At an Italian train station: four Southerners, one bee, and an unexpected sting

When they believe no one is watching, Southerners, like any other species, are apt to run away from home now and then. Case in point: On a recent trip to Italy, I met three other Southerners at a train station platform. The encounter began with a ham sandwich, an oddly shaped Coke can, and a determined bee and it ended with an unexpected sting.

But first, a little backstory.

On the trail from Monterosso to Vernazza

There's a lengthy hiking trail that connects all five Cinque Terre towns on Italy's Ligurian coast. It's an extremely challenging trek from the towns of Monterosso to Vernazza and from Vernazza to Corniglia; the rest is easier (or so I'm told). Between Monterosso and Corniglia, which is the part of the trail I hiked, you climb up and up and up along narrow, rocky, steep trails.

Along the way, you dodge the determined 'pole people'--the no-nonsense types who dash along the trail with their walking sticks as if fleeing a burning building. If you're walking on the outside of the trail and make a false move, one of two things is likely to happen: You tumble down many feet and break something or you are impaled on a cactus the size of a Cadillac.

The steps go up, up, up

Why would anyone hike this trail? The views (and the cardio workout). The scenery is in every sense of the word 'breathtaking,' because you're out of breath when you stop to look at the distant hillside villages, the beautiful and clear sea, the passing boats, the cloudless blue sky, the vineyards climbing up the hills, the churches, the charming old houses, and I could go on but you get the picture.

After over four hours of hiking the trail, I arrived in Corniglia, drenched in sweat on this hot late-summer day. The trail from Corniglia to the next Cinque Terre town was closed due to a landslide, making my ambition of hiking the entire trail impossible (thankfully). So I decided to catch a train from Corniglia back to Monterosso, where Nick (my spouse) and I were staying.

The next train didn't leave for nearly an hour. Insanely hungry, I grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich (even at a train station, the food in Italy is delicious) and a can of Coke. Unlike the Coke cans we get in the U.S., this one was long and slender; elegant, in fact. I found the platform from which my train would depart and situated myself in a shady spot on the platform. Immediately, a large bee appeared, swarming around my sandwich, my Coke, my entire body.

"Stand still, I'll get him!," said an African-American woman of about 70, who had been standing nearby with two companions, another African-American woman and a Caucasian lady (their race is relevant to the story, I promise). Before I had much chance to react, she swatted at the bee several times with a curled-up map, smacking me on the leg and rear in the process.

"Leave that poor man alone!" said one of her two traveling companions, who was probably in her 40s and was also an African-American woman. "You'd like to kill him tryin' to kill that bee!"

I borrowed the first woman's map and, with some effort, rid the world of this particular bee. (I know: Bad karma. But when you're starving and can't eat because of a bee, you do what's necessary.) When the commotion was over, I turned to the first woman, my fearless swatter. "Where are y'all from?," I asked, having noticed their Southern accents.

"Alabama," said the swatter, who identified herself as Margaret. All three of the women were from Alabama, in fact. Once I told them I'm originally from North Carolina, the conversation kicked into high gear. We chatted about this and that for the next 20 minutes or so.

Margaret was so enamored of my Coke can that, to thank her for defending me and my sandwich against the bee, I went back to the snack stand and bought her one. She was thrilled. "I'm keepin' this as a souvenir!" she said.

Maybe I shouldn't say this, but I was extremely pleased to see three people from the Deep South in their mid 40s and older of mixed races traveling abroad together. It felt like yet another encouraging sign that there has been true, lasting progress.

And then, at one point during the conversation, Margaret turned to me and asked, "Do you have a wife?"

Her friend, Sandy, immediately scolded her. "Don't be gettin' all up in this man's business!," she said.

Not wanting to tread into the choppy waters of same-sex marriage, I said simply, "I have a partner."

Margaret studied me closely for a few seconds. "Mmm hmm," she said, with an ever-so-slight but unmistakable tone of disapproval. "I know what that means."

At last the train arrived, and it was as crowded as any Manhattan subway car during rush hour. We squeezed onto the train together, but the conversation was mostly over. When the train arrived at their stop, I said goodbye and wished them a fantastic time in Italy.

"Same to you," the others said. It might have been the crush of people or the hot chaos of the Italian train, but I don't believe Margaret had anything more to say to me. They hastily departed, the train pulled away, and I went on to meet Nick, have a Campari and orange juice, and enjoy a delicious dunk in the clear, calm sea.

I'm grateful that as a culture, we've come so far in welcoming people different from ourselves into our lives. But no matter where you come from or where you travel, the journey isn't over.

Why I love Tennessee Williams' stage directions -- and Elizabeth Taylor, too

In his many plays, Tennessee Williams often wrote stage directions that bordered on philosophical, maybe even existential. Whereas most playwrights would simply write a stage direction such as, "Brick slams down another Kentucky bourbon," Tennessee would often wax poetic.

Case in point are the following stage directions from Act Two of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (which I recently reread for the 5,432th time):

"Some mystery should be left in the revelation of character in a play, just as a great deal of mystery is always left in the revelation of character in life, even in one's own character to himself. This does not absolve the playwright of his duty to observe and probe as clearly and deeply as he legitimately can; but it should steer him away from "pat" conclusions, facile definitions which make a play just a play, not a snare for the truth of human experience."

I like to imagine some fledgling community theater director, scratching his or her head, wondering exactly how to depict those particular stage directions? But really, these are instructions not so much for directors but for anyone in general and aspiring playwrights in particular (the ranks of whom I have recently joined).

Speaking of Cat, I recently watched a 1976 TV version starring Laurence Olivier (hamming it up as Big Daddy), Robert Wagner (as Brick), and Natalie Wood (as Maggie the Cat). Wagner and Wood were much better than I expected, and the TV adaptation is at least truer to the original source than the famously bowdlerized 1958 movie. That said, Wood was no Elizabeth Taylor, who played Maggie in the movie. While Wood and Taylor were both gorgeous, the latter possessed more 'steeliness,' which is vital to the character. (Maggie the Cat is basically a female variation on the Marlon Brando character in A Streetcar Named Desire.) For instance, in the 1958 movie, a "no-neck monster" throws ice cream on Taylor. Rest assured that if, in real life, you had thrown ice cream on Elizabeth Taylor, you would not have lived to see sundown.

The best new restaurant in America is in Charleston

Bon Appetit recently announced "The Best New Restaurants in America in 2011," and its no. 1 choice is Husk, on Queen Street in Charleston.


Of course, such best-of lists are highly subjective and easily contradicted. Even so, I invite you to sit down, take a deep breath, and digest Bon Appetit's description of dining at Husk: "A meal at Husk begins with buttermilk dinner rolls sprinkled with benne seeds (a.k.a. sesame seeds). You know how people tell you not to fill up on bread? When you're at Husk, you can ignore them. After that it's on to wood-fired clams with Benton's sausage, crispy pig's-ear lettuce wraps, and country ham-flecked pimiento cheese on heirloom-wheat crackers. And do not leave without trying the smoky fried chicken skins served with hot sauce and honey."


Honey, you had me at "buttermilk rolls sprinkled with benne seeds." And the country ham-flecked pimiento cheese on heirloom-wheat crackers sounds no less addictive than tobacco itself. So on my next trip to Charleston, I'm going to have to squeeze in a trip to Husk, along with Jestine's Kitchen (and the Coca-Cola cake), 82 Queen (still love their she-crab soup and fried green tomatoes), and all the other restaurants I love in one of my favorite cities in the world.


While I'm on the subject of country ham, Nick and I had Sunday brunch at 2223 in San Francisco not long ago. We've been going there for years, mostly for dinner; it's one of our favorite SF restaurants. On the brunch menu was an egg dish that came with a home-made biscuit and what their chef had the impudence to call "country ham." 


No. 1: The biscuit had never been properly introduced to butter and was, as a result, as dry as a 40-year-old crouton. 


No. 2: As for the ham, well, if you don't long to gulp down a pitcher of water (or sweetened tea) almost immediately after eating it, it ain't country ham. I went the rest of the afternoon with barely a thought given to liquid refreshment. Perhaps 2223 should call their version "city ham"?

What to do when a monkey snatches off your wig

Tallulah Bankhead remains one of my Southern heroines. Alabama-born and bourbon-infused, she conquered the London stage in the 1920s, made a dozen bad movies and one great film (Hitchcock's Lifeboat), and in general did as she damn well pleased, which, toward the end of her life, included emerging from an oxygen tent whenever she felt like smoking.

In the early 1920s, she was cast in a costume drama in London, Conchita. It was her first starring role. On opening night, Tallulah, improbably playing a Cuban heroine in a black wig, entered dramatically carrying a monkey. The monkey, apparently not a Tallulah fan, promptly snatched off her wig (exposing Tallulah's blonde bob), ran down to the footlights, and waved the wig about. The audience tittered. Tallulah's response? Despite the fact that this was supposed to be a serious drama, she turned a cartwheel. The audience roared, and the legend of Tallulah kicked into high gear.

I see several valuable life lessons in this story.

1. Never appear on stage with a monkey unless you're prepared to upstage your simian co-star.

2. Never take yourself too seriously.

3. When the unexpected occurs, go with it; don't fight it.

4. When it looks like the joke's on you, turn the tables and do whatever you can to turn it into your joke.

For instance, an old friend of mine once tripped on a staircase in a fancy Atlanta restaurant and tumbled down six or seven steps. The restaurant went silent. He got up, dusted himself off, and said to the restaurant's patrons, "I hope you enjoyed my impersonation of a slinky." They did; he received a round of applause.

I've experienced my share of highly public gaffes as well.

One of worst faux pas occurred on the morning of my first day at a new job in Atlanta. I went to the office building's elegant cafeteria for breakfast. Back then I rarely ate before noon and didn't know what to order. A hefty, friendly African-American woman behind the counter guided me through the choices, with the patience of a mother teaching her child how to walk. Overwhelmed, I went with a bottle of Coke and a hardboiled egg. (I was in my mid 20s, what can I say?)

I didn't want to eat the egg cold, so I microwaved it for 30 seconds. Still cold, I gave it another 30 seconds, and then another, and by now you probably can guess where this is heading but I had no clue. Confounded that my egg stubbornly refused to warm, I decided to test it with a fork.

The explosion shocked the crowded cafeteria into stunned silence.

All eyes were upon me. There were bits of egg in my hair, on my face, on my clothes. I glanced around to survey the damage. I saw bits of egg floating in a woman's coffee cup. The face of then-President Reagan, in a front page newspaper photo, was covered in egg.

"Talk about having egg on your face," I said to the crowd, and laughed. I thought the whole scene was hilarious and still do, but the only other person who laughed was the woman who had served me the egg. As I left the cafeteria to do some grooming in the bathroom, she caught my eye and put her hands together in silent applause.

I'll close where I stared: with Tallulah. A friend of mine and a fellow Southerner living in San Francisco, David, whom we've nicknamed The Sorcerer, is another Tallulah admirer. He and I have coined a phrase to describe the actress's bravado, wit, deep Southern style and wacky lifestyle: Tallunacy. So the next time you find yourself in a potentially embarrassing situation, whether it's on stage or in the shopping mall or in a crowded Chick-fil-A, turn the situation to your favor with a little Tallunacy. Instead of slinking away red-faced, you might receive a round of applause.

The Waffle House Index, or how to use a comfort-food chain to measure discomfort

You've got your Dow Jones Industrial stock index, your NASDAQ index, and now, you've got your Waffle House Index. 

Today's Wall Street Journal ran a front-page piece quoting FEMA administrator Craig Fugate about how to gauge the impact of a hurricane or other natural disaster on a community. Fugate calls it the 'Waffle House Index,' and it works like this, according to the Journal:

"Green means the (Waffle House) restaurant is serving a full menu, a signal that damage in an area is limited and the lights are on. Yellow means a limited menu, indicating power from a generator, at best, and low food supplies. Red means the restaurant is closed, a sign of severe damage in the area or unsafe conditions."

I love it: This must be the first time a comfort-food chain has been used to measure a local community's discomfort.

The story goes on to report that the suburban Atlanta-based restaurant chain "spends almost nothing on advertising" but "has built a marketing strategy around the goodwill gained from being open when customers are most desperate."

For example, the morning after Hurricane Irene rolled through Weldon, N.C., "the local Waffle House, still without electricity, was cooking up scrambled eggs and sausage biscuits." Said a local patron: "I hadn't had a hot meal in two days, and I knew they'd be open."

True confession time: I've never been a big Waffle House fan. Where I grew up, in Greensboro, N.C., we had Jan's House, which my father loved and I believe is now closed; Your House, which is still open 24-7; and the Toddle House, another all-night waffle house style restaurant that is apparently history. I loved the name, "Toddle House." It conjured images of happily overserved patrons 'toddling' out, woozy from too many waffles.

But my indifference to the Waffle House has now changed. How can you not love a business that works overtime to serve its customers in their time of need and doesn't gauge them in the process? (I checked he prices on the limited menus they offered customers after Irene; $1.40 for a sausage-and-egg biscuit hardly qualifies as price gauging.) 

Did I mention that the Waffle House is a Southern chain? (There's that Southern hospitality thing again.) And for the record, as soon I read about FEMA's Craig Fugate "Waffle House Index," I knew he was from the South. I Googled him; he's from Gainesville, Florida. There's something in the Southern soul that lends itself to making observations like Fugate's that are both down-home simple and witty at the same time. 

Has a hurricane ever hit the West Coast? (The answer may surprise you)

Last week, the East Coast endured both a 5.8 earthquake (and its aftershocks) and Hurricane Irene. This week, the locusts are scheduled to descend.

I'm grateful Irene wasn't quite as bad as many had feared. But the occurrence of both events last week left me wondering: Has the quake-prone West Coast ever been hit with a hurricane or a similar storm of its magnitude?

After some Googling, I discovered the answer is: kinda sorta. There was one known tropical storm to hit California in 1939 with 50 mph winds, according to a USA Today article, but that's the closest we've ever come. Remnants of hurricanes and tropical storms formed off the coast of Mexico or elsewhere have sometimes worked their up to the U.S. West Coast. But a direct hit from the likes of Hurricane Irene just doesn't happen here.

Hurricanes do form in the Northwest Pacific Basin. And like hurricanes born in the Atlantic, they move in a west/northwest direction. In the case of the Northwest Pacific, that direction would take a hurricane away from the West Coast, whereas in the Atlantic, a north-by-northwest direction aims hurricanes directly toward land.

The other reason we don't get hurricanes here is that the Pacific Ocean along the U.S. West Coast is way too cold to fuel a big funnel. You know how you get a headache if you drink a Slurpee too fast? Imagine that happening to your entire body when you get into the Pacific Ocean here, even during the height of summer. When I was in Charleston in late June, the Atlantic Ocean temperature at Folly Beach was 85 degrees. According to today's San Francisco Chronicle, the ocean temperature here is 57 degrees today.

The SF skyline is completely invisible this morning from our deck

Because the Pacific is so chilly, there's a virtually permanent fog bank just offshore. When the inland valleys heat up, it often pulls that 'marine layer' into San Francisco. And so, I wake up on a late August morning like today, stare out our window at the fog (see the picture), turn up the heat (yes, I turn the heat on in August), and confront my mixed emotions about that damn marine layer. I despise it because it robs San Franciscans of a true summer, year after year. I miss the simple pleasures of a summer that East Coasters take for granted: swimming in the ocean, dining al fresco at night, to name a few.

But this morning, after Irene has come and gone, I begrudgingly appreciate the fog. In the land of major earthquakes and huge summer wildfires, the fog is a reminder of why we don't have to worry about hurricanes, too.

Oh thank God - Apple's new CEO is a Southerner

As the world reacted to the news of Steve Jobs stepping down as Apple CEO, my thoughts turned to fried chicken.

Tim Cook, the man Steve Jobs chose to succeed him as Apple's CEO, is a Southerner. So it was only natural that I wondered if this meant Apple's company cafeteria will now be serving fried chicken? (Perhaps it already does?)

Cook is an Alabama native. He majored in industrial engineering at Auburn University, is a big Tigers football fan, and claims his office is covered in Auburn memorabilia. He gave the 2010 commencement address at Auburn's graduation ceremony. Cook earned an MBA at Duke University.

It's truly sad to see Jobs, who's had more impact on our lives as CEO than most government leaders could ever hope to achieve, resigning. It's obvious Jobs departed for health reasons. I sincerely hope he grows stronger and, a bit selfishly, I also hope he will continue to enrich our lives in ways we can't imagine (which was always his specialty). But hey, at least we've got a Southerner as CEO at the world's most valuable technology company.

A mint muddler and other essentials for surviving Southern earthquakes

Yesterday's earthquake, with its epicenter in Virginia, rattled window panes and nerves throughout the South as well as that place above the Mason-Dixon line. The quake and its aftershocks surprised a lot of people, but honestly, such seismic events aren't completely unknown in the South.

In the 1970s, somewhere between my pre-pubescent and post-pimple years, I experienced my very first earthquake, and it was in my hometown of Greensboro, N.C. I was taking a shower when, suddenly, the shower glass doors began to tap against each other. I assumed it was one of my sisters trying to scare me yet again (which happened so often, I believed "Boo!" was simply another form of saying hello). I grabbed a towel and ran downstairs as the shaking continued. "Oh law!," my mother exclaimed, as the dishes she had just placed in the dishwasher danced. "Earth tremor, Earth tremor!" I believe her next move was to light a cigarette.

Having lived through that earthquake and several others of greater magnitude in San Francisco, I feel obliged to offer y'all some earthquake survival tips, should there be another "Earth tremor."

1. When the ground shakes, stay inside. You don't want to go outside anyway, what with all the humidity and mosquitoes and no-see-ums.

2. Stay away from glass. Unless there's a cocktail in it. Which raises a question: Is there a mint muddler in your disaster survival kit?

3. Get under a table. Which raises another question: When was the last time anyone actually cleaned down there?

4. Don't try to call anyone afterwards. Cell phone networks will likely be overloaded. A better option is to text your loved ones to tell them you're alright and, if they are out and about anyway, ask them to pick up dinner at Chick-fil-A on their way home.

That's it for now. If I think of any other helpful tips (or any tips that are actually helpful), I'll pass them along. In the meantime, where the heck did I put my mint muddler?

The shocking story of my Sunday in the park with Colonel Sanders

"But really, Colonel, I'm on a diet!"

When I came up with the name of this blog, I decided the subhead should be “Eating fried chicken in the fog, and other tales,” because I liked the image it conjured, a mix of things quintessentially Southern and San Franciscan. I certainly had no intentions of eating fried chicken in the fog, because the only thing I ever intend to do in the fog is flee it.

But this past Sunday morning, I ate fried chicken in the fog. And are you sitting down? It was KFC chicken. And are you still sitting? It wasn’t bad.

Now before you write me off forever as a hopeless hillbilly, allow me to explain.

Nick and I had arranged a Sunday picnic with our good friend Suzanne and her adorable mother, Meg. Because it was a Sunday picnic, Nick decided fried chicken must be consumed. He’d promised to pick up some for Suzanne and Meg, too. We suggested meeting them at McNear’s Beach in San Rafael at 11 a.m. McNear’s is a lovely grassy park on the bay, with a small sandy beach and a pier and palm trees, and it can usually be counted on to be fog free, even when much of the Bay Area is blanketed.

I resisted the fried chicken because, if I may be honest, I weigh about five pounds more than I’d like. So into my Piggly Wiggly cooler bag I packed a leftover grilled chicken Caesar salad from the previous night and one of my last cans of Cheerwine. (Hey, I had to have something fun to eat or drink).

As we headed out of town, we stopped at the Popeye’s on Divisadero Street. It was 10:30, and Nick discovered they didn’t open until 11. So as we continued driving, I called ahead to Andy’s, a grocery store in San Rafael with good home-made prepared foods.

“Do y’all have any fried chicken?” I asked.

The young woman on the other end of the line paused, and I could read her thoughts: “No, Jethro, we don’t do fried chicken and if you want pickled pigs feet, we’re plum out of that too.”

Thwarted, I remembered there was a Whole Foods in San Rafael. In the spirit of research and not wanting to disappoint Suzanne and Meg, I called and, to my surprise, their answer to my “Do y’all have fried chicken?” was “Not today.” Really? Whole Foods sells fried chicken (but not on Sunday)?

In desperation, I remembered San Rafael was also home to a KFC. I called; they were open; we stopped. Nick ordered chicken for himself, Suzanne, and Meg. Strictly out of curiosity, I ordered two wings, crispy. The friendly cashier informed me that for 87 additional cents, I could walk out with a total of four wings and a biscuit.

By the time we arrived at the park, less than about five minutes later, I had already consumed two of my four wings. The biscuit was now in my past, too, and I hurriedly brushed away the tell-tale crumbs from my sweatshirt. My review: While not as succulent or as tasty as Popeye’s, KFC’s crispy wings are not easily dismissed, especially under duress.

Unfortunately, the fog sat heavily over McNear’s that morning as we had our picnic. The wind blew hats off heads and plates off tables. A yellow jacket grew unreasonably interested in my face and I had to run to escape it. Aside from the agreeable company, I began to think this picnic was a mistake. I was trying to diet and I had so many things to do and yet here I was, eating KFC chicken in a cold, foggy, windy park.

McNear's Beach, San Rafael

After a while, I focused my attentions on Meg, Suzanne’s delightful mother. Meg lives in an assisted living facility, yet she has a child’s wonder and observations. She savored the boats on the water, the brave souls paddleboarding on the bay, the kids chasing the geese, the fishermen reeling in their lines on the pier (one caught a small shark and threw it back). Meg is also slightly mischievous. Suzanne said she wouldn’t give Meg any more wine until she finished her cup of water. Naturally, when she thought Suzanne wasn’t looking, Meg dumped the remaining water in her cup on the ground.

At last the sun emerged and the wind calmed down. We went for a walk on the pier. Meg took it all in and was hesitant to leave when it was time. “I’m so glad you shared this wonderful secret place with us!” she exclaimed as I walked beside her. “Thank you!”

“You’re so welcome!” I answered. But I was the one who was grateful—to Meg, for helping me appreciate the moment and the place, and for reminding me that the sun eventually appears. You just have to be patient. 

Riding a streetcar named desire in San Francisco (or intending to)

Everyone knows about San Francisco's cable cars, which, of course, only the tourists ride. But most people outside the Bay Area, when asked under cross examination, would not know about the city's vintage trolley cars.

Nearly 16 years ago, San Francisco began regularly running historic streetcars from various cities around the world along Market Street toward Castro and later, along the Embarcadero waterfront. We have streetcars from the early-mid 20th century hailing from Philadelphia, St. Louis, Kansas City, Chicago, Boston, Milan, and Australia. And yes, the locals ride them.

As with most things from the mid 20th century today, these streetcars are both anachronistic and essential. They operate at a much slower speed than most people today would prefer, but they move you from point A to B with charm and style. Though I hate getting stuck behind one of these streetcars due to their narcoleptic pace, I love to see them swanning down the street.

And wouldn't you know it, we have one of New Orleans' streetcars named Desire. It was built in 1923 and ran for decades in New Orleans until the city no longer needed it and cast it aside (kind of like Blanche DuBois, the heroine of that great Tennessee Williams play A Streetcar Named Desire.) Today the streetcar runs from the Ferry Building to Fisherman's Wharf.

Unfortunately, I've yet to ride this particular streetcar, either during my visits years ago to 'Nawlins' or here in San Francisco. But wouldn't it be fun to rent the streetcar named Desire for a Mardi Gras party? Fill it up with your friends and ride up and down the Embarcadero drinking hurricanes and eating king cake? This being San Francisco, you could even have a drag contest, The Battle of the Blanches.

Imagine my astonishment: Krispy Kreme doughnuts with Cheerwine

After blogging yesterday about both Cheerwine and Krispy Kreme, I discovered something shocking.

When I wasn't looking, the two Carolina brands had secretly spawned the Cheerwine-filled Krispy Kreme doughnut. The doughnut was originally introduced back in June 2010--in a ceremony held at the North Carolina State Capitol. And it was unveiled by none other than Bev Perdue, the governor of North Carolina.

I find myself imagining Gov. Perdue, glancing at her to-do list over her latte on that particular morning and blinking in disbelief at the following:

Things to Do Today
1. Balance state budget.
2. Find jobs for all the former furniture workers and tobacco pickers.
3. Debut a doughnut.

Anyhow, the Cheerwine-flavored Krispy Kreme confection was a limited-run treat sold only in North and South Carolina grocery stores and then resurrected for about one month this past July.

My mind (and to be honest, my stomach) is reeling. What other Southern culinary mashups might be in the works even as I type these words? Could we one day be getting tipsy from mint julep-infused Moon Pies? Is Chick-fil-a scheming to slather pimiento cheese on its fried chicken sandwiches? (Hmm...neither one of those sound half bad, come to think of it.)

Oh dear, almost out of Cheerwine

I'm down to three cans of Cheerwine.

For those who don't know, Cheerwine is a cherry-flavored cola made in North Carolina and not easy to find outside of a few Southern states. (It's kind of like a cherry Dr. Pepper.) Beverages & More in San Francisco was carrying Cheerwine in bottles--the holy grail--but seems to have lost interest. I haven't seen the soft drink there in months.

So on my last visit to Greensboro, N.C. (where I'm from), I shipped two six packs of Cheerwine cans back to my San Francisco address. I've consumed them sparingly, like bottles of water on the desert. And just as I had finished counting my last cans, I thought: Why don't I Google Cheerwine and see if there's a way to have some shipped to me?

Indeed there is. The Cheerwine site will sell me 24 Cheerwine Longneck Bottles for $22. I felt a song coming on--until I saw that the cheapest shipping option was $38.

Oh well. It seems to me the more unobtainable a comfort food/drink is, the more firmly rooted in your hometown it remains, the better it tastes. Case in point: Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

I used to roam the streets of Greensboro during visits home, hoping some Krispy Kreme employee would deign to flip on the 'hot light,' designating that they'd just cranked up the conveyer belt to produce dozens of delectable, warm, sugary circles. Once they started selling Krispy Kreme doughnuts in San Francisco grocery stores, I lost interest immediately.