THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, June 25, 1995 TAG: 9506250159
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: PAUL SOUTH
LENGTH: Medium: 69 lines
While sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic in Atlanta a few weeks back, it hit me.
Everything writers, sociologists and political scientists have been saying about big cities in the South is painfully true: There's not a dime's difference between the South's metropolitan centers and those above the Mason-Dixon line.
There's traffic. There's crime. Once-charming Southern accents have been reduced to homogenized "I'm from nowhere" dialects.
And worst of all, no sweet iced tea.
That's right folks, there used to be a time, back when the world was a little younger, that you could go into any restaurant, cafe or any decent kitchen and get a your thirst quenched by the magical mixture of sugar, tea, ice and lemon.
In my childhood, I remember a school friend named Michael Rhodes who regaled us one afternoon with stories of his trip to Detroit to visit his aunt.
"You can't get sweet tea up there," he told his slackjawed audience. "I don't know how those folks live."
The sad truth is, though, that even down here in the land that turned sweet tea into an art, it's getting harder and harder to find the marvelous beverage that is just the right compliment to cornbread and collards.
And like the good people in Detroit, I don't think we're living quite as well. We're not as nice as we used to be - in part because of the lack of sweet tea.
First, we're crankier because it takes a lot of extra effort to try to get your tea sweetened just right. It's like having to pump your own gas. The nice guys at the gas station with "Bob" on their shirt pockets are no more, and as a result, we've got one more thing to worry about.
Same thing about tea.
I believe about 10 gallons of my grandmother's sweet tea would have brought a quicker end to the baseball strike.
Think about it. If the talks had been moved from New York to Bob Whitt's Barbecue in Stem, NC, and the players and owners had been able to talk over sweet tea and a plate of pork, they would have been much happier and much more amicable toward each other. (By the way, Stem is located between Creedmoor and Butner).
There is evidence to support this. In the South, one of the kindest phrases uttered is the ever-popular, "Bless Your Heart." I happen to know that the number of coronary blessings spoken at a function increases if sweet tea is served. If beer is served, the number of knife fights increases dramatically - and that's just counting the women.
But the thing I miss most given the sweet tea drought sweeping the land is that a taste of graceful living is becoming a thing of the past. Unforgettable is the taste of my maternal grandmother's sweet tea, made from steeping pots of tea, sugar and real lemon juice. In my heart, I know she is in charge of the sweet tea, fried chicken and cathead buscuits on the other side of the Pearly Gates.
Sweet tea fuels easy conversation on a porch on steaming summer days. It is the liquid that turns an everyday meal into a culinary communion. And it is the drink that quenches our hearts.
And given a choice, a perfect day for me means sitting on the porch, listening to Patsy Cline or Otis Redding. And a meal washed down with sweet tea.
Keep your beer. Keep your bourbon. And pass the tea, please.
Sweetened, if you don't mind. by CNB