America does NOT run on Dunkin...

Dunkin Donuts is my favorite place to get coffee.  No seriously.  I like the coffee better than Starbucks.  When I lived in Fredericksburg, there was a Dunkin' Donuts right up the road.  I would swing in on my way home for Thanksgiving break, stop by on the way to the library before a long night of studying for graduate classes, or even pick up a cup of coffee or a latte just because!

This is false advertising if I do say so...

Then I moved to Richmond a few years ago.  The nearest Dunkin' Donuts was twenty minutes away.  Not convenient  to say the least.  It was so far out of the way, I started to only go get coffee when I visited my parents in New Jersey over breaks.  I know, I know--driving five hours just to get a cup-of-joe is a little ridiculous.  However, the twenty minutes to get it near my apartment made it not part of my daily or even weekly routine.  It was in the opposite direction of where I needed to go most times I would leave my apartment.  The Dunkin' Donuts near my parents house is literally three blocks away.  Perfect for a morning (afternoon or evening) walk to get coffee.

Now, I live in Louisa.  Well, technically I live in Bumpass--but that is a whole other story.  The nearest Dunkin' Donuts is out by Lake Monticello--45 minutes away!  I can't even tell you how many times I have thought about driving the hour and a half just to get that delicious cup of coffee.  But then I would just have to make an entire meal out of it because by the time I get there, it would be lunch time!

Luckily for me, Chris' mom lives right around the corner, a mere three minute drive from Dunkin' Donuts.  Perhaps I should make more visits to see my mother-in-law?

Three lefts make a right?

I realize that with this post I am going to tread upon some hallowed ground.   I apologize in advance, but I have to. 

There is a weekend obsession amongst many that I am not sure I fully understand.  I am not talking about football--although that is something I didn’t even understand while growing up in an Eagles-crazy environment.  No, I am talking about NASCAR.

Having lived close to the Richmond International Speedway, I have experienced this strange ritual first hand.  On Thursday afternoon driving home from work I would start to see the signs: “RACEWAY TRAFFIC THIS EXIT.”  The rest of the weekend it was difficult to drive most places because of the influx of people.  These pilgrims travel hundreds (sometimes thousands) of miles, tailgate and drink for three days, cheer wildly for their favorite drivers and don crazy garb to watch grown men drive cars. 

It’s not even like they have to make more than one turn!

I understand sports obsessions.  I really do!  However, I do not understand watching someone drive around real fast.  And how in the world do they keep points?  Baseball…makes sense.  Football…makes sense (albeit the numbers are all weird). Even golf makes sense (although really boring)!  The point system is in reverse but at least there is something to count.

With NASCAR though, one guy beats the other guys at the race.  That should be it right?  Wrong.  It just doesn’t make sense really.

I even used to mock the “athletes” that drive the car.  Pish-posh.  I drive my car.  Does that make me an athlete?

Then, I read an article in Sports Illustrated that was talking about NASCAR drivers running in a half-marathon and what their times were.  Do you know that of the five NASCAR drivers participating in the race, three of them finished in less than two hours?  All 13.1 miles in less than two hours? That is ridiculous!

Guess they really are athletes…but I still don’t understand the obsession with NASCAR.

Yes...that looks fun.

How many times can you say chicken?

Recently, Chris has been experimenting with recipes.

Yes—Chris is the chef in the family.  He thinks I am inept in the kitchen, which on some levels is true, but that is for another time.

He has been combining random ingredients since he has taken over the cooking duties in our humble abode since we have started living together.  However, the whole recipes thing was new to him.  He still does not particularly follow the recipe, but he does look at it to get ideas about what he should include to make things taste delicious. 

Let me tell you—he makes some things that are delicious!

Dinner is a constant question in our house.  Actually, all food is a constant question in our house.  Thinking about the next meal fills most of our free time.  With that being said, one afternoon I get a text message:

What do you want for dinner tonight?-Chris

I don’t know. What do you want for dinner tonight?-Me

I could make something.  I could make chicken fried chicken or steak.-Chris

I did a double take.  How many times did he say chicken in one text message?  He is southern born and bred, so I just thought it was something strange that he was doing.  Perhaps he left out a comma?  Chicken, fried chicken, or steak sounded much better.  I am an English teacher after all, and this was a text message.  Sometimes, I get confused without punctuation.

I texted back: chicken sounds good (even though I hate chicken).

I get home and the house smells awesome.  I hear him frying away in the kitchen.  After our normal hellos, I ask what he is making.

Chicken-fried chicken.

I am confused again.  I asked him why he was repeating himself?  Why doesn’t he just say fried chicken? 

He says because it isn’t fried chicken, it is chicken-fried chicken. 

My head almost explodes.

As many southerners know (and probably the rest of the world), chicken-fried is the style of cooking.  It is not the same as fried chicken.  In fact, many countries have the same dish (wiener-schnitzel, collops, etc.).  I had always heard of chicken-fried steak at diners, but I had never seen anyone actually order it!  I thought you got a piece of fried-chicken and a piece of steak on the same plate.  Talk about protein overload.

Come to find out, chicken-fried steak and chicken is not originally southern!  It is German/Austrian and came over with the immigrants to Texas in the early 1800s.  The first recipe was published in, you guessed it, Virginia in 1838. 

Who knew? Nevertheless, I still think the name is redundant.  Really, how many times do you have to say chicken in a sentence?

Allow me to introduce myself...

Hi y'all! 

That is the last time you will ever hear me say that.  Ever.

I am a proud New Jersey native.  Yes, that's right--I am proud to be from the Armpit of America, New York's Dumpster, a place that you have to pay to leave, but not to enter, and all the other names that you call it--I call it home.

I moved down the 95 corridor to Virginia to go to college, and I guess I just never moved back. It may not sound like it is that far, but trust me--it is worlds away from my old life.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my new home and my new life.  I am a homeowner, and I am getting married in October to a sweet, southern gentleman.  However, sometimes, there are certain things that I simply do not understand.  Certain phrases, foods, events, and “life-choices” are mind-blowing firsts for me.

This blog will showcase the culture-shock and the commitment to the life I now lead.