BY DAWN REED

The difference between a Northern cook and a Southern one is often revealed during the holidays.

I married a man from the South. He was living in Sidney at the time, but he had roots in Georgia and Florida. He came from a place of black-eyed peas, savory ham, and cornbread dressing – where a “pigtail in the beans” literally meant the tail of a pig in the beans. (I know because I fished it out once at a family reunion.)

I hail from Toler and spent most of my growing-up years in Jerry Bottom of Huddy. Though I didn’t realize it, we were not Southerners. 

Around 1990, our little family began the tradition of going south at Thanksgiving. My mother-in-law, Carol, born in Enigma, Ga., had returned to the U.S. after living in Germany. She landed in Madison, Ala., and planted good roots. She met and married her soulmate, Charles Bradley. They both worked at Hughes Hardware and made their home on James Madison Drive.

The day before the holiday, we packed the car and kids, making the eight-hour trip one way. My beloved and I also loaded up on No Doze to stay awake. No matter the time, his mom always waited up for us. 

The smells when we arrived there in the middle of the night seeped all the way into our bone marrow. (We still talk about it.) The ham was already baking and always ginormous. It looked like she had just cut the legs off the pig. We could almost taste the pineapple she had lovingly placed all over it.