These are a Few of my Favorite Things

Chapter 10: A love letter to fried green tomatoes.

The magical assembly line of happiness. I don't even care he messed up my kitchen.

I have an embarrassing confession. I was in college before I ever saw The Sound of Music. I know that's crazy, considering my love of Julie Andrews knows little bounds. For some reason, the twirling nun singing atop an Austrian mountaintop didn't really blow my skirt up until my roommate Robin sat me down and made me watch it.

A few years ago, I snagged an original vinyl of the movie's score, and I had to resist the urge to burst into a rendition of These Are a Few of My Favorite Things in the middle of the store. It would not have been the most awkward thing I've ever done. While cleaning the office this week, my eyes bounced off the effervescent Ms. Andrews on the cover and I thought to myself, "what are a few of my favorite things?" And suddenly, a light bulb for blog content illuminated my brain. I'm starting on Chapter 10, so be sure to check back for the ultimate Christy countdown.

If a giant meteor was headed to Earth, I would spend my last days eating fried green tomatoes. I know that sounds like an outlandish statement, but honestly folks, is anything better than a fresh summer garden tomato? Yes. A fresh garden fried green tomato.

When I first joined the Fuller family, I noticed they always had a freshly sliced tomato on the table to accompany every meal. My people didn't adopt that practice, although I fondly recall my dad chomping on green onions with many of his meals. Hard pass. I soon became quite the tomato snob.

My favorite year-round variety might be cherry tomatoes, for their teeny size and easy slicing, but there's nothing quite like a fried green tomato. And really, isn't everything better when it's bathed in egg wash, cornmeal, and delectable spices?

A ruddy gentleman down the street from our neighborhood has erected a fuss-free veggie stand in the summer months, offering up a bounty of goodies under his metal carport. I have stopped multiple times this summer to buy a bag of his green tomatoes. I inspect and admire these things like they were Fabergé eggs. Making fried green tomatoes is a serious business.

During our recent chat, he told me he was intent on retiring, but the tomatoes were doing so good this year, despite the blazing heat and Sahara-Esque drought conditions, he might hang on for another year. I hope and pray he does. His tomatoes are magnificent.

These beauties are going to be in my belly shortly.

Last Saturday, my husband uttered a phrase that might be the sexiest in his lexicon. "If I made some fried green tomatoes, would you eat one?"

No. I will eat 100. And I will immediately regret it.

Since January, I have undergone a major life change, which puts serious restrictions on my dietary routine. I can no longer have pasta, rice, or bread. Sugar is the enemy, and considering the hot love affair we've had for the last 39 1/2 years, I was surprised I could go without that evil seductress tempting me daily. Per my nutritionist and my team guiding me through this process, all fried foods should be persona non grata. "But really..." one recently whispered, "an occasional treat is perfectly fine since you're doing so well."

Call me Donna Meagle, because a fried green tomato is my idea of a TREAT YO SELF-indulgence.

The adorable husband set up his assembly line of goods, and I took a seat at the bar to watch his impressive short order cook skills, with an occasional sneak to the front line to take pictures and tell him how smart and attractive he is for feeding me.

You should see it when he's suspended from the ceiling wearing a cape.

Once the first batch was scooped out of the bubbling oil, he plated and served me one, with those familiar silky tendrils of steam climbing upward.

I sank my fork into the crunchy goodness, bit down, and oh my heavens gracious. I closed my eyes and moaned incredibly inappropriately. Nirvana. I repeated my accolades to the chef. He is a magnificent human being.

At that moment, I offered my only minor suggestion, careful not to offend the Michelangelo of cornmeal.

A few months ago, a friend of mine was embarking on a mission trip to Hungary, the motherland of my dad's people. I asked if he would be willing to get some authentic Hungarian paprika, as my dad uses it practically like table salt.

He and his lovely wife not only graciously agreed to get us some paprika, they asked their mission host what was the best brand, and promptly cleaned out a small bodega near their hotel. Classic! I reserved one small package for myself, but gave the bounty to my dad, knowing it would supply him for about a month.

I wondered aloud what a little Hungarian paprika would do to this already incredible dish. He didn't hesitate. He scoured the spice pantry and ripped open the package, adding it immediately to the cornmeal and other collection of spices.

When he placed the newly-minted culinary creation in front of me, I might have reenacted the deli scene from When Harry Met Sally, at least momentarily. Only I wasn't faking. It was legitimately that delicious.

I had three slices before throwing in the towel, rubbing my belly in post-Thanksgiving dinner appreciation. I totally won the husband lottery. Luckily for me, his hard work netted several days of leftovers, which I can attest were just as delicious the second and third days I enjoyed a single slice with my boring high-protein, low cal meals. All in all, it was a fantastic way to spend a Saturday afternoon, with the orchestra of bubbling oil and a menagerie of cornmeal and spices filling the air.

A fall girl at heart, I love all things pumpkins, crispy leaves, and cozy sweaters. But this time a year is always just slightly bittersweet. I know it will be at least six months before I can sink my teeth into another glorious fried green tomato. Until then, I can close my eyes and remember every delicious bite.

Thanks for reading!

~Christy