Word: okra
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...dinner. In the huge dining room of Maazar Palace in Riyadh, a black-tied maitre d'hôtel supervised waiters in white robes who on this occasion served Q, meal consisting of asparagus soup, fried shrimps with tartar sauce, kebabs with cooked vegetables, a ragout of okra, meat and rice with almonds, chocolate cake, watermelon and fruit. Most of the guests were not from Saudi Arabia's upper class; many appeared to be desert tribesmen. There was no ceremony at the table, and no distinction between rich and poor. A few guests finished quickly and left without...
...from Korea, setting a new arms-sales policy, dismissing Nixon's singular view of a President's power and asking one of his old opponents in the scramble to reach the White House, Scoop Jackson, to come around with his wife and kids that night for quail, okra and a fancy pudding...
...agents are often outwitted. Farmers on the U.S. side of the river sometimes put out empty boxes at sunset. Mexicans swim the river at night, pick okra in the early morning when it is fresh, then swim back home. The farmer returns at midday and, lo, his boxes are full. A Mexican labor manager, who hires the workers, arrives later in the day for his pay. Says Lomblot: "The farmer gets cheap labor, the Mexicans keep from starving, and everybody's happy but the border patrol...
Southern cuisine is an imprecise, ad hoc art that relies largely on instinct (a little of this, a little of that), memory (Mama said "Salt later") and the availability of ingredients (okra, salad greens, fresh shrimp). It is further complicated by the fact that many great Southern cooks have traditionally been black women who spurned the written word or, for that matter, any kind of regulation. The celebrated Mme. Bouligny, one of the last grandes dames of New Orleans society, had a Haitian cook who seasoned her gumbo with a voodoo prayer. "Getting directions from colored cooks," Harriet Ross Colquitt...
...town, promoters and agents would be nervously pinching their digitals. But this is a languid evening in Fort Pierce, Fla., Stewart's home town, and the squeak of a front-porch rocker is music enough for now. Besides, one must rest after a supper of pork chops and okra. Digestion is a ritual, a time for introspective belching. "It stays nice and slow here," Stewart sighs. "Everybody's family. It's the South, and I'll never leave...