You are on page 1of 12
 
9
one
 W 
hen single people pack up to
relocate, they often have a dog. With deliberate caution, they
load cardboard boxes into the car, along with a few framed  wall pictures, a blender, one or two trusty saucepans, and a
tightly rolled sleeping bag. The dog jumps onto the passenger
seat, the driver lowers the window a few inches, and as the car slowly backs out of the driveway, the canine shoves his twitch-
ing nose over the glass. When the car picks up speed, the wind ruffles the dog’s fur and he opens his mouth as if to lap up the
fresh air with his tongue. This animal is as carefree as the day he was born. All he has to do is tilt his head, breathe deeply, and enjoy the ride. No tedious job of consulting the creased road map. No watching road signs. No making conversation. He didn’t earn the title “man’s best friend” due to any special skills in flattery.I, however, do not have a dog. I’m allergic to dog fur and
 
10
ALICE J. WISLER
men who break hearts. I do own a blender—all chefs should,
according to Chef Santiago Bordeaux. Chef B claims that a
blender is the most versatile cooking apparatus. “Cooking apparatus” is what he calls any kitchen device, including a
saucepan. My KitchenAid blender is packed in a box along  with my cake-decorating supplies—all carefully wrapped in
T-shirts to protect them during the trip.
Today I’m leaving Atlanta and all the cooking appara-
tuses I have grown to love in the kitchen at Palacio del Rey. I’m headed to the green area on the map, right there in the
fold—the mountains of North Carolina. But I’m still a Georgia
girl, born and bred.
 As I carry a box of faded dish towels topped with oven
mitts to my Jeep, my Peruvian neighbor, Yolanda, dabs at her glistening brown eyes and reminds me, “You are Georgia girl, Deena. What will you do in Carolina?” To herself she mutters, “No, no sabe. Ay, ay.”I’ve been over this with her before. I’ve already told her the same thing I told my parents who live in Tifton, my pastor
at First Decatur Presbyterian, and my boss, Chef Bordeaux:
“I’m going to live.”
“What do you mean?” they have all asked in some form or another. When he questioned me, Chef B had a ladle in
his fist that he waved wildly, as though he wanted to use it to knock some sense into my head.
I’ve replied, “I’m going to live. I’m going to North Carolina to live!” I wanted to tell them that just because it’s called North
Carolina doesn’t mean it’s a Yankee state. Some consider it as southern as Georgia. I’ve even seen North Carolinians drink sweet tea.I’m going to live. That’s all.

Reward Your Curiosity

Everything you want to read.
Anytime. Anywhere. Any device.
No Commitment. Cancel anytime.
576648e32a3d8b82ca71961b7a986505