TAKING TIME

In all the scurry of the getting-ready and the time-is-getting-near, in the flush of seeing-to and looking over, there's been a special request for a re-play of a little post from a few years ago.  

Amidst these hectic days, these glowing nights of light and gleam, these quiet times of reflection,  perhaps THIS is what I need most of all. 

I hope you all wonderful days ahead, filled with a childhood sense of joy and anticipation.

THINK OF HAPPY THOUGHTS AND FLYYY . . .

wikiphoto

Have you ever seen a white-haired, white-bearded gentleman floating along through life, his feet not touching the ground?

‘Tis the Season, I think, but the Reason is the thing. 

We went to Sweetpea’s Thanksgiving program and feast at school, sitting in an expectant hush as the big hall windows revealed a lively line of tall Pilgrim hats, construction-paper feathers, tiny demure lady-caps and aprons, and brown-fringed vests.   They entered singing a Turkey song, keeping up the refrain all the way around the auditorium, up onto the stage, and finishing with a flourish of stuffed-brown-bag-on-a-stick drumsticks.

The songs went on, with a little skit, small facts and interesting items about the First Thanksgiving, with all small participants doing their best---reciting or clapping or jumping about the stage, as the moment required.

The Moment of the program, the very pinnacle to remember, came last.   The teacher walked down the line with a small microphone, holding it gently before each little face, and asking, “And what are YOU most thankful for?”

Answers ranged from “Mommy” and Daddy”---quite a few of those, to “My Family” and others, including one that I didn’t hear, but which brought a wave of laughter through the audience.

Way down on the very end stood Sweetpea, awaiting her turn, and when the question came, she pondered a tiny moment, peeking up from beneath her little Pilgrim-lady cap, then in the softest tiny voice, leaned in and said, “Ganner.”

I swear, Y'all.   I'm gonna have to tether that man to the ground like a Macy float.

FOURTH ANNIVERSARY

Four years ago today, I sent out the first tentative post of this blog, just blindly casting out words to scatter and scape about the world, and not quite sure what I wanted to say.   The deluge of words since has belied my shaky beginnings, for the freshet flows far and wide, too much and too fulsome---just whatever my mind throws on the page before the magical "SEND."

I so thank you all for your faithful reading and dropping in and the comments, so endearing and welcome and kind.   This four years has been immeasurably rewarding, and the greatest blessing of all is YOU, my Faraway Friends.

And so a post from the very first week---when words were all I had, pictures a far hope on the horizon, and many, many friends unmet.   

The little program at the end (just a tiny bit naughty in places) was sent just this week by Sis, a true-life G.R.I.T.S. Girl her ownself. 
  

                  LONG AWAY AND FAR AGO G.R.I.T.S. GIRL

I just have so much to say about my raising and outlook and cooking, and who taught me, and all the wonderful Southern cooks and writers and farmers and woodcrafters and just plain good folks who've been such a part of my life and all that I am.

And one question, which always arises: Grits. And people also have a great curiosity about G.R.I.T.S Girls---not Magnolia Blossoms or Sweet Potato Queens. G.R.I.T.S.--- acronym for Girls Raised In The South, the down-home, Southern-raised group of women whose company and goodwill have been such a part of life as I've known it. My own membership is a treasured thing, indeed. G.R.I.T.S. Girls (and Guys, if they're lucky) are of a Southern State of MIND, not geography. They are be-mannered at birth, born to be gracious, social, tolerant of others' foibles, and just a tad bit short-tempered with foolishness and unkindness.

They may be young or old, hair ranging from whalespout wisps to blue once-a-week helmets sprayed into submission at their Standing Appointment. They almost all own pearls, gloves, compacts, and several sturdy purses. Hats are optional, though the G.R.I.T.S set probably own as many feathery sweeps and veiled toques as the Royal Families of Europe, and wear them with great panache, as well.

They can take their French manicures straight home from the salon and plunge right into that bowl of buttermilk chicken, flour it up and fling it in that skillet beside the pot of collards as well as they can sashay their satin-clad selves into a country club, the Opera House or the White House. Dirt under those fancy nails just means they've been in the tomato patch or the rosebed or the horsestall, but they clean up REALLY well.

They have a zest for life, for literature, for Family and Friends; both are legion and necessary. Countless generations are remembered and celebrated; Grandma's necklace is a lovely accent to Granddaughter's wedding dress, and the tiniest new member of the clan is welcomed with her own add-a-pearl and a whispered word of womanly wisdom in her tiny ear. The littlest ones know to say, "Yes, Ma'am" and keep their skirts down and their knees together on their trikes...they aspire to be cheerleaders and doctors, mothers and teachers, writers and world-fixers, and usually achieve any and all of those, and much more.

And G.R.I.T.S. of both genders usually have a home-learned knowledge of Nature and the hows and wherefores of where their food comes from. They see the fields---from Spring, when the tillers are crawling the land, sending out that primal earthy scent of First Turning---to the last plowing-in of the Fall-brown stems shorn of their bounty, ground into the land for enrichment during the long cold days.

We know that meat does not spring from the Earth wrapped in plastic, and have witnessed the hard facts of raising and getting those hams and sides of beef into the freezer, have hefted a deer carcass onto the hanger for skinning, and can cook all the above in more ways than Emeril. Quite a few of the G.R.I.T.S. contingent are proficient at bringing down game for the table, having received their first small rifles when most kids are still clamoring for Elmo or Barbie, and more than a few of the female persuasion can outshoot all the males at any Huntin’ Camp.

Tiny girls in the smallest-size camo are proudly loaded into pickups to ride happily out with Daddy for a day at the deer stand or duck blind, taking their own places and turns at very young ages. Nobody messes with a woman holding a 30-aught-six, and many a 12-gauge stands in a closet behind the sweeping skirts of a prom dress. Some with the credentials of breeding and a family older’n dirt get away with owning their own assault rifles.

Martinis and Mystery, Chanel and Chainsaws, Satin and Skillets, White Gloves and Workboots---all are part of a G.R.I.T.S. Girl's makeup, along with good manners, kitchen knowledge, love of animals and the outdoors, luxurious perfume and scandalous underwear and perhaps a good knock of bourbon on occasion. Florence King is the Queen of writing about G.R.I.T.S. and Belles and all manner of Southern Womanhood; Fannie Flagg is an absolute genius with a golden gift for dialogue and character and scene, as well---her Idgie Threadgoode will live on as long as Scarlett O’Hara in the minds of female readers---just as memorable and smarter, besides.

My friend Klary lives over in Amsterdam, but her picture of a fried drumstick, properly marinated in buttermilk, Tabasco, etc., then cooked to the perfect golden-brown, perfect shattery crust, is worthy of any Below-the-M/D-cook in possession of her Mammaw's black skillet and a leftover cotillion corsage.

And G-girls sure DO say “BUTT,” but most of the ones I know say "Bee-hind." In exigent circumstances, they say "ass"---pronouncing it "ice"---as in "Dayum, Bobby Ray! Get your sorry ice in this house 'fore the neighbors see you!"

It's a soothing, sizzling Sisterhood, and location is no deterrent to membership. It's all in the outlook.

 

CUT AND DRIED

 

 

Perhaps it’s a remembered love of gumball machines---the little bright fellows on a shiny post, with their penny-slots and cheery krickle as you turned the handle, which causes me to LOVE big plastic dispensers in grocery stores (or candy stores, with their Wonderlands of pastels and chocolates, or even the Pet Store, with squirrel-corn and treats for Fuzzy-Pup).   

 

The flat scoop-ones are little storm-cellar doors into Aladdin’s treasure cave:

 

 

Just the PLENTY of them is appealing, the gleaming vast tubes stretching the aisles, like great faucets of colorful, interesting things to try.   The beans always catch my eye, and always, always my long-ago Uncle’s sepulchral bass intoning DON’T MIX THE BEANS comes to mind, for all HIS store beans hung waist-height in half-barrels with heavy silvery scoops, so tempting to young hands.

 

All the range of hues from the pale limas and Northerns, shading into the speckles and maroons of Pintos to the pale greens and dull browns of lentils and peas, (with a lot of interesting NEW beans, one beauty splashed with maroon and white in exact patterns of a REAL Paint pony).  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The pastas and the rices---so many lengths, so many shades of gold and beige and white, and the debate over which size of couscous and don’t we still have a bag of quinoa from last   time?     The surfeit of choices, shapes, colors, and the necessary height of the dispensers give me the déjà vu moment of stretching tiptoe to peer through the glass of a childhood candy-case.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I grab a bag and fumble open the wispy plastic, hold it fist-encircled around the faucet’s opening, turn the little tap.   The riches pour or cascade or rattle into the bag, filling with a gentle heft or the nil of cotton.   We come home with a few regulars, the old stand-by bulgur wheat and the dried apricots, some walnuts, some arrow-root, several sizes of salt, a tablespoon or so each of several new items, to be cooked in perhaps a cup of water, all on their own, for tasting and testing of flavor and texture, and the ponder: will this go in that cucumber salad, or would it be better as a little punctuation in a pilaf?

 

There’s one big clear reservoir that stands out---the contents are as gold and fluffy as Rumplestiltskin’s dreams, and I have to smile every time:   In this Mecca of Organic this and Gourmet that, the Importeds and the Importants, this one stands an unblushing parvenu amongst the grands:   A whole bushel or so of the golden powder which fills those little packets in the Kraft Macaroni and Cheese box.  

 

SOMEBODY must be buying it; the level is never the same.  In such a discerning  crowd, I wonder if they cover such a plebeian item in their market-baskets, as ladies used to camouflage Wrinkle Cream and Midol beneath the Lipton and DUZ.   Discretion amongst the dried goods---that would be novel.

 

 

The cupboards are full, the storehouse holds a gracious plenty, but somehow, I’m getting a hankering to go to Whole Foods and turn some spigots, though they have nothing that will ever equal the tongue-curling anticipation as the penny fell, and the big ole gumball rolled out into my hand.

 

 

ELLEN DOUGLAS

R. I. P.   ELLEN DOUGLAS   (JOSEPHINE HAXTON)      1921--2012

A formidable group of writers have chronicled the South’s days and years, and a lot of stories still need telling. There’s Miss Ellen’s clear, heart-felt prose of progress and change and the lingering need for both, Miss Eudora's quiet, precise voice; Faulkner’s characters strutting and fretting their hours upon the stage, and still other writers who trumpet our idiosyncrasies and ills and sins like a gaudy rack of supermarket rags in a check-out line.

 

Fiction fashion changes, fads grow and wane, and the true voices are the ones which endure. And we the people---we sleeve the sweat off lip and brow, turn a page, see our lives in the printed lines.  

The South’s HOT. It’s full of mosquitoes and snakes and gators and other hostile life; it’s growing by bounds, and it’s melting into the ground in places. But it’s FERTILE, pretty near more fertile than any same-sized plot of ground on this Earth, and the fertile imaginations are the most impressive crop.

DIZZY DISNEY

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's a blessing and a marvel to hear your OWN childhood stories told by a little one with an enormous vocabulary and who still holds onto a few little phrases and words that are so endearing, you hope she'll use them for just a little while longer.

 

 

SLEEPING UTIE

by SWEETPEA  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess named Sleeping Utie.   She had a party and the witches gave her presents and one witch said “I didn’t get my invitation and I’ll put a curse on Sleeping Utie and when she grows up she will prick her thinger on a
spindle.”

And so they burnt up every spindle in the castle and she went up the stairs to look out the window and in that room there was a spindle.   She didn’t know what it was, and she pricked her thinger and fell asleep.

 

 

 

 

And everybody fell asleep for a hundred years.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Sleeping Utie had been asleep a long long time, a Prince rode up on his Maple Steve. 

 

 

 

 

 

And then he kissed her on the lips to Spell the Break.  

 

And they lived happily ever after.

 

 

MRS. DUKE AND THE FRUITCAKE

 

 

Perhaps it was the Black Dress which set the tone of foreboding.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Duke lived two-houses-down, in one of the big old mill houses, and immediately upon their moving in, had had their two sons from Memphis to come down with ladders and buckets to cover the house’s grim khaki siding with a lively appley green.

 

I think she did most of the rooms herself, over time, for you’d knock, and enter a deep purple space, where the Fullers had had the dimmish white living room.   Or step through the dining-room arch into a rusty-brown cave, with great wrought-iron sconces whose red glass shades cast an inferno-glow onto the dinnerplates and lent the rich lush air of midnight dining in a Spanish castillo.  

 

The kitchen was schoolbus yellow, with the old green linoleum the only dismal note, and the lighter yellow formica table and plump-vinyled chairs sat in the middle of the floor, with counters ranged all round the edges. 

 

 A strange combination of plaster plaques were scattered on all the walls---a whole village of little Asian people at various tasks, and enough bright half-fruit to fill Carmen Miranda’s hatbox. 

 

 

 

  

 

Mrs. Duke seemed to live in a maelstrom of Primary Colors, with interchangeable tablecloths and wardrobe featuring garish fruit or umbrellas or palm trees.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

The tiers of café curtains featured dancing pots and pans, and her aprons were always wild rick-rack dreams from the Crayola Box of Eight.

 

 

 

 

 

She WAS a good cook, at least to my notion, for she made Spaghetti and MEAT BALLS, with some exotic whiff of unknown, pleasant herb, and set out little green shakers of Parmeesyun cheese.    Hers was quite a contrast to our plain ground beef, crumbled and browned with bell pepper and onion, and anointed with a can of Campbell’s tomato soup and a tiny can of Contadina.  Ours was mixed into the biggest spaghetti Ronco had to offer, cooked way past fork-twirling stage.

 

Aluminum  Wearever percolator on the white Amana range, Golden Wheat cups and saucers on the table---never mugs, for those endless cups of Maxwell House with whoever-dropped-in, and at least five ashtrays distributed around the kitchen, any three of which could be guaranteed to have a Pall Mall or Kool smouldering away, sending up eye-searing little signals of “Don’t forget MEEEE!”

She was a bright little twinkle of a woman, with sparkly jewelry and a bouncing page-boy.  The Dukes belonged to the Civic Club and the Garden Club, and she was always scurrying off to Wednesday AND Thursday Bridge, with a colorful purse on her arm and the smiling snap of Doublemint as she went.

 

So one Christmas when she came into the house preceded by Arpege,  perhaps it was the unaccustomed black dress that startled us to begin with---setting a tone of foreboding in its severity, like the one poor Miss Doris Day wore in MIDNIGHT LACE.   Her smart little black suede sandal-strap heels clicked across the floor as usual, as she set a cellophane-wrapped present down on our kitchen table.

“Y’all, I have a confession,” she said, in the tones of about-to-admit-adultery.  We looked at her, shocked into silence, as she went on.   “Y’all KNOW I make a whole lot of fruitcakes every year, and I ALWAYS bring Y’all one.   Well, this year, I just worked so hard, and bought up all that candied fruit all Fall, and went clear over to Greenville to pick up pecans at Sister’s house.   And it took me several days to pick ‘em out, and then chop the fruit and mix up all those cakes---well, I just hate to tell Y’all, but when I got through all that mixin’ and stirrin’ and gettin’ into the pans and the first batch in the oven---I looked down and saw I had a FINGERNAIL missin’ and I just like to DIED!”

 

All eyes swiveled to her hands, and sure enough, the finger-with-her-rings on her left hand had a little ole stumpy nub-nail where her usual bright red manicure flourished, like a shorter plank in a picket fence.   I think we all probably swallowed hard, and I don’t remember what-all was said or done before she left.  

 

But when she was gone, my Mother picked up the cake and said,  “Anybody feel like eating this cake now?   Why did she have to tell everybody she gave one to?  Only one of us would have been surprised.”

 

It was kinda like the old joke about the raffle where the prize was a mule, and it turned out the mule was dead.   But only the winner complained, and they gave him his dollar back.

 

 

 

 

 

STILL STANDING

I'm linking to Beverly's PINK SATURDAY Breast Cancer Awareness Day..

I looked in  my rearview mirror yesterday, thinking, “Was that REALLY a rose still blooming?”   We parked and walked back to see, and just the surrounding drifts of leaves, the drab colors, the wavering wisps of all the other blooms---those just faded to background around the one bright pink rose,  rising above and standing unbowed against the elements and the winds.

 

And so I’m offering this little bit of lagniappe-amongst-the-leaves for all our Daughters, Granddaughters, Sisters, Mothers, Grandmothers, Aunts, Cousins, Nieces, Friends we know, Friends we’ve never met, and anyone else whose life is or might be touched in any way, until they find the cure. 

 

Not the last Rose of Summer, but a flag of Hope and Cheer and Encouragement.

PRESERVING APPEARANCES

In all the much-rain and hail-laced plants and soggy leaves clinging to every inch of patio, yard, cars, roofs and shoes as you come in the house, and with my general indolence and can’t-get-going which cloudy gray dampened days engender, I just HAVE to let somebody know there’s something GRACIOUS going on around here.  Amongst several such niceties, a small jewel-of-a-moment from the past week:

 

 

The jars of home-canned marvels brought by our September guests Ben and Lil were absolutely beautiful.   And amongst them was a jar of Brown Turkey Figs (first I’d ever eaten, unless there were some amongst all the jars that we canned together LAST year).   These are stained-glass sunshine.

 

They were an absolutely divine---luscious and tender and dripping with that lovely syrup, and we ate them with a nice cheese plate, all the rich and heavy and sharp and musty cheeses enhanced by the bites of fig. 

 

There’s a velvety Gouda in there, a Morbier with its tell-tale little stripe of ash, a Stilton with dried cranberries, a St. Andre Triple, and a “cow’s milk” wedge, silky and sharp like I’d imagine a young Parmigianna, before the wheels are set to rest on the curing shelves.

The block in the middle is a little piece cut from an immense wheel of “fig paste studded with almonds” at the cheese shop.   That one was absolutely unnecessary, just sort of dark-flavored, with the tooth-yanking consistency of an old-fashioned Slo-Poke bar.

 

I resisted the urge to pick up a fig by its stem and drop it into my open mouth, with the juices running and the fig-flesh a soft mouthful. Instead,  I cut tiny wedges like cantaloupe smiles, lifting them with the point of my small knife, and they were a superb combination with all of the cheeses.

 

We haven’t yet opened any of the preserves---we’re saving them for a frosty night, when we’ll crank up the old Franklin to slide in the first pan of catheads of the season.   Those are special occasions all on their own.

ISN'T SHE LOVELY?

 

 

 

 

Prettier in Pink than Andie Walsh.

 

We went tea-shopping (talk about narrowing down your purpose) this weekend, and as we strolled past a market, Chris said, “Look at those UGLY Pumpkins!   Who would buy one of those?”

 

I turned, expecting a display of one of the homelier branches of Hubbard Squash, and LO!!!   There were the most wonderful, smooth, cool pumpkins I’ve ever seen, like pastelly marble carved by a master artist.  I said, “OHHHH, they’re BEEEEUUUUtiful!   I’ve been wanting to get one of those for several years!”

 

As Chris reflected on my taste/eyesight/mental state, a young man emerged from the front door.  “Do you REALLY like these?   PLEASE take one!”

 

The card read “$4.99,” and I was ready to get one at most any reasonable price, but I didn’t choose the most gourd for my money.   I passed by the bigger ones, the shapelier ladies with the Camay complexions and the girlish stems, in favor of a smallish plump cutie peeping shyly from the far back corner.   I scooched past Chris, who was fishing for his wallet, and picked her up carefully with both hands, feeling the pleasant heft of her shape and the satiny-smooth skin and the absolute COOL of personality and temperature. 

 

The gracious young man said, “Oh, no---just take it with you; everybody wants the other ones for Jack-O-Lanterns.”

 

And so I carried her to the car with the gravity and care I use when carrying my one Waterford vase outdoors, or a very special teapot, or one of the Breakfast Frogs, clutched to my bosom to prevent escape onto that slate floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We belted her in, (I was hoping you wouldn't notice the magic wand in the picture), and we ARE going to take her out for a spin ---Caro's upstairs stitching little mouse waistcoats and we're setting our clocks for 11:55.

S'MORE

HAPPY PINK/AUTUMN SATURDAY!

 

 

It's lovely to awaken one morning, go upstairs to uncover the canary and give him breakfast, and then discover something so unexpected, so lovely and bright.

 

 

 

The Caro Elf had been at work, way in the night, making and hanging and distributing beautiful spots of BRIGHT all over the house.   We'd had a dried wreath on this mirror years ago, and  I'd not have  thought to hang one so large and imposing, but it's just amazing over the burgundy couch, with all the rosy lampshades and florals.

 

 

 

 

And another important part of Autumn:  the Bringing In---all the flowers put outside in shade or sun, to soak up all of Spring and Summer they can absorb.

Unfortunately, quite a few of these were quite injured by an immense hailstorm last month, attested by the forlorn, lacy leaves still untrimmed.

 

 

We went outside on the first sunny day and made S'Mores, with a little pan taken from inside the grill, filled with a few charcoal briquettes, and set on an old metal chair.   We toasted and torched and smushed and giggled, each to his own, scraping and sticking and getting all kinds of messy, and it took two trips into the house for wet washcloths to keep us from sticking to the furniture.

Sweetpea is a purist---she'll toast away, holding anybody's stick over the fire til it's like you like it, rotating carefully and getting the marshmallow just so, but she likes hers as Nature made them---two graham crackers with some squares of Hershey Bar and an un-toasted marshmallow---all left cold.

It's quite a feat to eat that, with crumbs and snaps resulting, but it's her way---she won't hear to having any of hers melted.

Chris is an Extra-Crunchy Jif kinda guy, with a nicely browned marshmallow, just gooey ENOUGH to ooze out with the chocolate as you squeeze the halves together.

Mine "Well Done," please---a veritable torch-on-a-stick, before blowing out and scraping that  scrumptious burnt-mallow ooze onto the cracker, with all the crunchy black bits of sugary WOW.
That long-remembered taste of the outdoors, the crisp of the air, the susssssh of leaves underfoot, the wavery stretched-out coat hanger dipping toward the coals, and that dark familiar crunch between your teeth of the charred crumbs---incomparable.

I've been known to pause in mid-assembly, to munch all the hot crust off the outside and toast the same marshmallow again.   S'mores are like steak---you like them like YOU like them.


And a wonderful, sunny Pink/Autumn Saturday to all!!

LIL AND BEN---AT IT AGAIN

 

We had a lovely visit with our friends Ben and Lil in September.  We talked a LOT, cooked a little, went out to dinner twice and brunch once, and talked even more.       They usually arrive in August for the State Fair, but this year they were later, heading for points West and then their Winter home in Texas.   Last I heard, when a big box arrived for Sweetpea on Tuesday, they were still in New Mexico, enjoying the sights and cuisine.

 

 

They are of the  Never Arrive Empty-Handed persuasion, and this time, it was a whole satchelful of home-made preserves---all from trees and brambles in their gardens---some of the golden honey from their hives, and even a cake-in-a-jar (large jar in the foreground holds a lemon-poppyseed cake, sealed at the moment the jar came from the oven---a new thing to me).

 

Above trove includes White Fig Preserves, Blackberry Preserves, Golden Raspberry Preserves, Blueberry Jam, Honey, Cake, and a jar of the Preserved Turkey Figs.   We'd had a little canning session last year on their visit, and I must say---pupils have FAR surpassed teacher on this one. 

 

And I could certainly use a photography-and-posting course, as well.   These pictures have flipped more times than an Ole Miss Cheerleader, and STILL I cannot get them right. 

 

 

 

 

 

Honey, Golden Raspberry, Preserved Turkey Figs.

 

 

 

Ben and Lil must have about twelve green thumbs between them, and their energy and talents in the kitchen are amazing.    The day last year that we three got into my kitchen and turned out Five loaves of Zucchini-Blueberry-Pecan bread and canned I-don't-know-how-many jars of Fig Preserves, and STILL made it to a late lunch WAY across the state and an afternoon at a Flea Market (edited to add I'd forgotten that we also came home and canned an equal number of Preserved Figs that evening) was one to remember.

We've already sampled several of these delicious goodies, as WELL AS a bag of their Home-Candied Figs which rival any confiture in Paris.   These wonderful sweeties will brighten the Winter mornings, and many a Cathead Biscuit will sing their praise.

GUSSYIN' UP

I'm determined to get some FALL into this house, folks. There's a surge of energy coming from that great burst of sunshine down the stairs, the air says AUTUMN, and if I don't get some wreaths on the doors and some pumpkins scattered around---well, I just don't know WHAT.

 

But first I have to dust all the ceilings and under the beds---it's the LAW. I'm wearing a big ole poufy bakery HAIRNET, People!

 

So, Whilst I huff and swiffer and vacuum in preparation to the REAL fun---I'm posting a re-run of my Southern take on decorating, with the often-asked Gussy vs. Hussy difference:

 

There’s a difference in the South between Gussied Up and Hussied Up---the pronunciation, for one thing. Gussied is pronounced with the USSS as it’s spelled---a crisp ssss through the teeth, and most always meaning nice things. The declaration and question, "Why, you're sure gussied up today---where you goin'?" can almost always be taken only as a compliment on appearance and taste.

 

On the other hand, Hussied takes on a HUZZZZZ sound, with a little bit of disdain in the hum of the zzzzzz’s. As in “Why that ole HUZZZZY!!! Who does she think she IZZZZZ?”

The key is that you can Gussy up a house, a room, a dress, a tabletop, a package or a window treatment or a hat, but almost the only thing you can call “hussied up” is a person---female persons, at that.

Well, maybe that time Bugs Bunny wore the lipstick, but that’s not a good example, I guess.

Gussying is all in the outlook, I think---you add a little extra touch here, a coat of paint there, a new shade of nail polish or a different centerpiece, and there you have it---gussied. A lush blossom tucked behind an ear, purse-shoes-belt to match, a fresh white pique collar on a plain navy dress, the tilt of an absolutely useless wisp of whimsy passing for a cocktail hat---those fall into the gussy category.

 

As do lace on tiny socks above shiny black Mary Janes, ribbons on ponytails, white gloves in Summer, pearls with a sweater set, a flirty glimpse of red silk slip in the hem-slit of a demure dress, (which can all-too-easily fall into the Hussy category, depending on dress, slip, and degree of flash). There’s also the extra-fancy trimmings to a wardrobe---the colorful inserts on a pocket, a special set of buttons for placket and sleeves, an elaborate stitching technique which sets the garment apart, a special furl of ribbon or paper to make a gift almost too beautiful to unwrap.

Gussying in a room could include a punch of pillows, a paint color, a mural or bit of trompe l’oeil, some specially-draped and tasseled curtains, a little tableau atop a table, a mantel, a shelf. We all love a special touch, whether our own, in a magazine, in a house in which we feel the warmth of things well-loved.

But Hussied Up, now---that’s a different subject entirely, mostly calling for a state of BEING, for the carriage and attitude count for a great percentage of the aura. The extra touches are there, the attention to detail may be present, the care in preparation and presentation undeniable, but the effect is just TOO-TOO. Too-tight or too bright or too-too is just too much---they run over into “Did you SEE what she was wearing?” on past, “Too much sugar for a dime,” into “Ten pounds of sugar in a five-pound sack,” and the capstone: “Her Mama would just DIE!”

My girlfriends and I used to tease each other about being Hussied Up when we would go out together---a little extra care with the lipstick, an appointment for a hairdo that afternoon, an outfit just bought and pressed Just SO, but those were just nice ladies getting spruced up.

REAL Hussying is either a gift or a curse---a flair for a dramatic look, with a special style that gets you noticed AND talked about, but in an envious or admiring way, though your admirers may be as much detractors as any.

Or the curse of not having The Sense God Gave a Goose in the way you present your person---a painted-on outfit cut down TO THERE, with tottery heels, big hair and too much jewelry AND perfume just ain’t the way you want to go through life. It gets you noticed, all right, but it also gets you Looked At Funny and Laughed At, besides.

Our Aunt Cady wore odd little outfits, with a bit too much powder and lipstick, and Toujours Moi preceded her into the house. She wore TOO MUCH STUFF, too many GeeGaws, too much tarnished or plastic bits and pieces with gappy places where the crumbs of sparkly glass had fallen from the settings. She was like the society woman of whom it was rumored that she just stood in the middle of the room and her maid flung every knick-knack in her jewelry box at her. More was MORE.

On up into the Seventies, her stockings had seams, and there were always flocked butterflies or embroidered flowers scattered up her calves. In addition to all the above, her ensemble for my Grandpa's funeral included a shoulder-strap purse big as a saddlebag, in a big ole Laura Ashley-type floral chintz if I remember right, and slapped on it midways like a Homecoming Corsage was the final touch: A huge red paper-satin bow, one of those sticky-back ones sold by the dozen at Fred's for Christmas packages.

But she was sweet and she was OURS; we tittered a bit in secret, but we would no more have hurt her feelings over her over-the-top effect than we’d fly. She was a nice lady, and no matter what she wore, the SELF of her could never have gone past extreme Gussied Up into Hussydom.

 

And therein lies the difference.