2001:June:19
2001
There's something magical to me in the taste of home-made fried okra (doesn't that sound like the beginning of some poor wannabe writer's southern expose novel), but no I was simply munching my wheat toast. Today I put butter on it instead of the usual soy butter (or before that jam). The taste reminded me of okra which of course reminded me of my grandmother. That was one of my first hallmarks of adulthood: being trusted with the knife in order to cut the okra. The okra I like can't be found in plastic bags in the freezer section. No. You cut it yourself - freshshshsh-roll it around in a big ol' bowl of cornmeal, slap some butter in the iron skillet and spend an hour or so tending the okra. The last stage is on higher heat crisping it up. If you've done it correctly, there will be many black pieces of okra. OK, my dream summer meal is fried okra, a sunny day, squash (I won't be picky about casserole or not), fish cakes, pasta pesto, cucumber and tomatoes in italian dressing, and peach cobbler.
