Sep 16 2014
by Natasha Murphy
Natasha Murphy View More Blog Posts from this Author
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What is my first peanut memory? My dad stopping along the side of a Georgia road whenever he saw a beaten up pickup truck sporting a worn cardboard sign, with fading PEANUTS scrawled on it. The farmer, a John Deere hat shading half his face, usually wore hand-me-down Liberty overalls. Sometimes it took six hours to reach my grandmother’s house in Talking Rock, Georgia–usually a four-hour trip on the back roads. Bags and bags of boiled peanuts. My dad grabbed and gobbled with all the distraction of a texting teenager. Talk about swerve-drive on mountain roads. Boiled peanuts? That non-entices my taste as much as boiled okra. Does that kick me out of the South?