anyone wants to come help get an 800 pound gator this Friday, call me for directions. After getting the gator, we plan to have a gator-fry. Bring your own beer. We got the taters and bread covered. This is Southern too - that is Southern is getting the main course for supper from your yard."

David D. replied, "Great post, Ben. Buzzard in the freezer, huh? Thought they were best eaten fresh off the pavement. Maybe that's just an Alabama thing. Semper Fi, Dude."

Angela asked, "Ben, what in the devil is kaolin? Is it something like Mercurochrome? Lordy, my momma used that to cure everything. I haven't seen that in years."

Ben said, "You either have to be a Southern black person or have grown up around them and their kitchens. Kaolin is a type of clay (OK, dirt) used by some Southerners in cooking. They add some kaolin to greens & things."

Marta added, "That's what is in kaopectate, too."

Angela said, "Ah, them fortified greens will keep your colon happy. Hey, does red clay count as kaolin? I grew up all around that stuff and while I poured it in the dog's ears and ate dirt as a child, I never heard of putting it in my greens. It makes a right purty mud pie, though. Just make sure you have sweet tea with it. Mmm!"

Dave Wayne remembered, "My ex-girlfriend was from California. She's convinced that the reason some Southerners have bad teeth is from all the sweet tea we drink. She had never had sweet tea before she moved to Mississippi. However, when she moved back to California, teeth intact, she took the love of sweet tea with her. Now her whole family drinks it. I guess the dentists in CA will have to increase their overtime hours."

David D. said, "I don't feel the compulsion to have to explain to anyone what being southern means. I have not only kept my southern-ness, but I have also kept it rat 'chere at home where it belongs. I have not exported myself nor my ways nor my likes and dislikes to any other part of this great country and demanded that the locals adopt me nor them. I have not gone into their back yards and made fun of their traditions and their quirks. I have not accused them of being bigoted ignoramuses who intermarry and practice varmint-like hygiene. I may not like the way they talk, but they have the freedom to use their brogue when they are at home - Jes' like we do. I love where I live, where I was born and where I was brought up. I would not trade the geography, nor the drawl and the slang, nor the sweetea and fried pies, nor any of the other indigenous and glorious things about my home for all the other places on earth that I have been. Doubtless, I would be able to stomach outsiders coming into my southern domain a whole lot better if they respected these (and other) things - just as they would want me to do if I had invaded their space. That's all."

Angela sniffed, "I think I need a tissue - that was beautiful, just purtier than a speckled pup. Snnniiiffffff."

We're going beachin' in a few days. I should be good at it as I've been a few hundred times -- maybe thousands if you count stock tanks and fishing holes. My dermatologist can vouch for it.

I don't have good beach genes but go along because I'm out-schmoozed by the women in my life - all seven of them. All have olive skin, webbed feet, and are fond of sand dunes and salty air (hum along). All know my soft spots.

It's strange that a guy with whipped cream legs has daughters and granddaughters that bake like ACME bricks and never turn a freckle. Inglés o Español? I've got more freckles on one hand than the whole caboodle have on their collective ecru bodies.

I used to wonder & well, you know, but SB ended speculation. She says dark features and olive skin trump a freckle-faced wimpy-poo when it comes to offspring any time. She plays the race card at its darkest, and lightest, "But you Irish are better at throwing down a pint."

Yeah, but we don't eat spaghetti for breakfast and call our daddy, "Godfather." Fuhgitaboutit!

With Pre-Sun number 30, a sombrero and canopy, I'm pretty cool. Not That kind of cool, but cool in a covered up way. But I don't have a fix for handling all the stuff you have to take to the beach. That, too, is not in my genes.

Why don't they put a floating Wal-Mart in the gulf? Floats, chairs, recliners, coolers, coozies, oil and sun screen, umbrellas, castle-molds, diggers, toys, towels, food and drinks ... Have I left something out? You bet -- a rubber hammer and a rubber suit. It's good that I pack my shorts and my other shorts in a garbage bag; otherwise there'd be no room. Just squash those things around whereever. Yep, it's heavy duty.

I know you can go swank and get all this stuff delivered to you on the beach or at the condo spa. We're not going swank. The little people - age four and seven - make the rules. All they want is a condo on the beach and a decent sand castle. They'll get theirs.

All I want is someone to carry the stuff, a potty on the beach and a self-inflating canopy. Not a chance.

Mostly, I'm just joshing.

Since my beach age is about six, I have a great time with the little girls. The giggling and screams of delight (mine) at finding one more mud-filled shell -- and dodging the froth-tipped rows of rushing aqua erases all cares of a world gone mad, and a sore back.

Then there are the kaleidoscopic sunrises that pierce the morning silence with striations of unparalleled brilliance. If but for a day, they bring life and sheen to a sleeping bed of sand laid gently grain by grain as in a jigsaw puzzle. Together with the warm aquamarine waters, they form the beautiful gulf coast - inspiration for a million Kodak Moments.

The rhythmic roar of the mighty force of water lashing against a resisting force of solid ground offers a hypnotic cacophony and a constant reminder of a higher power. I will listen and watch in awe. There is no doubt as to who's in charge.

"Honey, close the drapes and keep it down in there, we're trying to sleep. And don't forget to put the coffee on."

"I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky..."
John Masefield

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• It might be a redneck wedding... 
  

• If the groom is wearing a bowling shirt
  

• If the bride wears a crop top so her tattoo will show
  

• If the bride's hair is bigger than her veil
  

• If the bride carries a bouquet of artificial flowers
  

• If the bridesmaids have fringe on their skirts and vests
  

• If the wedding is delayed because the groom's truck wouldn't start
  

• If the bride's father brings a shotgun to the wedding
  

• If the wedding march is played on dueling banjos
  

• If the friends of the groom TP the church
  

• If the decorations include any pink flamingo
  

• If the best man is wearing a baseball cap
  

• If the preacher has sideburns and wide lapels
  

• If they throw corn at the couple instead of rice
  

• If the musical selections include Loretta Lynn or George Jones
  

• If the photographer is using a disposable camera from Wal-Mart
  

• If the groom’s men have western boots and sequins on their shirts
  

• If the reception is held at the local waffle house
  

• If the hor dourves include pork skins and bean dip
  

• If guests play pinball machines or shoot pool at the reception
  

• If there is a jug in the backroom
  

• If the wedding gifts include hubcaps, ammunition, or IOUs
  

• If the wedding buffet includes pork barbecue and toothpicks
  

• If the getaway car is a pickup truck with Pabst beer cans tied behind it
  

• If the wedding announcement is in the free advertiser newspaper
  

• If the couple plans to honeymoon in Branson, Mo.
  

• If the newlyweds will reside in a mobile home
  

• If the groom gives chewing tobacco for wedding favors
  

• If the bride does too
  

Copyright 2005 Sheila Moss

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My brother left home soon after college graduation and found what made him comfortable----a pair of cowboy boots, a Tanya Tucker cassette and a job coaching college football.

All my life I wanted to go to Clemson. It was simply an urge. My mother forbade me to go so far from home. Instead I wound up at a small private school in Ohio. I began working country radio my sophomore year of college. Callers on the request line said, "Where are you from? Arkansas?" Maybe I was born with a drawl.

My sister, meanwhile, took cooking classes and learned to make delicate swans out of puff pastry. She filled them with crabmeat. I never did understand all the formality in her life. Twenty some years later we still reside on opposite ends of the spectrum and the Mason-Dixon line. She says, "po-tah-toe" and I say "grits".

Still, it goes without saying that I learned the most from a true Southerner; that bastard I married. I can remember being tickled to hear him say the name of the fast food restaurant where I had worked as a teenager. "You worked for Wanky's?"

"You mean Winky's."

"What'd I say?" he replied, eyes twinkling. Oh, that Southern charm.

Because of him I learned to make Dirty Rice, Pralines, Etouffe, Gumbo and Beignets. His family was entrenched so deep in the south that their thick drawls could barely wrap themselves around the "R" in my name. From these people I learned much.

Beaucoup. You should go to Target. They're having beaucoup sales right now. It became déclassé to say many or "a lot". Why not speak French if you can?

Reckon. My elderly mother, born in Croatia, battling an organic brain disorder, cocked her head at me and said, "Vat is reckon?" She began tuning me out when I came home to visit her. I realize now we were no longer speaking the same language in more ways than one.

Grant also taught me the fine art of might-could and might-should. Just in case one of those words wasn't enough, why not use both? "We might-could make the 7 o'clock movie if we left now." Or "You might-should take your jacket. It's supposed to get cold."

Then there are those fine expressions you use when you just don't know what else to say. They're very handy.

"Ell, I'll be." That should be WELL, I'll be--but after a while that old W just drops off. You should use it when the course of events surprises you. Events that are unfortunate and leave you at a loss for words will require a blessing. Bless your heart! Oh, bless his heart. When the victims of sad or unfortunate events are very young or small, we go one better. "Ah, love its' heart!" It doesn't matter that the gender of the baby has well been determined by its' birth. You will love ITS' heart until he or she walks and talks.

Another expression I have fondly made my own is "Have at it" ...it sorta means go ahead you dumbass-it don't matter how many times I've said no-you're gonna do it anyway. Or quite simply, "be my guest". Can I try out your new chainsaw? Have at it.

This year marks my 23rd year as a Southerner. Three of my children are natives. I talked with a college friend last week who shrieked with laughter when I called. "You are such a hick," he said. This morning I listened to a phone message I left a colleague at work. He's right. I sound like one of those damn Hee Haw Honeys. Ell, I'll be!

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As a kid I thought the stories and poems--and even cartoons--were nuts, talking about the "first robin of spring." Robins were winter birds--that was when I saw most of them--and don't they look the part, brown with a holiday red? Crowding into the pyracantha bushes feasting on winter berries? It was a long time before I realized that we were simply on (or at the end of) their migration route--that they abounded in the winter because they weren't somewhere else. That ours was a place they "flew for the winter" even though we weren't in the South. What on Earth does the San Francisco Bay Area have in common with the South? Aside of course from Mark Twain. Nothing, right? So how did I come to be invited to join a Southern Humorists group? I mean, I prefer my tea hot and unsugared. I grew up hearing about the rabbits my dad raised for food, but far from having eaten rabbit myself, I've had two of the critters as beloved household pets. Me, a Southerner?

It's true the invitation came about the time I was reading The Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All, but that hardly proves anything. Lots of people read that book, just as lots of people read William Faulkner, Flannery O'Connor, Peter Taylor--well, maybe not Peter Taylor, but you get the idea. Most of my writing is not exactly regional; it's pretty much set in the endless suburbs of . . . somewhere. It's fictional, and labeled as such, and there's not a lot of autobiographical content. Certainly not 100% guaranteed honest true stuff about quail-hunting catfish and such. Fiction! And none of it ever mentioned the fact that the very idea of referring to Eudora Welty by any name less formal that MISS Welty gives me the heebie-jeebies, or that when I was little my dad used to go around the house singing, "I'm a Rambling Wreck from Georgia Tech" despite never having attended a class there or, for all I know, set foot in Georgia at all. I never wrote a word about the theme party my brother threw in college, where guests were offered peculiar meat products and everyone sat on the porch throwing empty beer cans on the lawn (my brother and his roommate wanted to park a car there, but the landlord wouldn't let them). And it never seemed relevant or worth mentioning that in a small restaurant once a friend of mine enjoyed an off-menu item that turned out to be squirrel and alligator on the same plate. Nor did I think anybody would have cared that we had magnolia trees on our block, or that my dad's Aunt Lillie (like the rest of us, born and bred in California) liked to keep a little cotton patch in her yard. She gave ripe bolls to kids (me included), and who could blame her for that?

And I never publicly admitted my personal acquaintance with possums. My mother used to raise orphaned baby possums--not for eating. She'd wean them, then teach them to find food. (Start by sticking it in front of their faces; if necessary, put it in their mouths. Eventually they'll learn to track it down from as much as several inches away.) When they finally learned the skills of adult possums, such as drooling (this they managed to pick up on their own), she turned them loose in a suitable place where no one would complain. I never said anything about this, and am not sure even now that confession is all that good for the soul, at least where possums are concerned.

But I will admit that I can't imagine why I was ever invited to join the Southern Humorists.

Unless it was just good old Southern Hospitality.

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S. D. Youngren is the author of the fiction web site "Rowena's Page," http://sdy.org/rowena/, which is unmistakably set in suburban somewhere. She was born and raised in San José, California. She and her husband now live in Los Angeles, which, while not very far North at all, still isn't really in the South.

Dear Gertie, what's the deal with bacon grease? Who eats bacon anyway? I don't get it. ~ Nancy in New York

Hey William, I do have to say that I don't like that stereotype. The term redneck comes from when the poor folk worked in the fields as laborers while the blue bloods stayed inside and counted their gold bars and drank their whiskey "neat." Since the laborers wore blue jeans and had a tan, they were made fun of because of what they represented: dirt farmers. Have you noticed how popular it is to have a tan and wear jeans nowadays? J

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Y'all click on over and visit Gertie's spot on the web Gertie's Wisdom from the Salt Lick

To Put The Barn Down Gently, Say Cheese, and visit Mike Bay's Main Cloud go to: http://www.outofthinair.homestead.com/home.html

Ben Baker is the world's official redneck guru. When not out shooting wild hogs, catching large alligators and working on jacked-up 4x4 trucks, he writes columns. Send an email to doseodrivel-subscribe@yahoogroups.com to subscribe

Copyright 2004, 2005 by Linda Lightfoot. All rights reserved.

For more humor like this go to the Witworld Humor Centre at http://www.geocities.com/witworld/

There is a difference between a country and a hillbilly type of Southerner. Country folk are sweet, poor, give-you-the-shirt-off-their-back, and God-fearin' Southerners, and hillbillies are ornery, drinkin', poor, and God-fearin' Southerners. There are both country folk and hillbillies on my mom's and dad's side of the family (although, no one will admit it), so I come by my sweet and ornery way honestly.

My parents both had tough childhoods, and they like to share stories of their hard luck. My daddy was raised on a farm and had nine sisters and two brothers, so he obviously knows how to bush-hog and the great value of the Sears and Roebuck catalog. A single mother raised Momma and they lived in the city where there are actual paved roads and indoor plumbing.

Daddy takes great pride in telling the story of how he had to walk to school (uphill in the snow both ways) and was so poor he had to take a sweet potato in his lunch.

"One day," he reminisces, "I done gone and forgot all about that sweet potater in my desk." He then takes a deep breath and says, "I can still smell that rotten tater."

My mom's favorite story to tell was when she was a schoolgirl; she could only afford one pair of socks. "I had to wash those socks out every night," she painfully remembers. Those were some hard times for my parents. I cannot imagine walking to school, much less washing my socks out every day--I would only do it twice a week (if that much). Momma and Daddy had very humble beginnings and worked hard to make sure my two sisters and I were loved, had full bellies, and a good education. I am very proud to be their daughter.

Every family has their crazy uncles and sweet old aunts, but some of my blood-relatives and non-blood-relatives go beyond description. When I tell my dear husband of my relatives, he thinks I am making it all up. For example, I have an Uncle Booger (a.k.a. "Baby" Junior--that's another story) who loved his Pabst Blue Ribbon col' beer more than anything (even more than his blushing bride, Aunt Pet-Pet).

One time Pet-Pet purchased Booger a new pair of blue suede shoes (Elvis was--is big, remember) and put them next to their bed so that Booger would see them when he arrived home. Booger came home drunk (again) and when he saw the blue shoes, he thought that Pet-Pet had her a man hiding there in the house. He took those shoes outside, grabbed his rabbit gun and shot those blue suckers.

In his alcohol-hazed mind, those shoes took on a life of their own and came after him. So he quickly reloaded his buckshot and fired again. Pet-Pet was pissed. She ran outside and started hollering at Booger about how much those shoes cost down at the mercantile. He looked her square in the eye, wiped the sweat from his brow, and somberly said, "Don' matter now woman, they is dead; I done kilt em'."

I do not think it would be right to mention Uncle Booger's real name, but I can tell you that his last name ends in Junior. We also call him Uncle Junior, and sometimes "Baby" Junior as I mentioned above. In the small town we lived in, there was a bridge over a creek (or 'crick' as we called it). Every time the town would fix the bridge, Uncle Booger would run into it with his pickup truck because he was so drunk; we called the bridge "Booger's Bridge."

Uncle Booger was in and out of the Georgia Big House several times for stealing, plus he wound up in jail after he got mad at another one of our relatives and shot her in the leg. I do not remember why he shot her, but it probably had to do with those darned blue shoes. Anyway, one of the times he was in prison (I forget which time), he had a toothache. Apparently, brushing his teeth never occurred to him. It was hurting him so badly he went to the infirmary and told the doctor, "I wantcha to pull ever durned tooth in my hayyud; thar ain't no sense in keepin' teeth that hurt so dadgum much." The doctor complied, and henceforth Uncle Booger was called "Baby" Junior because he had no teeth.

Sometime I am going to take my city-boy husband down those dirt roads where some of my kinfolk live to prove to him that I am telling the truth. Some of my relatives would just as soon spit at us as look at us because they are meaner than a barrel full of striped snakes, but the majority of my relatives would welcome us with open arms; they would ask us to come in and 'sit a spell' while we watch Hee-Haw reruns on the tube. We would sip on a 'cold drank' and talk about how well Norma Sue's beauty parlor is doing. I would caution my husband beforehand not to bring up the subjects of politics, prison, or blue shoes. If he did, we just might be the next domestic disturbance featured on Cops.

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Stuffed Bell Peppers
1 pound ground beef, browned and drained well
5 or 6 medium bell peppers
2 cups cooked rice
1/2 cup finely chopped onion (or onion flakes)
2 teaspoons salt to taste
1/2 teaspoon pepper to taste
garlic powder to taste
1 tablespoon Teriyaki sauce
2 small cans tomato sauce
1 egg, slightly beaten

Wash and clean out inside of peppers and blanche for 3 minutes. (Blanche means to dunk in boiling water, y'all.)

Season rice with Teriyaki and salt to taste. Mix together 1 can tomato sauce, meat, rice, and seasonings.

When you are happy with the flavor, stir in egg and stuff each pepper. Top the peppers with the remaining can of tomato sauce.

Put stuffed peppers in large oven dish, pour 3/4 cup water in bottom of pan; cover with foil and let bake at 350° for an hour and a half.

Cool for 20 minutes, then serve.

Tomato-Cuke-Onion Salad
2-3 Tomatoes from the garden, washed and sliced
2-3 Vidalia Onions, sliced 1/4-inch thick
1-2 Garden cucumbers, peeled and sliced
Canola Oil
Vinegar
Salt and pepper

Toss together all ingredients. If you have one of those fancy herb gardens, chop up some dill, basil, or chives too and add 'em. Serve immediately. If you're in a hurry or just lazy, use bottled Italian dressing instead of the oil and vinegar.

Crowders (AKA Cowpeas)
A good mess of shelled and rinsed crowder peas fresh from the garden
2 or so cubes of beef boullion
1 small onion, chopped fine
1/4 cup bacon grease
3 cloves minced garlic
Salt and pepper to taste

In large pot, add bacon grease and fry onion and garlic until lightly browned, then add crowders and enough water to cover. Add remaining ingredients and simmer until peas pop, about a half hour. Re-season as you need, honey. My goodness, I'm drooling.

Fried Okra
I recommend that all frying should be done in cast iron

Okra, sliced
2 parts Cornmeal and 1 part all-purpose flour seasoned with salt and pepper
2 parts Crisco and 1 part bacon grease

Rinse okra and cover with cornmeal mixture. Fry in grease until golden brown. Drain on paper towels and eat. Burp.

Grilled Squash
Summer squash, washed and sliced 1-inch thick
Vidalia onions, sliced 1/4-inch thick
Italian dressing

Place the squash and onions on top of your grill. Brush with dressing. Wait a minute or two, then flip 'em, brush with dressing, wait another minute or two then take 'em up. My daddy uses one of those fish broiler contraptions to put the squash and onions in. He swears up and down it makes it easier to grill the squash.

Cornbread
2 cups of self-rising cornmeal
1 large egg, lightly beaten
1 1/4 to 1 1/2 cups of milk or buttermilk
1/4 cup bacon grease (or vegetable oil if you're a Yankee)
1 teaspoon garlic powder, optional
Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat well-greased 8- or 10-inch skillet in 425º oven. Or if you are skillet-less, grease an 8 x 8 x 2-inch baking pan. Blend all ingredients, stirring until moistened. The batter should be lumpy. Pour batter into preheated skillet or pan. Bake 25 to 30 minutes for 8-inch skillet, 20 to 25 minutes for 10-inch skillet, or 25 to 30 minutes for 8 x 8 x 2-inch baking pan.

Nanner Puddin'
I don't want any hate mail over this recipe, so I'll just go ahead and say now that this is the quick and easy recipe and yes ma'am, it ain't no where near as good as the long and slow recipe.

2 ripe bananas, sliced 1/2-inch slices
1 large package (5.something or another ounce) instant vanilla pudding
3 cups cold milk
1 8-ounce container Cool Whip lite, thawed
1 box Nilla wafers cookies (sorry for being redundant with the wafers-cookies, but there just might be somebody out there that don't know that a wafer is a cookie

Mix milk with pudding mix. In a large bowl, put a layer of cookies on bottom, and then put on a layer of bananas (using a third of them). Pour a third of the pudding on bananas and spread a third of the container of Cool whip on top of the pudding.

Put another layer (or two) of cookies (I like to use a lot of cookies so that I don't get that nasty nanner pudding juice that you sometimes get after a couple of days), put on a layer of bananas (again, using a third of them), pour a third of the pudding, and spread a third of the container of Cool whip on top of the pudding.

You should know what you're gonna do next ... another layer of cookies, the last of the nanners, the last of the pudding, and top it off with the last of the Cool Whip.

If you want to get fancy, you can crumble some cookies on top of the Cool Whip as garnish.

Chill for a while. It's best to serve this the next day, but I'll understand if you can't wait.

Blackberry Cobbler
6 cups fresh blackberries, rinsed and drained
1 cup sugar plus 1/2 cup sugar plus 1/2 cup sugar plus 1-2 tablespoons sugar (for sprinkling on top)
1/3 cup cornstarch
1 cup self-rising flour
1/2 cup milk (or water)
1/4 cup butter or margarine, melted
1 egg, slightly beaten

Preheat oven to 375º.

Almost cover the berries with water; add sugar and cook until boiling in a big heavy sauce pot. Mix the 1/2 cup sugar with 1/3 cup cornstarch and add to berries to thicken. Taste the berries and add more sugar if needed. Grease bottom of 13 x 9 x 2-inch pan, and pour in berry mixture.

For the topping, combine flour, milk, 1/2 sugar, butter, and egg. Beat with spoon until batter is smooth. Drop by spoonfuls on berry mixture, spreading evenly. (It spreads over berries while baking.) Sprinkle with sugar. Bake at 375° for 30 to 35 minutes, until topping is golden brown.

Lemon Ice Box Pie
I added this at the last minute - there's been several requests!

3 eggs, separated
1 1/4 cups graham cracker crumbs
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1/2 cup lemon juice (juice of 3 lemons or so)
1 tablespoon lemon zest (that's grated lemon rind for you rednecks out there), optional
9 tablespoons sugar
1/3 cup margarine

Preheat oven to 350°. Melt margarine. Mix together graham cracker crumbs, melted margarine, and 3 tablespoons of sugar. Press into 9-inch pie plate.

Mix together lemon juice, lemon zest, and Sweetened and Condensed milk. Beat in egg yolks. Pour into crust.

Beat egg whites with cream of tartar until frothy. Gradually beat in remaining 6 tablespoons of sugar. Beat until stiff and glossy. Cover pie with egg white mixture and bake around 20 minutes. Completely cool before serving.

-30-

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