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Tag Archives: Texas

Jersey Boy on Texas Grits: I Tried Them. I Liked ‘Em

15 Wednesday May 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Food, Men

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Bob Smith, Food, grits, Hominy, Men, Texas, The Write Side of 50

How 'bout some bacon, eggs and grits?

How ’bout some bacon, eggs … and grits? By Julie Seyler.

BY BOB SMITH

Grits are a staple in Texas, but before I went there and tried them, I didn’t understand their appeal – I just didn’t get them. First of all, they present a grammatical problem: is “grits” singular or plural? No one ever offers you a single grit – it’s always a bowl or a pile (“pahl”) of grits. Maybe it’s a Texas thing – like “y’all,” which refers to one person, versus “all y’all,” for persons plural. I’ll just call ’em grits – if it’s all the same to all, y’all.

Where do grits come from? When I was a kid, “grit” meant granules of sand or rock. If you found grit in your food, you spit it out and rinsed your mouth. Chickens eat grit because they need it to help them digest their food (a convenient necessity given that they generally eat directly off the ground), but grits are something else.

According to Wikipedia: “Grits refers to a ground-corn food of Native American origin, that is common in the Southern United States and mainly eaten at breakfast. Modern grits are commonly made of alkali-treated corn known as hominy.”

Hominy? Isn’t that what Ralph Kramden stammers when he’s at a loss for words?

The Wiki definition continues: “Grits are similar to other thick maize-based porridges from around the world such as polenta or the thinner farina.”

Exactly – grits resemble watery couscous. Or, if prepared on the thicker side, a bowl of wallpaper paste. That’s not so far-fetched, by the way – wallpaper paste can readily be made using common corn starch.

To add insult to injury – or rather, starch to starch – eggs (“aigs”), in Texas restaurants are served with toast and home fries, as well as grits.

Frankly, I felt a little silly asking for grits. After all, I was ordering an egg-white vegetable omelette (the menu suggested the more manly “Hold the yolks, pardner”), and Canadian bacon (“city ham” on the menu, not conceding anything to our northern neighbor). Then I asked for rye bread, which made the waiter cock his head quizzically.

“You mean wheat?”

“No – do you have rye?”

“Wheat or white?” (Pronounced “what.”)

The unspoken question, apparent from the waiter’s slack gaze, was, “What the hell is rye?”(Pronounced “rah.”)

So, to lend some Texas cred to my East Coast milquetoast egg “what” omelette, I ordered a bowl of grits. Then, confronted with that steaming pile of gelatinous, tasteless mush, I did what anyone with pluck (or grit – or grits, for that matter) would do – reach for the spices and condiments. First, a sprinkle of salt and pepper overall. Then I had a shake of hot sauce on one spoonful, a dab of butter on another, and a slice of city ham with the next. This was getting to be fun. To carry on the maize theme, I even tried a spoonful with a squirt of maple-flavored high fructose corn syrup (“flapjack surp”), and it was pretty good.

I was starting to git grits! On their own, grits have little personality, and virtually no flavor. But as a substrate for spices, fats and unhealthy sweeteners, grits are magic – gladly taking on all flavors and conveying them to the tongue in a creamy soup that swirls happily around the mouth before sliding complacently down into your belly, warm and comforting as a fuzzy lapdog.

But are grits good for you? Years ago, these cute kids’ toys called Weebles were promoted with the advertising slogan, “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.” Weebles didn’t fall down because they couldn’t. Being egg-shaped, they merely rolled in place on their robust rounded bottoms. I suspect eating too many grits would eventually give you that Weeble look – along with heart disease, diabetes, and the need for hip replacement surgery, not to mention blown-out knees, varicose veins, and arthritis.

Git it? If you “git” grits, and eat them too often, grits will git you. But they’re not generally on the menu in any East Coast eateries, and I’m not rushing off to the supermarket to hunt down hominy for my breakfast porridge, so if I want to cultivate obesity, joint pain, and a propensity for heart disease, I’ll have to stick with old-school, Jersey-diner home fries cooked in bacon fat, and served with sass by a waitress shaped like a Weeble.

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The Brilliance Behind Roe v. Wade

13 Monday May 2013

Posted by WS50 in News, Opinion

≈ 2 Comments

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Abortion, Harry Blackmun, Julie Seyler, News, opinion, Roe v Wade, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Supreme Court, Texas, The Write Side of 50, United States Supreme Court

"The Inside Story".  Oil on canvas.  Julie Seyler

“The Inside Story.” Oil on canvas. Julie Seyler

BY JULIE SEYLER

In 1973 the United States Supreme Court issued its decision in Roe v. Wade. Forty years later, while speaking at a symposium at Columbia Law School, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg opined that she was not sure that the time had been right for the country’s federal judiciary to legalize abortion. I was surprised that a liberal of the current court would question the rightness or timing of that decision.

The social discussion of the 1960s and 1970s was imbued with an understanding of the horror wrought on women, who, for social or economic reasons, could not afford to raise a child. Perhaps she was 18, and had just gotten admitted to college. Would it be fair to her to abort her opportunities because there was not sufficient information available about birth control? Or what if she was 40, and already had four children, and her husband made barely enough money to feed and clothe a family of six? What could they do if they became a family of seven? The law punished women by forcing them into dirty rooms in back alleys where men with wire hangers or venomous liquids would help terminate the cells that were starting to gel. There was guilt and shame and illness, and it was society’s morals, not society’s interest in public health, that governed what was legal. I remember debating the reasons for and against abortion with my friends, teachers and family.

Then in 1973, the decision came out. I recently reread the opinion of the court in its entirety. I stand in awe of this brilliant tripartite balancing of a woman’s right to privacy against the right of the state to regulate the health and safety of its citizens.

The case came before the Supreme Court because an unmarried, pregnant woman had sued the state of Texas on the ground that the law, which made it a crime to terminate a pregnancy unless the mother would die, was unconstitutional.

Just for a minor peek at how the Court addressed the topic, I quote from the opening paragraphs of Justice Blackmun’s opinion:

“We forthwith acknowledge our awareness of the sensitive and emotional nature of the abortion controversy, of the vigorous opposing views, even among physicians, and of the deep and seemingly absolute convictions that the subject inspires. One’s philosophy, one’s experiences, one’s exposure to the raw edges of human existence, one’s religious training, one’s attitudes toward life and family and their values, and the moral standards one establishes and seeks to observe, are all likely to influence and to color one’s thinking and conclusions about abortion.”

With this awareness in mind, the Court commenced its discussion on the constitutionality of the Texas statute. It provided an historical overview of abortion from ancient Greece (where “it was resorted to without scruple”), to the common law (which held that abortion was not an indictable offense prior to the “quickening” or first movement of the fetus), to the punitive statutes of the modern era that banned abortion “unless done to save or preserve the life of the mother.”

Thus the Court, in determining that a woman had an unfettered right to make her decision concerning pregnancy during the first three months after conception, did not arrive at its decision in a vacuum. It looked to history, science, medicine, philosophy, religion, and precedential case law to confirm that the Constitution guaranteed a right to privacy. However, it also acknowledged that this right of privacy was not unbridled. After that first trimester, the State could intervene and regulate the procedure to preserve and protect the health of the mother. Further at the point of “viability,” the compelling interest of potential life meant the State “may go so far as to proscribe abortion during that period, except when it is necessary to preserve the life or health of the mother.”

Why would anyone want to reverse this decision? It legitimized the right of women to have control over their body for a total of 90 days after the joining of a sperm, and an egg. Thereafter, the law of the land held that the state has a right to regulate, legislate and protect its persons. This decision, founded squarely on prior law, took into account the entire package: the person who carried the united egg and sperm, the emerging fetus, and state government.

As Justice Blackmun opined, this is, and will always be, a sensitive and emotional topic. The Court’s decision that balances an individual’s right to make the most private decision of her life against the state’s right to protect the health and welfare of its citizens embraced the Constitution, a law “made for people of fundamentally differing views…” Lochner v. New York, 198 U.S. 45, 76 (1905). 

The debate will continue. I hope future courts reaffirm and reaffirm and reaffirm the findings of the Supreme Court in 1973.

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One Day at JFK Museum, and Feeling as Old as History

06 Monday May 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Men, Travel

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Bob Smith, Dallas, JFK Museum, Men, President John F. Kennedy, Teas Book Depository, Texas, The Write Side of 50, Travel

jfk

BY BOB SMITH

The centerpiece of the JFK Museum in Dallas is the sixth floor of the Texas Book Depository, where Lee Harvey Oswald is believed (by many) to have fired the shots that ended President John F. Kennedy’s life. You walk through a maze of enlarged photos and memorabilia from that era, guided by an audio program that is narrating and explaining JFK’s life, his election, his brief presidency and ultimate tragic assassination. Interspersed throughout the exhibit are actual television clips, including grainy tapes of JFK’s speeches, public appearances and broadcast news reports. For people my age, who lived through those traumatic days, it’s a remarkable trip back in time.

But equally startling to me when I visited the museum the other day, was my sense of having become one of “them” – the old folks, who young folks just can’t comprehend.

Maria and I were walking through the exhibit along with a crowd of high school kids on a day-trip with their teacher. They were an eclectic mix: Hispanic, Asian-American, black, punk, straight – whatever. They wore jeans, wool caps, spiky haircuts, and the occasional tattoo. They jostled one another and joked around, generally showing only mild interest except to peer closely at the freeze frames of home movies that appear to show a chunk of the President’s skull exploding from his head.

Many of the others brushed past, more curious to see the spot from which the shots were fired. The corner of the building with the stacked boxes and open window was walled off with Plexiglas, a permanent sterile recreation of what the museum materials insidiously label the “sniper’s nest.” There’s a certain morbid fascination in seeing the open window overlooking the street below, now conveniently bearing large white X marks where the first and final bullets struck.

But I was more transfixed, and ultimately moved, by the black and white television clips, all of which I had seen either live or shortly after the actual events:

Walter Cronkite announcing the time of death and having to stop, remove his glasses, and collect himself as his voice cracked with emotion.

JFK making a stern speech about the threat of nuclear missiles in Cuba, and pronouncing it “cuber.”

Lee Harvey Oswald looking bruised and confused, denying to a crowd of hostile reporters that he had anything to do with it.

A startlingly clear image of Jack Ruby lunging in to gut shoot Oswald in a crowd of cops and reporters; the gunshots crackling like fireworks as Oswald grimaces and crumples to the floor.

We had stopped at a small seating area, where they ran a short compilation of footage from the funeral, and suddenly, the raw emotion of that day came flooding back to me. My composure dissolved when I saw the image of John-John, maybe three years old, standing by the side of the road in a wool coat and cap like a stout little man, saluting as his father’s flag-draped casket rolls by. Huddled on a bench in a half-dark museum, watching newsreel footage of a funeral from fifty years ago, I had tears rolling down my face.

A couple of the teenagers from the school group wandered in for a moment and, finding nothing engaging in the images, quickly moved along.

I remember as a teenager seeing a World War II veteran in his late 50s standing at a memorial day parade in my hometown. He wore a cloth cap with medals pinned to it and a paper rose in his lapel. Standing stiffly erect, he raised and held a crisp salute as a military band marched past carrying a lowered flag in honor of those who had died in World War II. I was embarrassed to see his eyes brimming with tears.

Today’s 17 year olds must consider the assassination of JFK as interesting, but ancient history – how I at age 17 would have viewed Prohibition, the Roaring Twenties, and the end of World War I. Now, to these kids I’m the old-timer with the incomprehensible emotional attachment to an abstract historical event. And maybe decades from now, long after I’m gone, they’ll recall September 11 in the presence of a later generation, and find themselves perceived as being as ancient as I seem to them now.

To everything there is a season.

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