The Creation and Creator of the Arkansas Delta Tamale.

This is the story of an immigrant who came to America and settled in Helena; of his son, who funded and cultivated a tamale; and of his grandson, who still sells the handmade dish today. Let me tell you about Pasquale's Tamales.

Edible journey to The Biscuit.

Sonny Garrett tweeted at me...

Well, Sonny, that's a great question... and considering you're coming from Mountain Home, you're taking a very musical culinary journey.  After all, Arkansas has many treasures -- and the preservation folk movement centered in Mountain View and Helena-West Helena's location at the heart of Blues nation make this a fantastic trip for music lovers.

Enough with the flowery speech.  Sonny, here's a list of recommendations to get you from point A to point B and through the festival itself.

American Burger Center in Melbourne. (Grav Weldon)

Heading out from Mountain Home -- the more direct, curvier route will take you through Melbourne, where a stop-in at American Burger Center is suggested.  The name belies the contents of the menu -- though there are a lot of burgers available, ABC is just as well known for a biscuit-topped chicken pot pie, a shepherd's pie, fried pork chops, chicken fried steak and Jack Daniels glazed chicken fajitas.  Breakfast is great, and they actually serve strawberry shortcake the way it should be served -- strawberries sliced with cream over fresh baked biscuits.  Check out the Facebook.

Biscuit and eggs at Meacham's
Family Restaurant in Ash Flat.
(Kat Robinson)

Speaking of biscuits, if you're going to go the other way and head to Ash Flat, you can find the biggest biscuits in the state at Meacham's.  Formerly BJ's Drive-In (way back in the 1970s), it's named for the family that runs it.  Dishes are made to order, so don't be in a hurry.  You'll be rewarded with good home cooking and wheaty and soft biscuits perfect for sopping up cream gravy.  Or honey.

Seafood platter at Who Dats
in Bald Knob.(Kat Robinson)

Either way, head south to Batesville and take Highway 167 south to Bald Knob... where epicurean delights await at Who Dat's.  We're talking big Creole style seafood platters, a food bar that's plenty for any meal and some mean seafood gumbo.  Also, big burgers -- but who goes to Who Dat's for dat?

Coconut meringue pie at The
Bulldog Restaurant in Bald Knob.
(Kat Robinson

Or do the classic drive-in and stop at The Bulldog Restaurant.  Sadly, it's not strawberry shortcake season (you can only get that when berries are coming out of the fields) but the coconut meringue pie is an acceptable substitute and there's a full range of ice cream desserts available, too.  The burgers are great square patties on round buns, a true griddle-style burger that's fantastic.  

Fried catfish sandwich at Gene's Barbecue in Brinkley.

If you decide to take Highway
33 down towards Brinkley, make a spot in your trip for a layover at Gene's Barbecue. The 'cue is okay, but the fried catfish sandwich is even better.  Gene's still believes in the ivory billed woodpecker, old radio hits and pickled stuff -- and picking up a jar of whatever's on top of the pie case isn't a bad bet.

Inside Kelley's Restaurant at Wynne.
(Kat Robinson)

If you choose to head due east on Highway 64 to Wynne, you should think about stopping in at Kelley's Restaurant.  Located within spitting distance of the right-hand turn onto Highway 1, it's a family affair with an excellent buffet and good pie.

Another good choice -- Colby's.  This great community restaurant offers everything but the kitchen sink.  The burgers are adaptable, tenacious and juicy, there's always a good dinner choice available and the eatery offers some of the best fried green tomatoes around.

Breakfast at The Old Sawmill Cafe
in Forrest City. (Kat Robinson)

Down in Forrest City, once you've passed under I-40 there's a street off to the right that will take you to The Old Sawmill Cafe.  Some say the idea of the place is similar to Cracker Barrel -- but the original shop Lib Bell started opened its doors in 1939!  Great breakfast bar, good place to sit and relax and watch the traffic go by.

Strawberry pie at Nana's Diner in Forrest City. (Kat Robinson)

About a mile down on the left side of the road you'll find Nana's Diner.  Yes, food is good, but you really need to just stop for pie.  They make great pie.

Mr. Harold Jones at Jones' Barbecue Diner
in Marianna.  (Grav Weldon)

Now, folks in the know will tell you just keep moving, especially if you're moving early in the morning.  Keep on moving right down to Marianna and turn off Highway 1.  You'll take a left on Chestnut, a right on Alabama right before the railroad tracks, then a left a bit down the road on Louisiana.  Nearly two blocks later on the right, you'll see the two story whitewashed building emitting the scent you've been following for miles.  That's Jones' Barbecue Diner, and if you have arrived early enough (and since others will be coming, that early enough means maybe eight or nine in the morning) you can get yourself a three dollar pork barbecue sandwich with or without slaw from the only man in Arkansas who has actually won a James Beard Award.  That's right, Jones' Barbecue Diner's been named an American Classic, and if you ask politely Mr. Harold Jones will take the medal off the wall and show you.
Jones' Barbecue Diner.

If it's after noon or if Mr. Harold's out of 'cue, head out towards Mississippi River State Park and stop in at Cap 'N' Jack's at the triangle... and have yourself some of this.  Kim calls it Duck Tail Fudge, and it is too much.  Dream-makingly good.

Ray's Dairy Maid in Barton.  (Grav Weldon)

So, you're heading down Highway 1 or Highway 49, either way, right down into Helena-West Helena.  I'm certain you'll want to stop for a burger and some pie, right?  And one of the best pies ever has to be Nana Deane's coconut pecan pie at Ray's Dairy Maid in Barton.  I mean, after all, Alton Brown stopped in.  Though, if you're coming in close to festival time, you might call your pie order in before you get there to make sure you've reserved a slice.

No joke at Burger Shack in Helena-West Helena.(Grav Weldon)

Once you get into Helena-West Helena, look for this sign on this little drive-thru.  It's not a joke.  This is Burger Shack, and from any estimate I've been able to determine, it's not just the best Coca-Cola in town, it's the best Coca-Cola in the state.  The lines are clean and it's sparkly and delightful.  You can add flavors, but who's got time for that?  Also, umpteen gagillion flavors of soft serve.

Now, if you were coming any other time than The Biscuit, I'd suggest you look for this trailer right here along Highway 49 on the west side of town.  But it won't be there during the festival.  It'll be on Cherry Street, not far from the Delta Cultural Center and all the action.  You want to stop here.  You NEED to stop here.  That's because this is the truest iteration of the Arkansas Delta Tamale, I kid

The genuine Pasquale's Tamale.  (Grav Weldon)

you not.


It's where you can obtain those marvelous Pasquale's Tamales -- a tamale brought down through the St. Columbia family passed down from Peter St. Columbia -- who came all the way from Cefalu, Sicily in 1892 and who ended up settling in Helena.  He learned how to make tamales from Mexican immigrants who came to work the cotton fields.  The recipe was perfected in a little soul food cafe rented out to a lovely couple who gave it their own twist.  The prime beef tamales developed through Peter and his son Pasquale (called Sam) and through that restaurant and on down the line to grandson Joe, who's still making them with his wife Joyce today.  They're excellent -- but you'll love them even better if you get a mess of them with chili and cheese and onions and peppers.

And then of course, there's the food of the biscuit.  I took a series of photos at last year's festival.  You won't have any trouble finding good food on Cherry or Walnut Streets... just remember to stay hydrated, relax and enjoy yourself.

Fried chicken in Arkansas: History, second helpings and hints.

Fried chicken from The Skillet Restaurant at the
Ozark Folk Center in Mountain View.

Pan-fried, deep-fried or pressure-fried—we love our fried chicken. Born of similar dishes brought to the south by both African and Scottish ancestors, the traditional fried chicken served as “Sunday’s best” generations ago remains on the table as the crispy-crusted comfort food of the South. But as for how the bird came to roost on the dinner table, that's a story and a half.

How did Arkansas manage to absorb the epicurean staple? Before this land was settled by immigrants, the cuisine of Native Americans was based on what was available—and that varied by region. Settlers introduced pork, since pigs could root about anywhere, whether in Delta mud or on rocky Ozark plateau, and they consumed everything from table scraps to roots they dug up.

And then there were chickens. Yardbird was more highly prized in earlier years for eggs than meat, but for those special occasions, chicken came to the table.

Chicken fried chicken at the Chuck Wagon
Restaurant in Bee Branch.

Why fried? That’s a good question. Most settlers from Europe were accustomed to having their chicken roasted or stewed—traditions that date back from Roman times. The Scottish folk, however, are believed to have brought the idea of frying chicken in fat to the United States and eventually into the Arkansas Delta in the 18th and 19th centuries. Similarly, African slaves brought to the South were sometimes allowed to keep chickens—which didn’t take up much space—and when they flour-breaded their pieces of plucked poultry, they paprika-popped and spice-saturated the meat before putting it into the grease. And the grease? Well, it’s less time consuming and requires fewer resources to heat lard or oil in a cast iron vessel over a fire or on top of a stove than to bake something inside. Hence, that propensity for jointing and processing chicken with the skin on, dipping in flour and buttermilk and egg and dropping into a hot skillet of grease or lard took hold.

If you are lucky, there’s someone in your family who loves you enough to fry you your own chicken. But we’re a state (and by extension a nation) of folks who have less time than we’d like, and we tend to want our fried chicken provided by a reputable restaurateur. More often than not, I fall into the latter cateogry, and have therefore had my fill of bird from the left and right, north and south of this great state.

The fried chicken at Rhoda's Famous Hot Tamales is
often overlooked.

The best I have found is that offered by one Ms. Rhoda Adams, the proprietress of a little humble place called Rhoda’s Famous Hot Tamales in Lake Village at the southeastern corner of the state. Although known far and wide for those tamales and equally wonderful pie, the true humble masterpiece of Ms. Adams’s kitchen is fried chicken. Salty, juicy and an orange gold—this bird is meant for consuming with white bread and sweet potatoes, preferably with sweet tea.

Fried chicken and other foods from the ample lunch
buffet at JJ's Cafe in Lake Village.

The town on the whole is tight on local restaurants, with just a few joints to check out amidst the regular chains. One of those places is JJ’s Café, which used to be JJ’s Lakeside Café before it settled in a little closer to the heart of town. Thin on the crust, this bird is built on a bundle of black pepper and paprika, and is usually served on the buffet with creamed potatoes, white gravy and green beans.

The "Eye-Talian" Dinner at the Tontitown Grape Festival.

Lake Village is where another strain of the fried chicken gene popped up in the heredity of our gastronomic identity. That’s where a group of Italian immigrants tried to make a home at the end of the 19th century. These folks found work and lodging as tenant farmers on the Sunnyside Plantation, but found life there harsh and cruel. Some 40 families chose to follow Father Pietro Bandini out of the Delta in 1898. They traveled to the north and west and braved through the Ozarks and the Boston Mountains to settle in the northwest corner of the state. The town they founded, Tontitown, was named after 17th century explorer Henri de Tonti. They grew apples, peaches and strawberries and whatever vegetables they could get to force up through the rocky soil—and eventually turned to grapes.

A plate of fried chicken and spaghetti
at the Tontitown Grape Festival.

Of course, we all know today about that grape tradition—and how the community celebrates each August with the Tontitown Grape Festival. And that couple-year stint in Lake Village rubbed off on those traditions, too. At the festival’s multi-night “eye-talian” feast, fried chicken (a recipe learned from their south Arkansas neighbors) is served along with spaghetti noodles made the way they were when those past generations were still in Italy.

Mary Maestri's now offers its fried chicken and spaghetti
as Chicken Parmigiana.

But the festival’s not the only place where you can enjoy the Ozark standard of fried chicken and spaghetti. The Venesian Inn is likely the best known of the batch (now that Mary Maestri’s has moved to Springdale). It still serves, after all these years, crusty blonde chicken served up with a pile of spaghetti covered in that slightly runny marinara, which most of us top with a healthy dusting of Parmesan. Fat, shiny rolls are the best way to consolidate the grease to keep it from dribbling from the fingers.

The AQ Combo at AQ Chicken House in Springdale.

Nearby in Springdale, the AQ Chicken House is still dishing up its original, lemon pepper-enhanced bird after 76 years—even in its traditional AQ Combo, which includes spaghetti under marinara which is topped with a more than adequate melted conglomeration of mozzarella and Italian-blend cheeses. The rolls here are wheaty, but the chicken is distinctive, with a strong and almost acidic flavor that identifies every bite with the location in which it is served. AQ, which stands for Arkansas Quality, also serves a couple of other varieties of fried chicken—a smoky barbecue sauce-laden version and its “chicken over the coals”—but neither are as welcome.

Neal's Cafe in Springdale.

Catty-corner down the road in an old pink diner, you’ll find Neal’s Café and its own interpretation. Still serving “the best of better foods,” Neal’s offers its chicken fried golden brown with potatoes and green beans, and it still proudly pan-fries every piece.

Fried chicken family-style dinner at the Monte Ne
Inn Chicken Restaurant near Rogers.

The real chicken dinner experience, though, comes outside Rogers at a little place off Beaver Lake—the Monte Ne Inn Chicken Restaurant. Named after the passed-on resort partially swallowed by the lake, the low-slung building houses what could be the best fried-chicken experience in Arkansas. You’re seated at a table—with your party, or if you’re alone you’ll likely share with strangers—and food is brought out in bowls, starting with a crock of bean soup. String beans, corn, mashed potatoes, gravy and coleslaw are delivered, along with small containers of apple butter and creamery butter and a fresh, soft loaf of bread—and a platter of fried chicken, deep brown-red with a tight skin and an impossibly juicy interior. You need reservations if you go.

Fried chicken at Myrtie Mae's in Eureka Springs.

One of the state’s oldest fried chicken operations started in the 1920s not far away in Eureka Springs, in the front room of a house that belonged to a woman named Myrtie Mae. When travelers would come through the gap from the west, she was ready. Guests would knock on the door and Myrtie Mae would seat them in the front room. She’d head to the back, behead a chicken, pluck it, batter it, fry it and serve it up with creamed potatoes, gravy, vegetables and fresh bread—all in about an hour’s time. There aren’t any chickens behind the Best Western Inn of the Ozarks where Myrtie Mae’s Restaurant (contact TK) is housed these days—but the chicken is still marvelous, no heat or spice to it, just simple chicken in simple crust.

All through the Ozarks today, you can still find great fried chicken at places like the Ozark Café in Jasper (usually white meat and deep fried) and at the Low Gap Café at Low Gap (pan-fried and peppery).

Fried chicken plate at Bobby's Country Cookin' in Little Rock.

With fried chicken coming in from both the northwest and the Delta, you’d figure that Central Arkansas would be almost like the confluence of chicken. Sadly, this isn’t the case everywhere. The big chains like KFC and Popeye’s have found us here, and the demand for more places that serve a bird battered and deep fried is lower. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t good places to find the dish.

Dark meat with sweet yams and peas at David Family
Kitchen in Little Rock.

Of them all, David Family Kitchen has to be my favorite. Offering soul food at its heartiest, the old-school restaurant on Broadway serves its chicken up fat and juicy. I mean it—probably the fattest chicken legs and thighs I have encountered came to me on a Styrofoam plate placed on one of those red tabletops. Salt and pepper in a buttermilk batter make for fine fried chicken, no doubt.

Fried chicken with green beans and potato salad
at Capital Bar and Grill in Little Rock.

Your Mama’s Good Food and Bobby’s County Cookin’ both hold their own in this battle, and both deserve to be on any list. But if there’s any contender to the marvelous David Family Kitchen chicken, it’s the white-collar soul of Capital Bar and Grill. Only available on Wednesdays, the chicken has the flavor of a long soak and brine, with little grease and surprisingly thin crust on the bird. Steady and slightly sweet (is there tea in that batter?), it’s perfect. Plus the potato salad is addictive.

Three piece dark at Gus's Fried Chicken in Little Rock.

Of course, thousands have made pilgrimage to Little Rock now for what was once a Memphis-only dream: that of a bite of the sharply peppered Gus’s World Famous Fried Chicken. Years ago, I had a chance to speak with folks in the family, and they said they’d never cross the river, since only family members were allowed to know the holy secret of the famed batter. I guess they got over that or around it somehow. The newly opened restaurant in the River Market may have a much better bird than the original, but that’s purely due to the freshness of the frying oil. Gus’s also has that slaw that’s the same sort but better than old KFC—and a different but equally tasty potato salad to CBG.

Fried chicken family style at South on Main in Little Rock.

I will go out on a limb and predict that the next great mecca for fried chicken in Central Arkansas will be at South on Main. I have been privy to the lightly seasoned, lightly breaded wonder Chef Matt Bell’s kitchen is putting out, and I can unequivocally say it should be considered the seventh wonder of Pulaski County, if not the world. Matt says it’s going to be offered from time to time, and when it comes up, go.

There are other places for good fried chicken. A couple lie along old Highway 64 on what some affectionately call the “diner drive,” (that might just be me, but it works). In Conway, the stop-in is at Holly’s Country Cooking, where the crust is thick, salty and sweet – yes, sweet in its own amazing way – and gone if you get there too late when it’s offered.

Fried chicken dinner at The Old South in Russellville.

Further up the road, the old stalwart would be The Old South in Russellville. Elvis ate here, and I suspect he would have been all about the crusty, crumbly battered fried chicken that hasn’t changed a lick in decades.

Hester’s in Hot Springs still brings folks in after all these years, even though its fried chicken is always served up on the buffet, all crusty and brown. At The Skillet Restaurant in Mountain View, it only comes to the buffet on Sundays – but the staff can’t fry up enough chicken wings to please everyone – and that’s saying something, since they order all sorts of extra wings to make things work up there.

And then there’s Mama Max’s. Maxine Milner still makes up fried chicken the way I remember it – in a pan, dipped in a buttermilk and egg wash, served up crusty and brown and with fresh vegetables that have been cooked that day and never seen the inside of a can. Her chicken does what chicken should – excite the mouth with the blend of crispy and crunchy and pliant meat; fill the stomach without irritating the digestion; hearten the soul to recall the memories of a time gone past.

Fried chicken with fried cabbage, sweet potato casserole
and Red Hot apples at The Feed Lot in Caraway.

And that’s where we come back to the Delta. The tradition hasn’t died—it’s flourished. A few years ago, The Feed Lot opened in a little town called Caraway, previously best known as the home of the All-American Redheads, a famed women’s professional basketball team. I would not be surprised if The Feed Lot becomes known far outside our state’s borders. Its version made me cry one day, so tender and extraordinarily juicy that I soaked six napkins with it. The secret choice there is to get some redhot apples and corn with it, and make sure you have rolls to sop.

Fried chicken at Dew-Baby's in Stuttgart.

That tradition is still going strong in Stuttgart. Known as the “Rice and Duck Capital of the World,” the town boasts one fine purveyor of the dish we’re talking about in a gray building along Michigan Street, at a lunchroom run by eight sisters and a sister-in-law. This is Dew-Baby’s. Named after the mother who nurtured them, Dew-Baby’s is a bastion of good comfort and soul food. The fried chicken has a tight crisp to it, where the meat has a strong, long buttermilk soak and just a hint of lemon pepper and gospel. That’s not a typo—the sisters are well known for sharing the Word of God with their customers over chicken thighs and a mayo-and-bacon-laced iceberg salad.

Fried chicken dinner at Mather Lodge at Petit Jean
Mountain State Park near Morrilton.

These things should be evident with any good fried chicken, no matter its lineage of recipe, whether from Italian or African or Scottish roots—and they are sacred in these storied kitchens and dining halls. Go enjoy you some.

Other great places for fried chicken in Arkansas:
Williams Tavern Restaurant at Historic Washington State Park
Chuck Wagon Restaurant at Bee Branch
More on Urbanspoon

An abridged version of this piece appeared in the August 2013 issue of Arkansas Life.

Bernell Austin, the Duchess Drive-In & Fried Pickles.

Atkins was once known as the Pickle Capital of the World. In 1945, the Goldsmith Pickle Company located a plant in the town. Fifteen years later, a guy by the name of Bernell Austin leased a parcel of land from the Griffin Oil Company for ten dollars a month, set on building a restaurant. The little eatery called the Duchess Drive-In was pink and popular with plant employees who’d drop by after work.

Austin, known as “Fats” or “Fatman” to many of his constituents, looked for ways to increase business. In 1963, he struck on a new idea, battering and deep-frying hamburger dill slices and selling them for fifteen cents for a basket of fifteen. Thus the fried pickle was born.

Austin wasn’t happy with that first recipe. He tweaked it and eventually settled on slicing dill pickles the long way and dropping them into a spicy batter before deep frying them to a golden brown. The recipe remains a family secret, though many claim that the Old South in Russellville has gotten ahold of the formula.

With the coming of the new interstate, Austin decided to line up and take advantage of the better traffic, building a new restaurant called the Loner Drive-In out toward the overpass and opening it in 1968. He closed the Duchess Drive-In in September of that year; two weeks later, an eighteen-wheeler ran into the building and destroyed it. Austin continued to operate the Loner Drive-In until he retired in 1978. He passed away in 1999.

Fried pickles at the Arkansas State Fair. (Kat Robinson)

Today, the recipe is definitively used at the Atkins Pickle Festival, held over two days every May. The family estimates some 2,500 orders are placed during the event each year.

Now, I would not claim to know Austin’s famed recipe. But I do know the recipe that’s been taught to me, and Stephanie Wilson has one of her own. Both are below. Feel free to give them a try.

Fried pickle spears at Uncle Dean's Catfish. (Kat Robinson)

Fried Pickles
Stephanie Wilson

1 egg
1 teaspoon dill weed, divided
6 to 8 kosher dill spears, brine reserved
½ cup cornmeal
½ cup all-purpose flour
Salt and pepper

Beat your egg, adding a ½ teaspoon of the dill weed and about a tablespoon of the pickle brine. Mix the cornmeal and flour, adding the other ½ teaspoon of dill weed and salt and pepper to taste.

Dredge the pickles in the cornmeal and flour. Coat them in the egg mixture and then dredge in the cornmeal and flour again. Freeze for about an hour. Deep fry these until golden brown and serve with ranch dressing.

From ModernDayMoms.com

Fried Pickles
Kat Robinson

1 cup all-purpose flour
¼ cup rice flour or cornstarch
1 teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon pepper
½ cup water
½ cup pickle juice
1 egg yolk
4 cups dill pickles, cut into ¼-inch slices (this works better than presliced hamburger dills)
Oil for frying

Sift dry ingredients together in a bowl. In a separate bowl, whisk liquids and egg yolk together and then incorporate into dry ingredients. Set in the refrigerator for 30 minutes to 1 hour.

Heat oil to 375 degrees. Working with about a ¼ of the pickles at a time, drop slices into batter and stir around. Using a slotted spoon, remove from batter and carefully place into hot oil. Fry for one to two minutes (like fried okra). Serve warm with ranch dressing.

Lassis Inn: Fish and More Fish.

One of Central Arkansas's oldest restaurants offers a delicacy found in few other eateries anywhere. Find out about the Lassis Inn and the fish they call buffalo, and our experiences with it.

The Best of Better Foods: Neal's Cafe in Springdale.

The only restaurant in Arkansas that serves the magnificent "pulley," Neal's Cafe has offered good fried chicken, home cooking and pie since 1944. Let's take a look inside.

Hot Burgers, Cold Ice Cream and Nostalgia at The Dairyette in Mt. Ida.

Since 1958, Mt. Ida's Dairyette has been the go-to dairy diner for locals and visitors alike, seeking ice cream and burgers. Find out more about this great roadside stop.

On the subject of tea.

I have a confession to make.  I was not born in Arkansas.  However, that’s a matter of my parent’s location at the time I chose to arrive in the world, not a matter of preferred geography.

Both sides of my family are from a little town in southwest Arkansas by the name of Gurdon.  Paternally of the Bear family and maternally a Waldon, my pedigree runs back some distance here in this state.

However, I have lived here in Arkansas since before I was cognizant of the places and people around me.  I grew up in Little Rock but spent weekends in far more rural locales, mostly along US Highway 67 south of the metropolis.  My college years were spent in Russellville, a town I fell in love with.  My first years in television, I lived in Jonesboro at the north end of the Arkansas Delta.

My earliest restaurant recollections are a mishmash – of special occasions at Brown’s Country Store and Restaurant in Benton, of vacation time trips to McClard’s Barbecue in Hot Springs, of smoked meats from Coursey’s in St. Joe and the birthdays of friends celebrated at Casa Bonita at University and Asher in Little Rock.  I recall when getting a “coke” (a name for any soda) was more expensive than having a glass of tea or coffee, and I remember when refills weren’t free.

And I clearly recall, even from my earliest days, that tea did not come sweetened!

At my Nana and Papaw’s house south of Gurdon, I always drank the tea because the well water had a hint of sulfur.  I can recall an adult I dined with in Little Rock having to ask for a sweetener for tea.   I can still remember the white bottle with the girl on it that my cousins played with one afternoon, seeing if it really made the tea sweet.  It did.  It was nasty.

Yes, when I was a child, I could add a packet (or two, what a scandal!) to my drink and mix it up.  I remember being told only kids did that, and that you didn’t drink your tea sweet when you grew up.  I can even remember being small and getting in trouble for dumping a sugar shaker into my beverage.

But sweet tea was not a part of growing up in Arkansas in the 1970s, or even the 1980s.  You wanted something sweet to drink, you got Kool-Aid.  Or a coke.  And those were special things.  They weren’t what was put on the table.

I don’t think it would even have occurred to anyone in my family to make tea sweet before my generation – not a whole pitcher!   My parents were Boomers, but their parents were Traditionalists, and they remember how expensive sugar was, especially during the second World War. Save sugar for cakes and pies. 

Which is why I’m bothered by the hard statement given again and again when referring to Arkansas cuisine as a fragment of Southern cookery.  I’m kinda put off by the statement that all Southerners drink sweet iced tea.  I don’t.  I might add honey to my hot tea when my throat is sore, but overall tea is meant to be tea – the specific infusion of leaves into water, served over ice.

Which brings me to my pet peeve – and that’s on ordering in a restaurant.  If I order tea, I should get tea – just the tea, no sugar.  However, this culture shift of the past couple of decades has convinced restauranteurs that sweet tea is the default.  Usually when I ask for tea and I get “sweet or un?”  I don’t get irritated.  But sometimes it gets me.  No, I don’t want UN-TEA.  I want tea, freshly brewed, forget that lemon (but I’ll take a fresh bit of mint if you have it and I’m in the mood).  I don’t want to give a lengthy explanation as to why I want my tea without additives and I sure as heck don’t need that little box of sweetener dropped off with the long spoon and straw.  I figure the restaurant probably washes its glasses, too – which means I don’t need that straw either – but thanks for the offer.

(deep breath)

I used to think this was just something I needed to be quiet about.  After all, sweet tea’s a popular thing.  McDonald’s offers it for a buck for a large sweet tea – oh, and by the way, there’s no guarantee they have any unsweetened tea available.  Have you tried that stuff?  It’s like upturning a sugarbowl into your mouth!  I know, I wrote a book about pies, I shouldn’t have a problem with sweet.  But you try it.  Egads.

Still, I’ve noticed lately sitting down with friends my age (I turn 40 in October, imagine that), most of them turn to just plain old tea for dinner.  And that makes sense.  Without that film of sugar on your tongue, flavors come through naturally.  There’s just enough caffeine to exist, no buzz really, and enough of a diuretic property to the beverage to make you drink more… tea.  It’s a perfect cycle of tea and the other word that’s a letter of the alphabet.

The other day, my daughter ordered tea with her meal.  And I could tell the moment she tried it, she’d been given the sweet stuff.  She made a face.   Yes, this four and a half year old who usually goes for milk or Sprite didn’t care for pre-sweetened tea.  I don’t know if that means anything or not, but I thought I’d throw it in there.

So readers, especially those of you from without the borders of this excellent state, pay heed.  The South may claim sweet tea as its table wine, but here in Arkansas the tea pours freely… as it should… without the taint of sugar.

On the subject of catching birds.

My daughter, at the age of four and a half, is full of questions. They range from the normal “why is the sky blue? Why do cats scratch?” to the inane “why can’t you eat bees?” She also asks a lot of permissions… “Mama, may I play in the tent?” or “Mama, could I go climb that tree?” I think that’s normal at her age.

But there was one question she’s asked me that started a conversation I can relate to you. Hunter asked me when she got in the car from school…

“Mama, is it okay if I catch birds?”

Now, on the surface, it may not seem like something you’d want your child to do. Many parents might just think it’s not possible for their child to catch a bird… but I know better. See, I was a bird-catching child. And I know a thing or two about catching birds.

“Hunter, I want you to listen to me. I can’t give you an answer right away.”

“But can I?” she asked.

“Just hear me out,” I told her as we turned out on the street.

“Back when I was about your age, I asked the same question of several people around me. And the general answer was ‘no.’ Some of my more skeptical aunts and uncles flat out told me I had no business even trying – and what would I do with one if I did? I figure they all thought I’d never be able to do it.

“But one day I was out in my grandmother’s yard… it was hot, maybe August, and it had just rained. I saw a couple of mockingbirds fly down and start going to town in the grass… probably pulling up earthworms that had come to the surface with the wet. I decided I was going to try.

“Now, I wasn't going into this without a little research. See, there were a good number of cats in my life, all outdoor ones, and I’d been watching them. I noticed how still a cat would get when a bird came by, and how their eyes never left what they were after. And I noticed how they’d be motionless one moment, and then pounce and the bird would never know what hit them.”

Hunter was silent, considering this. At the next stoplight I looked back to see if she was listening. She was staring at me.

“Mama, do you know how to pounce like a cat?”

I laughed.

“It’s not about me pouncing like a cat. It was about me being still. I went out on that lawn. I just kinda slowly shuffled out towards the birds. When they’d look up, I’d freeze like a statue. And when they looked away I very slowly moved. When I was within 10 feet or so, I slid down to my knees and crawled a little closer.

“And when I was close enough to see the pupils in their eyes, I grabbed. And I’ll be darned but I got one.”

Hunter, by this time, was enthralled, and that moment she let loose with a series of excited questions. “Did you keep it? What did you do with it? Did it try to fly away? Was it pretty?”

“Hang on, love. And no, I didn’t keep it,” I told her. “I had grabbed it with both hands, and when I loosened my grip I could see this little bird’s head through my fingers. He was gray on top and orange on the belly and he was just frozen. I thought I might have hurt him. And while I was trying to think of what I was going to do next, he pooped on me.”

That elicited a roar of laughter from the girlchild, and I laughed right along with her. She giggled and repeated “he POOPED on you!” several times. Did I mention she’s four-and-a-half?

“Well, Hunter, I let him go. It surprised me! And I had to go get the water hose and wash down my hands and shorts. But now I’d caught one, I was going to try to catch another.

“And I did. Oh, how I did. I caught mockingbirds and sparrows and cardinals, and I’d look at them and they’d look at me and I’d let them fly off. I had friends my age, Hunter, who I got to see when my mom would take me over to their houses, and I’d catch a bird or I’d tell them about catching a bird, and they’d tell me how I wasn’t supposed to touch birds and how they might have cooties and how baby birds would never again fly with their mama birds. But did I listen? Well, no.

“My friend Jason, he wanted to catch a bird, but he couldn’t so I caught one for him. And he kept it in a shoebox. But you know, birds are meant to fly, and this one kept in a shoebox died.”

Hunter got quiet for a minute before saying “I’d never keep one in a shoebox.”

“Nor should you,” I answered. “A few birds, like parakeets and macaws and toucans, if they live here they have to be in a cage because they can’t make it out in the world here. The climate’s not right. They’re pets. But birds that fly in the sky every day? They’re free, and it’s okay to look but not to keep them.”

“But mama, can I catch a bird?” Hunter asked again.

“Can you? Well, maybe you can but that doesn’t mean you should. When I was maybe eight or ten, there was one day I caught a bird when my mom wasn’t home. I wanted Mom to see that bird and see how good I was at catching birds. And I thought, ‘I could put it in a box or a crate, just for a few minutes until Mom gets home, and it’ll be all right and I can let it go then.’ And so I took the bird inside.

“That was a bad choice. I just made inside, and when I went to shut the door I accidentally loosened my hands just enough for that bird to escape. It flew all over the house, through every open doorway, trying to get out. And the problem is with a bird in the house like that, is that they know someone’s trying to catch them so they don’t settle down, not unless they can hide up high somewhere. And after I tried getting that bird back in my hands a while it roosted atop a curtain rod and just stayed there. And then Mom came home.”

“Did you get in trouble?” Hunter asked.

“Well, not right away,” I answered. “That bird was quiet, and I thought to myself ‘if it stays still tonight, I can get it down tomorrow.’ So I didn’t say anything to my mom.

“But about time dinner came around, that bird wasn’t as scared any more and it came down, swooping down through the dining room just as dinner was done. My mom hollered and shouted. She went and got a broom and went after it, opening up the doors and finally shooing it out. And then I got spanked.”

“You got in trouble,” Hunter answered.

“I did. But even that didn’t keep me from catching birds.”

“Do you still catch birds, Mama?”

“Well, funny thing about that. When I got older, I got interested in other things. There was school, and in the summer there were friends to hang out with and music to listen to and stories to write. I stopped catching birds for fun and just went about my life.”

“Aw.”

“But it came in useful. There was one day when I was working at Today’s THV, back in the early aughts when I did the morning show. And we had this weather garden, and there was a sliding door that separated it from the studio. And one day this bird just soared straight in through the door, in through the studio and straight on to the newsroom. And the newsroom there had very, very high ceilings – so when someone would try to shoo it out, it’d just fly up high and back again.

“Well, the show started, and I was the only one in the newsroom. And I noticed the bird swooping down again. I watched it, and I saw it go up under Tom’s desk. That was back when his desk was right next to the studio doors. I went over there, pulled back the chair slowly, slid down to my knees and pounced… and got that bird. And I walked it out the door and through the studio out to the weather garden, where I let it go.”

“Did it ever come back, Mama?” Hunter asked. We were nearly home by this point.

“Well, I don’t know. It was just a little gray and white bird and I couldn’t tell any difference between it and any other birds.”

“I hope it came back,” Hunter told me.

“Thing is, Hunter, it’s all right to catch birds. It’s all right to try. I wouldn’t do it at school, where there’s not a lot of room to run on the playground and there are things to fall over. But I won’t say no. Just remember… if it was free in the firsthand, it was probably meant to be free.”

When we got out of the car, Hunter asked “could you catch a bird for me?”

“No, love, I can’t,” I told her. “It’s your turn to catch the birds.”