Not long ago, I took a little tour of the house of pain. Details are not necessary. Suffice it to say no one wants to go there. Promise.
As a result of that ugly trip, I am no longer able to participate in several things that made me uniquely Southern. Whole categories of Southern entrees have been wiped off my plate. No more fried anything or barbecue or bacon, ham and sausage. Of course, I suppose I can ignore the rules and eat my way into a six-foot deep dirt bath, or I can grasp reality by the leafy roots and accept my fate. Healthy is better. I turned our deep fryer into a planter last week to assuage its karma and to redeem it from my sins.
Vegetables and fruit have moved to the top of the food chain for me and I am embracing at least those parts of my Southern dietary habits with gusto, albeit it without frying any of them, which is a bummer, to be sure. Okra and squash, fried by a skilled Southerner, can be as tasty as steak. Oh, steak is off my agenda as well. Damn.
In a conversation with a few friends last week about this recent turn of culinary events, one of them said he loved tofu. Tofu. Can you barbecue tofu?
I have gone so far as to plant a garden for the purpose of relearning my farm roots. My farm is now about a four-foot square. Small time, but a start. Sweet Georgia onions, jalapeno peppers, several variations of tomatoes, garlic and herbs will soon be flourishing, I hope. I was going to plant cucumbers, but Rudy loves cucumbers and would harvest them without my knowledge, which brings me to my biggest gardening issue: Rudy.
Rudy, our Jack Russell is not like Marley. Rudy is semi-well behaved (until strangers show up), then he will hoist his snout and do his best Miley Cyrus. Besides his own poop and the poop of any animal that roams the earth, Rudy has a taste for fruit and veggies. He will eat blackberries, apples, oranges and grapefruit until he does the rainbow yawn across the ground. Rudy is the king of all things lying on the ground. Leave your phone down there and you will see.
I have already caught him out in my newly christened garden, rooting around amongst the pots, looking for what he may devour. Nothing is growing yet, no juicy tomatoes and fiery peppers, but I believe he is planning theft once the sprouting starts.
Rudy is sneaky around the new garden. He will act like he is walking to the opposite side of the yard, away from the growing, one beady eye trained on the windows to see if we are watching, then, if there are no witnesses, he bolts for the plants and cases the joint. I had hoped he would help us keep varmints away, but he’s no better than a rabbit. Oh, he will keep the rabbits and squirrels away – so he can have more for himself. I suspect he could eat the entire garden in one sitting. I hope not, but I suspect it.
A fence wouldn’t help. He’d use it like a tool. He can jump almost to my head, more than enough to clear a fence. Our fenced yard is a decision for him, not an actual physical barrier. He chooses to be a captive. He’s got a pretty sweet gig, too – free food, lots of love and unlimited adventure. So far, I’m appealing to his sense of family and banking on our relationship to quell his veggie love.
I’m hoping he doesn’t like the jalapenos and perhaps the first bite will cure him of his evil ways. If he does like them, however, his little Jack ass will become a flamethrower and he’ll be staying outside until those peppers scorch through his system. From the looks of his infatuation with my garden, he’ll probably be quite pleased with that adjustment. I do not love the smell of doggy napalm in the morning.
