There are two kinds of people in this world : people who put on a spa robe and relax and people from the south. 

Those spa regulars put on that robe and it just works. They look like more relaxed versions of their former Gucci-wearin' selves. Of course, they probably started their day with 2 valiums and breakfast in bed served by Jeeves, the butler.  The rest of us can barely get that one-size-fits-all tie-belt around our boiled-peanut lovin’ bodies. And I’m not sure if it’s due to our Puritanical roots (South Carolina was one of those original 13 colonies, you know) or the more recent colonization success of the tithing Southern Baptists but either way, we have a severe fear of being nekkid. Even if we have a robe partially covering our naked selves, we have to keep ever vigilant in case a rogue body part pops out at the worst time.  How can you possibly walk around all jiggly-like sipping tea and “relaxing”?  Parts that shouldn’t be touching each other are rubbing together with abandon. You have to walk extra careful and with your feet wide apart just to keep your thighs from chapping each other.  

Then you've got all of those environmental hazards to worry about. I don’t care how much chamomile you add to it, that tea is hot. Lord knows what would happen if a spot of that calming tea hits one of my exposed body parts. 

 
 
Why is it that everyone I meet tries to take me to a southern cookin' restaurant? Not a day goes by out here in Napa that I don't have complete strangers hear me utter one or two words and then immediately direct me to the Fremont Diner for southern fried chicken and waffles. (If you ask me it's the milk shakes that are to die for.) I have never in my life actually been served fried chicken and waffles (other than at the Fremont Diner.)  I don't know which part of the south that particular meal comes from, but apparently I've never eaten a meal there. And I have lived in NC, SC, TN and Florida which is the real south, not the fake south like Texas.

Why would I travel to some place new and want everything to be just like the place I had left? If you travel to France, do you spend most of your time trying to find a McDonalds?  OK, maybe that's a bad example. Come to think of it, I might just have a hankerin' to find a McDonalds once I got tired of all the fried snails and under-cooked frog legs and such. 

But back to me and my California surroundin's. Just think about it, I know what southern food tastes like, for gosh sakes. It's what I grew up eatin'. I don't need to go to some high-priced replica of a southern restaurant in the middle of San Franciso to see what that's all about.  Chances are pretty good that whatever poor excuse for southern cookin' you're gonna serve me is not going to be as good as the fried chicken made from my own Momma's little ole cast iron skillet. Fried chicken is something best not tampered with by people who just don't know any better, especially if they aren't serving boiled peanuts as an appetizer.

If you want to try some fancy experimenting with brussel sprouts,  y'all go right ahead and knock yerself out.