Free Southern Fried Sushi by Jennifer Rogers Spinola Page B

Peppermint Patty from the Peanuts comic strip with her honey-brown bangs and freckles. Before long she’d start calling me “Chuck.”
    “Well, what brings you here?” She pushed buttons and printed out stuff as we talked.
    I winced. Why did everyone have to ask me that? “Funeral.”
    “Oh dear. I’m sorry. I hope not anyone in your immediate family.”
    “Well, yes, I’m afraid so.”
    “I’m so sorry.” Patty finished putting together my information, using a gentler tone of voice. “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay. There’s a coffeemaker in your room, and …”
    I nodded, not hearing anything. Patty handed me the key. “Is there any place to run around here?” I yawned, hoping I’d remembered to pack my tennis shoes.
    “Not really.” Patty hesitated. “I guess you could follow the parking lot up to Cracker Barrel or the other way past Mrs. Rowe’s.”
    “Where?”
    “That red restaurant.” She pointed out the window.
    “Oh.” I turned to look. “What’s their food like?”
    “Lands! People come from all over just to eat there. It’s been in business since 1947. She died a few years back though. It’s a bit different, they say, but still really good.”
    “She?”
    “Mrs. Rowe.”
    “Oh. Any recommendations?”
    “Breakfast. Everybody loves the pecan rolls. And then there’s her daily specials, like fried ham and fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy.”
    “Do they have anything not fried?” I tried to keep back a smile. I’d heard lots about the South. Some places even fried weird stuff, like candy bars and dill pickles, which were never meant for the deep fryer.
    “‘Course they do. They’ve got the best barbecued pork sandwiches. And spoon bread and collards. And lands, the pies! My favorite’s coconut cream.”
    “Spoon bread? Collards?” I didn’t understand half of what Patty just said.
    Patty smiled. “You’re not from here, are you?”
    “If you mean Staunton, no.” Thank goodness for that!
    “Well. You’ve got to try them. And then there’s the steakhouse and a Cracker Barrel up on the hill with the best dumplings and corn muffins you’ve ever tasted.”
    “Probably the only ones I’ve ever tasted.” Redneck food heaven! Here I come.
    “Knock yourself out.” Patty grinned.
    I wheeled my stuff up to my room, neat and decorated with similar cranberry colors, and dumped my suitcases.
    This room would function as my home for the next week, so I’d better get used to it. I took off my boots at the door and pulled a pair of Japanese slippers from my suitcase. Padded into the room.
    First things first. I turned past the hair-dye ticks in my notebook, which I’d intended to use to prove a point about Western influence on Asian culture, and found a fresh page.
    Southern Speak, I wrote at the top. And then, “Lands!”—exclamation; “these parts”—around here, when referring to Southern localities. Then I divided a page into columns and wrote, Southern Foods: Fried and Nonfried. Not that I minded partaking of either.
    Tapped my pencil against my chin, wondering how long it would take me to fill up the Fried column. Five bucks said after one dinner at Mrs. Rowe’s.
    I changed into a soft little dress, one of the most comfortable things I owned, and sandals. Pinned my hair up. Lay across the bed to stretch my back and then glanced reluctantly at the clock, figuring I’d better call Faye What’s-her-name.
    I reached for the phone and punched the buttons without getting up, and she answered. She called me honey, although her accent didn’t hurt my ears like the gas station lady’s where I’d bought lunch, and asked if she could meet me for dinner.
    I started to say no then sighed and heard myself saying yes. Why not?
    “Mrs. Whatever is next door. I’m worn out.”
    “Good thinkin’, doll! I was jest gonna suggest it. I’ll bring the key to yer mom’s house, some paperwork, and other things. Unless you’d like to do all that