When I was about a kid, we went to Florida to visit an aunt and uncle who had recently retired to the south. One night, we went out to dinner and, reading the menu, I started to giggle. "It says they serve hushpuppies!"
You see, as far as my 10-year old Yankee self knew, hushpuppies were shoes, so I figured it was some kind of joke. But my aunt said that, no, hushpuppies were real food items but she didn't know them well enough to describe them.
So we asked the waitress - who proceeded to tell us all about hushpuppies in her clearly native-Southern accent. They are basically a fritter of cornmeal, onion, and egg, but with a little bit of sweet as well - and did I think I’d like to try some?
Now, any kid worth their salt is going to want to try something that’s any degree of sweet, so I turned to my parents for approval - as did the waitress. But they had on carefully neutral, smiling faces - which usually meant I had to make up my own mind. I looked at my aunt and uncle… same thing. So I declared that, yes please, I would try some.
While we waited for our food, our waitress checked in on us periodically, topping off water glasses, and always excusing herself by saying, “Excuse me, I have to go order” - and the adults would again assume their pleasant neutrality and nod.
Finally, my hushpuppies arrived. I picked one up and took an eager, tho' tentative nibble - then grinned. Holy Moly, was that thing good! I immediately laid claim to the entire order. I think my parents, aunt, and uncle might have gotten one each but that was about it - the rest were MINE!
Our waitress checked on us again, asking me, “Do you like the hushpuppies, sugar?” I bounced and nodded, and started to ask her a question about something but she had to interrupt me. “I’m sorry, darlin’, but we are VERY busy tonight and they are just after me in the kitchen to ‘go order, go order’ so I really need to go order. I’ll check back with you later, ok?” - and off she went.
I nodded in satisfaction and turned my attention back to my plate… until I heard my uncle say, in a very quiet voice, “Well, she’s quite the politician.”
Confused, I looked up.
My mother was nodding in agreement. “She just couldn’t stop, could she?”
What on earth were they talking about?
How loudly had I been chewing that I completely missed this?
My aunt piped up with, “Goldwater this and Goldwater that… she’s clearly a big fan.”
(Did I mention this was circa 1970?)
I waited, sure they were pulling my leg, but they really didn’t seem to be, so even tho’ it meant correcting grown-ups, I finally had to speak up.
“She wasn’t talking about Goldwater, she was saying she had to Go Order!”
Four faces turned to look at me, and then they all dissolved into laughter.
Turns out that not a soul at the dinner table had understood a word that poor, overworked woman had said, except for me.
So now whenever I hear of hushpuppies, I think of mom and dad, my aunt and uncle, that poor, frazzled waitress…, and Barry Goldwater.
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| "Yes, I do enjoy a good hushpuppy upon occasion." |
That’s a lot of memories to pack into one small fritter!
I was going to attempt a clever Photoshop illustration to go along with this but I am sick as a dog, hacking and feverish, and much tho' I love you all, that feels like too much.
