Crazy as a Betsy Bug

“Just how crazy is a betsy bug?” The question was asked with just hint of sarcasm. Barely detectable, but I knew him well enough to know it was there.

He was making fun. Something we did to each other often. The playfulness was part of our relationship then, and it still is now; one of the things that makes us work.

I mulled over his question for a moment, pretending to be distracted by the chicken frying on the stove. Truth was, I didn’t even know what the heck a betsy bug was. Later, when away from his scrutinizing eye, I would google the information and learn that a betsy bug was actually a real insect more commonly known as a bess beetle. Upon more in depth googling, I was unable to learn where the phrase originated. I just knew I’d heard it since I was a child.

That Jane's* crazy as a betsy bug; bless her heart. 

I turned to Jeremy, wiping flour-covered hands on the front of my jeans, and said, “A betsy bug is crazy. What more do you need to know?”

He wasn’t convinced. “What makes it crazy? Why is a betsy bug any crazier than any other sort of bug? A roach, for example? Or a grasshopper?”

He smirked, and I turned back to my chicken. “I honestly can’t tell you, Jeremy. It’s an old expression, a turn of phrase. You use them all the time.”

“Not any as weird as that.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s weird. I’m Southern; I say weird things and talk real slow. Shoot me. It’s better than people not being able to tell where I’m from! Need I remind you of the time you called my Mom’s bank and her coworker thought you were from India? Her exact words were, ‘Brenda, there’s some foreign man on the phone for you!’”

It was true. Jeremy’s accent was pretty unidentifiable, and frankly, even I had a hard time understanding him sometimes. Mainly, because he mumbled.

I liked to tell him that I wasn’t fluent in “mumble.”

He liked to roll his eyes at me.

We were always trying to figure each other out. From opposite sides of the country, sometimes seeming to speak two different languages, raised in two separate cultures, and yet, for some reason, we worked.

Even now, when we're lost in translation, words and minds apart, we still work.

Author's Note: *Names have been changed to protect the innocent, bless their hearts. This little slice of mine and Jeremy's life was brought to you by the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt: "Colloquialisms and Dialect." For great writing, be sure to click on the link below:

Confessions of a Picky Eater

Growing up, I wouldn’t eat sandwiches. I hated them. The only thing I would eat between two slices of bread was peanut butter. Not peanut butter and jelly, not peanut butter and honey. Just peanut butter. And for me to eat a peanut butter sandwich, the sandwich had to be just right. No crust, not too much peanut butter, just right. I was what you might call a picky eater.

Via

Most of my meals consisted of the handful of items I deemed good enough to eat. Usually, those items were snack foods, much to my parents’ dismay. Moving into a house of my own, with limited food funds available, my picky eating habits changed drastically. Suddenly, things I had never tried before became staples in our household…and this included sandwiches.

I began my love affair with sandwiches in spring of 2007, when my soon-to-be husband dragged me into a Subway for the First. Time. Ever. I went, kicking and screaming the whole way, which for me is more like some serious pouting. As we approached the counter to order, my pouting powers were in full swing, but they were useless against my man’s sandwich cravings. I surrendered helplessly to the Sandwich Artist and ordered a toasted ham and cheese with black olives, fully expecting to hate the thing and eat only the bag of Cheetos that came with my meal.

Alas, it was love at first bite.

From that moment on, my sandwiches became larger and more experimental. I added onions to the next order. And then green peppers to the next. At home, I tried exotic fairs like Spam sandwiches and grilled Pimena cheeses. With each bite, I became more enamored with the sandwich; it seemed that my hatred of sandwiches had left the building and with it so had my finicky eating habits.

Sandwiches were just the tip of the iceberg of what I’d been missing out on with food. Turns out there was an entire world that I hadn’t tasted. Things like homemade macaroni and cheese entered my life. Previously, I had believed that the best version of mac ‘n’ cheese was out of a blue box. Little did I know that there was something as wonderful and creamy as the homemade variety. It seems almost silly to say such things now, but my Mama and Daddy can readily corroborate the fact that I was unmoving in my picky eating habits and could never be convinced to try something new.

This was a point of much frustration with them. Try as they might, they could never make me understand just what I was missing out on. Now, they are simply amazed that I eat things like turnip greens and sausage gravy, broccoli casserole and cole slaw. Even nearly five years after my “food awakening,” they still look at me with amazement when I order something like chicken and dumplings or a roast beef and cheddar sub.

I’m woman enough to now publically admit that they were right. All of those years misspent missing out on such great foods fill me with regret and sadness. Mama and Daddy, I should’ve listened to you earlier; you were wise in your knowledge of food. I was wrong. You can gloat later, but for now, I can tell you just how glad I am that I’m a proper Southern eater. Just last weekend, as I was enjoying a homemade biscuit with my Mawmaw’s pear preserves (which in another lifetime I would have never even tried), I counted the many blessings in my life, not the least of which are the great Southern meals I can now enjoy.

Are you (or were you) a picky eater? Do you have a picky eater in your life?

Remembe(RED): What'll Ya Have?

“What’ll ya have? What’ll ya have?”

I stared blankly at the woman. Annoyance was flickering in her eyes, but there was little I could do about it but stare. I could see her lips moving, but she might as well have been speaking another language. I just didn’t understand. My friend Amanda crowded up behind me in line. “Katie,” she said, exasperation and embarrassment ringing in her voice.

I was maybe ten years old. First year at a new school, first field trip at a new school. First trip to Atlanta landmark: The Varsity. The first of what would be many. The sights, sounds, and smells of this famous hot dog joint are old hat to me now, as much a part of who I am and my history as my love for writing.

But this was my first trip ever, and I’ll admit that I was terrified.

To understand a little of what I was going through, you need to first understand The Varsity. Originally opened in 1928 smack dab in the middle of downtown Atlanta, The Varsity is a drive-in of epic proportions. The restaurant itself can accommodate over 800 customers, and on a weekday, right about at lunch time, you can believe that 800 people are crawling inside. Buses full of field-trip kids, executives on their lunch breaks, Atlanta tourists: they’re all packed inside, waiting for their chance to snatch up a chili cheese dog, onion rings, and a Frosted Orange.

And I stood amongst them, overwhelmed and unsure of what to do. The lady behind the counter made a snarling sound. “What’ll ya have, kid?”

Thankfully, Amanda assessed the situation and my blank expression and took charge. “She wants an order of onion rings and a chocolate shake, and I’ll take a hot dog and fries.” The lady took our money, passed us our red trays, and then we turned around to face the lines and lines of people behind us.

I can vividly remember trying to navigate through all of those people, balancing the red tray and looking desperately for a free table to sit at. We ended up sitting in a dining room with school desks set up as tables. At ten, it struck me as incredibly funny to see grown men and women crammed into these desks, eating their greasy lunches. As I said, this was the first of many trips to The Varsity, and I eventually learned the language and attitude of the restaurant.

Field trips at my school, which was only 45 minutes from Atlanta, were typically made to Atlanta: the High Museum of Art, Six Flags, The Shakespeare Tavern, The Fabulous Fox Theatre, The World of Coke…all trips made with pit stops at The Varsity.

The ride to Atlanta was usually my least favorite part of these trips. When we would first load up on the bus, that unmistakable smell of hot rubber seats coupled with old puke and forgotten sack lunches would nearly overwhelm me. I’d spend the rest of the day trying to ignore that smell and failing miserably. Then there was the whole matter of my tendency of getting car sick, which was only amplified on a hot, smelly school bus. I don’t think I ever went on a field trip when I didn’t come home miserably sick.

And yet, I still look back fondly on those trips to Atlanta and The Varsity. I even smile when I remember that first trip, when I stood wide-eyed and scared to death in the middle of hundreds of hungry Atlantans, wondering what the heck I was supposed to do next, all because someone asked me “What’ll ya have?”


The above post was a response to the following Red Dress Club writing prompt: 


Write a memoir post about a memorable school trip. Word limit is 600.

A Whole Mess of Greens

Over the holiday weekend, I challenged myself. As a burgeoning Southern cook, I like to do this from time to time. I like to break out of my comfort zone of microwaved pepperonis and instant Ramen and attempt something new and exciting. I'm complicated that way.

During my short and varied stint as a "cook," I've managed to prepare a variety of traditional Southern recipes and dishes. Buttermilk biscuits and gravy, shrimp and grits, homemade macaroni and cheese, cornbread, hashbrown casserole, cubed steak, the list goes on and on. But the one dish that has eluded me, the one dish that I have avoided preparing out of fear and intimidation has been turnip greens. Now, in the South, we have this thing. We like to eat. A lot. We like to eat all manner of things, especially fried things and yummy vegetable things (sometimes the yummy vegetable things are one and the same with the fried things, which only makes them better). Turnip greens fall into the yummy vegetables category. In fact, I would probably say that turnip greens take the cake as the yummiest of all the vegetables but that's only my opinion, and you can take it for what it's worth.

As a great lover of turnip greens, and other types of greens which I'll discuss in another post on another day, I have not deprived myself or my husband of them in the years since I left the nest and the comfort of my Mama's turnip greens. No, in fact, I prepare them quite frequently and shamelessly out of a can. I know. I should be horribly ashamed. To even refer to myself as a Southern cook is a gigantic lie, but for some reason, I haven't been able to work up the courage to make fresh greens. Something about the entire process is just a little frightening.

Out of the can. 

While I was grocery shopping on Saturday, I encountered my old nemesis on the vegetable aisle. It mocked me with its leafy goodness, taunted me with those long stems and its sheer bulk. Not to be outdone by a stinking vegetable, I snatched up two bunches of the offending stuff and wheeled around to my husband. "I'm cooking greens!" I declared, plopping the greens into the buggy.

Puzzled, he hazarded to reply with "sounds great" and wisely pushed the buggy on down the aisle.

When we got home, I chose to sit around for a couple of hours before starting dinner. I'm used to throwing something together in about an hour, so I didn't think anything of it when I started my meal of turnip greens and dried field peas at around 6:30pm. Needless to say, it was around 9:00pm before we ate.

A Whole Mess of Greens

After quick-soaking my field peas and washing and chopping my turnip greens, I finally got everything on the stove. The greens were a daunting task but not quite as daunting as I had anticipated. I was feeling pretty good about myself when we sat down at the table to my pretty little meal. Jeremy had done his part and grilled up some pork chops as well, so we had quite the feast before us.

I cut into the pork chop. Tender, juicy perfection. The husband fulfilled his role as grill master well. Next, I scooped up a fork full of those delicious smelling field peas. Not bad for my first time cooking dried peas. They weren't too dry or too tough. I turned to the greens next. My husband had already tried them and kept calling them the "feature" of the meal. I tried a tiny bite. Good flavor, the pork fat I'd cooked with them had done its job. Surprisingly, they were also very tender. But alas, the greens weren't perfect. Nope, I'd made a rookie mistake right out of the gate.

Sure, I'd washed the greens. Ran them through nice cold water in a colander. I had been talking to my Mama on the phone when I was washing them. "Be sure to wash them good." She'd warned. My response? An impatient and flippant, "Yeah, Mama, I know." Well, I'll sure know next time that just running water over greens doesn't hardly "wash" them. Those bites of crunchy, gritty turnip greens were a testament to that fact.

The moral to this story? What you've heard is true. Mamas sometime, every so often, do know best.

Have you ever tried greens? If so, have you ever tried cooking them?

Inside Looking In: Landscaping in a Target-Rich Environment

Kudzu. When I moved here, I was disturbed at the sight of roadside trees taken over by the stuff. It's simply everywhere, and once it gets a foothold it can't be stopped. Supposedly, it's edible - but if demon flesh were edible, I wouldn't want to eat that either, for many of the same reasons.


This is Jeremy again, guest-posting and giving a little perspective. Kudzu seems so ubiquitous that I think you all need an outsider's point of view to really understand the thing you all seem happy enough to live with. When I tell people that I'm trying to get rid of the kudzu patch next to our house, they tell me with all the saged wisdom of the Oracle of Delphi that it simply can't be done. And I tend to agree, in the end: it grows by about a foot and a half hourly, so any progress you make is, ultimately, temporary at best.

Target-rich environment (n): when you can't swing a cat without hitting something that needs to die

Kudzu. It's mentioned several times as a force of unstoppable evil in the book Monster Hunter International (which I just finished, and recommend to anyone not put-off by the title). The author equates it with zombies and ghouls, except that the zombies and ghouls can be killed.


It's an incredible vine, from a neutral perspective. It grows aggressively, and its vines are strong. You can dry them and weave it into wicker baskets. Let it grow a week and you can weave an entire house, and all the furniture to go inside it. Not for nothing is it called "the vine that ate the South". To locals, it's a force of nature, just like ice in winter and storms in spring. Kudzu rules the summer, and to most people, you're better off just accepting that.


I haven't lived here long enough to give up, though. Ever since we bought our house two summers ago, I've been waging holy war against the unholy vine. The first front of attack was the lawnmower: over a couple months that first summer, I reclaimed about 30 square feet of yard space. No small accomplishment, if you ask me. I celebrated a little bit the first time I located the home root of a large vine complex (the cursed thing sprouts new roots along its length, but there's surely benefit to uprooting the original). Digging the root up was almost enough to make me give up entirely. The root is ten times stronger than the vine, and it went at least three feet deep into the ground.


Over the winter I went a little farther, pulling trailing vines out of the trees, but in the end that made no discernible difference at all. Still, by spring I had pushed it back far enough that Katie was able to spy the blossoms of a pear tree somewhere in the interior. I had my goal.


All last summer I worked my way to that tree, and by August I had it mostly uncovered. Unfortunately, there were living vines in the treetop itself; I despaired of ever rescuing it. By autumn, though, I had the nearby ground mostly cleared of kudzu. This spring, my goal has been to (1) kill and cut down any vines reaching the tree from the ground or other plants; and (2) kill and cut down the nearby growth so as to better display the lovely pear tree to our neighbors and prevent any new vines from making the leap across the gap.


To this end, I bought some nicer gardening tools this spring. The chief among these was a hedge trimmer, quite handy for snipping overhead vines and, as I found out, very useful for making my way through the curtains of kudzu between myself and the trunks of the bush/tree things I need to cut down. That's how I spent most of this afternoon: cutting away small growth with the hedge trimmers, then taking out the source with a fireman's axe (which was a gift not for gardening but zombie preparedness - but it's doing double-duty).


Today, the kudzu patch is smaller than ever, but it hasn't yet begun its true summer growth. Just a few early explorers, to see if the coast is clear (it isn't). But this victory has not been without cost: my nice hedge trimmers broke an important rivet on their way through the thick kudzu, and now they no longer work (and I can't seem to replace it with a bolt, it needs a very low-profile head). If I don't manage to fix it or find a replacement soon, there's no telling what kind of progress the Kudzu will make. 


I don't doubt for a minute that this is the very chance it's been waiting for: tonight, the invasion will begin in earnest. I am not dismayed. Tomorrow, I spray the whole area down with a strong dose of herbicide. Even if all I have left is a handheld shovel and a dull knife to hold dramatically in my teeth, I'll never stop hating and trying to kill kudzu. Unfortunately, even if I had a flamethrower and an industrual chainsaw, I'd never be able to stop kudzu from hating and trying to kill me.

A Southern Storm

I’ve always counted myself as pretty brave when it comes to spring thunderstorms and Mother Nature’s fury. After all, I’ve lived in Georgia my entire life, and if you aren’t used to thunderstorms after living in Georgia for 28 years, then you’re not going to get used to them. When Jeremy first moved here from California, he’d get extremely incredibly pretty damn nervous when it would storm (although he probably wouldn’t appreciate me telling you so). Up in Jefferson State, where he’s from, thunderstorms were something of a rarity, and I suppose even when they did occur, they weren’t quite as volatile as a Southern storm can be.

During our first year together, his mother and sisters would call often after hearing about “bad weather” down South. I think they got more or less used to it after a while, but they still worried over him being swept up and blown away in a tornado for some time. Jeremy seems to have gotten used to Southern weather as well, although he still hates the humidity (it’s not the heat; it’s the humidity…truer words). Now me, well, I’ve gone and regressed a little since getting married. Take last night for example. All day long last Friday the weather people, including Glenn Burns aka minor weather god, were predicting bad storms to start sometime past midnight. Per usual, their predictions were dead on, and the storms started as scheduled around 6:00pm.

Up until then, the wind had been blowing like crazy, and I was scrambling around trying to put up the two oak leaf hydrangea and the tiny Japanese maple that I’d bought at a plant sale earlier in the week and had still not planted, as well as making sure anything that could get ruined by wind or rain was safely tucked away inside the garage. Basically, I was battening down the hatches. The wind felt so good as I darted here and there trying to get everything done before the storm, which was obviously arriving earlier than predicted. Frankly, I think that all my chicken-with-my-head-cut-off energy was coming from a little bit of nervousness and, dare I say, fear of the encroaching storm. Jeremy hadn’t gotten home at this point, and I honestly was feeling a little scared in anticipation of facing a wicked storm while home alone.

I’m embarrassed to even admit that. I’ve always loved storms. Thunder and lightning, the sound of the wind blowing and the rain falling. But in my old age, I’ve apparently become a bit of a wimp, a scaredy-cat who literally cowered behind my husband that night when a huge clap of thunder alarmed me. Great, another fabulous thing about getting older. What happened to the fearlessness of youth? I remember my sister and I hiding in the laundry room of my parent’s house when I was a child, a tornado raged outside the door and all I remember feeling was excitement.

But I’m rambling. The storms last week turned out to be not so bad. And Jeremy got home just in time, so he could protect me as a man is wont to do. We were bad and ordered hot wings from our favorite wings’ joint…right in the middle of the storm. Don’t worry we tipped the delivery guy really well. So, we ate our hot wings and watched the DirectTV screen saver flash across our tv screen while we ate. The satellite eventually came back on, but it didn’t really need to. Sadly, I was probably too distracted by my new found fear of thunderstorms to even notice what was on, and hey, this is Georgia; it won’t be long before another thunderstorm rolls around, and when it does, you’ll almost certainly find me, battening down any hatches, cowering behind my strong, fearless husband, and hiding under the bed with my three cats.

Pimena Cheese

There are a lot of wonderful things about living in the South. Great, if not horribly humid, weather, super friendly folks, and, my personal favorite, the to-die-for food. I can't imagine living and eating anywhere else, and although I know I'll probably die young from all the deep-fried, artery-clogging, butter-dripping fare, I also know that I'll die full and happy.

Behold. A strike of pure technological and culinary genius. The Fry Daddy.
via

One of the Dixieland food items I love the most? Pimento cheese, or pimena cheese, as I've always heard it called down South. Now when I was a little girl, I turned my nose up a mile at the mere thought of pimena cheese. I can vividly remember my parents fixing pimena cheese sandwiches and how completely grossed out I'd be by them and their nasty eating habits. Keep in mind I was a girl who would eat popcorn for breakfast, so my tastes couldn't exactly be trusted. And even I soon enough learned this fact.

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The day I tried pimena cheese for the first time was a glorious day indeed. Since then, I've experienced many different variations of this cheesy, yummy treat. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with even what the heck pimena (or pimento) cheese is, here's a quick explanation: it's cheese with pimentos in it.

Seriously, that's pretty much what it is. It makes a yummy spread that you can put on sandwiches and crackers, or just eat by the spoonful. You can buy the spread (in mild and hot versions) or make your own with an easy recipe like this:

2 cups sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
1/2 cup mayonnaise
3 tablespoons diced pimentos
salt and pepper

And you basically just throw it all in a bowl and mix it together, then serve or chill. I always add cayenne pepper to mine, too. If you can get it nice and spicy, it's even better.

A recent variation I've had of the simple pimena cheese sandwich on white bread has been a pimena cheeseburger, which used to be available at Ruby Tuesday and isn't any more (boo, Ruby Tuesday, boo), but is more awesomely and yummy-ly available at a local restaurant in Rome, Georgia (a town about an hour from mine) called The Harvest Moon Cafe. The Harvest Moon calls their version of the burger the Pimp Burger, and I kid you not it's easily the best burger I've ever had. The meat was phenomenal, but the house-made pimena cheese smothered on the top was really what took the cake: Wicked Pimena Cheese.

Jeez, even talking about this burger and cheese spread makes me drool. Much to my dismay, you can't buy Wicked Pimena Cheese online, but you can always try to make your own version of plain ol' pimena cheese. I recommend that you at least try Southern Caviare, aka pimento cheese, at least once. It's a great taste of the South and is an easy, yummy way to dress up a plain, white bread sandwich.  

Hop, hopping with:

Why Did the Possum Cross the Road?

When you think of the South, you may think of things like roadkill and rednecks, slow drawls and slower people, but for those readers who aren't Southern or who haven't had the pleasure of visiting this great region, I'd like to be the person who turns around any misconceptions you may have about my corner of the world.

However, I'm not going to be doing that today. Yep, here I sit: a Southerner who is writing about roadkill. Now before you stop reading, this is not going to be a recipe post--or even a food post for that matter--regarding the finer points of roadkill preparation and cooking. Contrary to popular belief, just because I'm from the South doesn't mean I partake in highway delicacies. Nope, this is a post about the psyche of the roadkill...or rather, the psyche of the animal before they became roadkill.

My husband and I had a very interesting and engrossing conversation on this subject the other night. At least I thought it was interesting and engrossing, and now you must be subjected to it, whether you like it or not.

The conversation was sparked by a random thought from Jeremy. To set the scene, we were driving to my parent's house for dinner. The road we travel is a winding, scenic "country road" with equal parts woods and pastures and typically lots of critters. I was in the passenger seat writing random notes for my novel. Out of nowhere, Jeremy says: "You know what I wonder? I wonder if birds have this elaborate society where the young boy birds challenge each other to dive in front of cars?"

I assume a bird flew out in front of the car and that's what sparked this random thought, but I wouldn't be surprised if this popped into his mind out of nowhere. My man is randomly brilliant, and he thinks all the time. Anyway, I looked up from my note-taking and said the first thing that popped into my fiercely feminist mind: "Why would only the boy birds dive in front of cars?"

I'm sure he thought, "oh, crap." He kept his eyes glued to the road. "Because that seems like something young boys would do."

"Girls would do it, too." I shot back. "There's such thing as tom boys and tom birds. If I was a bird, I'd totally do that."

I imagine at this point he thought it better to change the subject. "Forget birds. I wonder what the heck squirrels are thinking when they run out into the road? I mean, squirrels are crazy. I'll bet they go out into the road based on a dare from other squirrels."

"Hey, y'all! Watch this!"

We progressed to discuss the fact that squirrels were probably like the Jackass guys. They probably say to their squirrel friends, "Hey, watch this!," and stupidly run into the road for kicks, playing that dangerous game of dodgeball with a car. But the thing that gets me about squirrels is how they run out in front of you and then change their minds. It's like they run into the road, totally freak out when they realize they're in the middle of the road, and then try to turn around and go the other way. Half the time, if the freakin' squirrel would just keep going in the same direction, it wouldn't get hit. And I hate to admit it, but I'm one of those drivers who will slow down and wait for the squirrel to make up it's dang mind. I know some people who just keep going, and if they hit it, they hit it. I like animals too much to be that person though.

In spite of the daredevil nature of the squirrel, they are not the most commonly spotted roadkill in my neck of the woods. Nope, that coveted award goes to the possum (and no, I do not spell possum with the "o" even though it comes up as misspelled on my spell check).  The hubby and I decided that possums probably don't have a good reason for crossing the road, but because they're so slow, they have the misfortune of being tragic victims of death by automobile. And it's sadder still because possums get such a bad rap. Sure, they aren't the most attractive animals in the world. Sure, their tail makes them look like a giant rat. Sure, they carry diseases and are as mean as snakes. Sure, they hiss wildly at you if you ever get near them. Wait, where was I going with this?

Cute and slow and misunderstood.

So, there you have it. A peak inside one of mine and Jeremy's deep philosophical conversations. A look into the complex mind of a Southern lady. A study on the intricate decision-making skills of suicidal animals.

By the way, do you have any theories on why the possum crossed the road? And why is that dang joke about a chicken? I've never seen a chicken cross the road.

Inside Looking In - The Glorious Bounty of the Swamp

I interrupt your regularly scheduled food blog to bring you this special guest announcement:
Good food comes from many places. Swamps are most definitely one of them.

I'm Jeremy; Katie asked me to weigh in on here. Offer an outsider's perspective, so to speak. I was born in Oregon, but raised in northern California - not any part you've heard of, I'm sure. My whole life, until a few years ago, was lived in an area that ought to be Jefferson State. It's a great place with a culinary history of its own (so to speak), but the call of the South reached me even there.

Long, romantic story short, here I am, and I couldn't be happier. Southern food suits my stomach nicely. There are 700 ways to cook a pig, and I haven't had one I didn't like. But that's a topic for another day - really, the pig is a topic for either a doctoral thesis or a religious cult, more than there's time for now.

No, today I want to talk about all the good things that come a dirty place. Swamp food.

Eat me, will you? We'll see who has the last laugh.