Fried

I’m taking a break from post-holiday laziness to report something nearly unbelievable: I cooked last night and did not A) burn the house down or B) poison anyone.

It’s true! I’d been having a strong hankering for real fried okra for a long time, so last night, instead of buying some from Luby’s or wherever, I made a batch! With my bare hands! And ladies and gentlemen, it kicked ass. If you don’t believe me (and really, who could blame you?) just ask my brother. And if you New York readers ask very, very nicely, I may even make some for you when I return.

In other news, a couple of nights ago I saw a different brother’s band play at the Winedale Tavern on Greenville Avenue. Rompe Pecho, I salute you and hope to hear you again soon. If you happen to be in Dallas and don’t mind being in a bar where they allow people to smoke inside, check out this little hole in the wall. The owners are great, the beer is cheap — Oh Shiner, how I’ve missed you — and the patrons are … drunk, mostly, and quite congenial. 

Or, if you prefer a slightly younger crowd, check out the Elbow Room on Gaston Avenue, where I met two of my favorite Dallasites — and two formidable newswomen — after the show. It too is a dirty, smelly little place, but what it lacks in cleanliness it makes up for in character. Plus it has shuffleboard.

And now, readers, I will prolong my break from abject slothfulness and head over to the hot yoga place for 90 minutes of sweaty fun.