Sweet Tea Utopia

My Northern inhibitions are beginning to wane. In fact, with the warmer weather affording some Lilly P. debuts, I may even be mistaken for a Confederate native, especially since my drawl has evolved, assuming a charmingly fabricated dialect. In truth, my “Scarlet gentility” seems rather contingent upon the conduct of Eowyn as yelling disciplinary threats betrays my raw Philly roots every time. Nonetheless, yesterday as I sat overlooking the bay, ravenously consuming a Crab Cake BLT with fried-green tomatoes on buttered white bread without even pretending to hate the white bread, I relished the mere possibility of being mistaken for one of the indigenous Fairhopians. Further confirmation of assimilation is my addiction to the street drug here, sweet tea. Quite fortunately, the ‘Bama cartel pushes that particular libation like it is Custer’s last stand against the titans of the Crystal Light industry. In fact, I am slowly reconciling myself to the cold reality that my return to the land of organic poultry, Splenda additives and “Non-fat, No-Whip” will propel my slightly plumper self into Southern withdrawal. The trade-off: Dunkin Donuts and aggressive drivers.

In the interim, Eowyn, Kincaid and I are relishing the charming antiquity of Alabama’s best kept secret. (For once, this cliché tourist bait is truth). Inexplicably, the antebellum magic of Fairhope, Alabama eludes even the capture of my effusive pen. Founded as an aspiring utopia for settlers who thought it had a “fair hope” of satisfying such ambitions, the WASPy retirees who decorate the theater of this coastal paradise live that realized dream.

Further, Jason’s gracious and very eligible brother, Jeff has opened his L.A. (Lower Alabama) residence to my entourage in exchange for flattering photo-ops with my adorable children to showcase before perspective bachelorettes. Quite advantageously, Eowyn and Kincaid have forged a fabulous friendship thru the travails of travel. Eowyn’s protective posture manifests itself in plucky reproaches to unwitting admirers who offer an indulgent smile to my blue-eyed baby; reciprocally, Caid rewards her gallantry with dimpled smiles and fistfuls of her hair. (May such mutual affection transcend time and the privatization of toys.)

Perhaps it is the sweet tea elixir that compels such sentiment or the idyllic enchantment of this seaside setting, but I have truly found immense delight in the company of my petite escorts. Eowyn elicits laughter from everyone- a formidable task for a precocious toddler and Kincaid makes me weak in the knees- a less formidable task for one with (nearly) edible cheeks and beguiling giggles. For even when my Southern excursion concludes and my crusade against fried food resumes, I will still have Eowyn assure me with regularity, “Mama, you’re a stinker and I love you” while Kincaid tries to eat my face with kisses (at least I tell myself he has not mistaken me for a bottle). For now, I’ll just enjoy being a Yankee in antebellum clothing sipping the sweetest nectar of the gods in the prettiest darn town on the Gulf Coast.



Endless Energy of Eowyn

My Sweet "Caid-Bug"