11:15 a.m. - 2002-03-17
Cheese Straws
"You'd never see a cheese straw at a Yankee wedding."
I'm trying to explain to Miss Beth the subtle differences between Northern and Southern weddings. We're at the wedding reception of our friends, Jenn and El, and I've suddenly had won of those hit-me-like-a-ton-of-bricks moments when I realise that, hey Toto! I am not in New England anymore.
Miss Beth is floored. "Ya'll don't have cheese straws?!" She is staring at me as though I have just said we don't drink water. Cheese straws are just about as common at Southern events. Personally I'm not very fond of them. Eating a cheese straw is like eating a Velveeta flavored egg carton. They suck all the moisture out of my mouth, leaving me gagging for a glass of water. Miss Beth loves them.
In fact, most Southerners love them. Everyone has a favorite recipe for them, and they come in all shapes and sizes. Some are twisted, some are braided. Some look like they have been cut out with pinking shears.
Whenever I see a particularly artistic cheese straw I have the urge to start collecting them. I want to display them in shadow boxes on my living room wall.
Jen and El's cheese straws are restrained but elegant - straight and flat but with little textures pressed into the dough. They were lovingly made by a favorite aunt. I did try one, but it had the familiar choking effect.
The cheese straws made me feel far from home. There I was, in a Knights of Columbus Hall, gagging on unfamiliar finger food, watching someone else's family hover around them while mine were so far away. It's strange what feelings unfamiliar food brings up. I would have given anything for a miniature egg salad sandwich or a shrimp-on-a-stick.
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