Now, as faithful readers know, I didn't like living in Nashville very much. For one thing, it was hot and humid. Not only that, it was hot and humid for a really long time. Summer seemed to go on forever. It warmed up around February and didn't back off until almost Halloween. A true Southerner wouldn't really consider February warm as the temperature only heats up to about 70 degrees Fahrenheit or so. But I found it oppressively warm most of the year.

For another, it was the biggest thing for miles around. It was where people from small towns called Upsy Daisy, and Start, and Red Boiling Springs migrated when they wanted to be a part of the bright lights and decadent city ways. It was a lodestone for every wannabe country music performer. It was, in fact, well on its way to being a big city, but unfortunately its reputation was as a small town, and it didn't cope with things like traffic, public transportation, or homelessness very well. Also, there was no good coffee when I first moved there. Naturally, I was kind of bitter about the lack of lattes, being from Seattle and all.

There were a lot of things I found disconcerting about living there. For example, florals never went out of season. My nickname at two different places of employment was "Earth Tone Lucy" on account of my perfectly ordinary, non-patterned selection of black, navy, olive, and beige clothes. I suppose I did look kind of low key among the flowery dresses and yards of lace, but Albert Nippon will never darken my closet door, and as far as I'm concerned no woman over the age of 30 should wear a lace collar on purpose.

There was a touch of cultural schizophrenia. Nashville had a ballet company, and a yearly steeplechase, and some fancy dress balls to raise money for charity, but let me tell you, when those patrons of the arts got home from the opening of Rigoletto they slipped into their fatigue shorts, cracked open a Bud, and watched bass fishing on the tube. On two channels if they wanted. I know this for a fact about the two bass fishing channels.

The weirdest difference was the fare at company picnics and potlucks. There are certain dishes that are apparently mandated by law to appear at potlucks in vast quantities. No one would dream of having a picnic without a tasty mess of twice-cooked green beans with bacon, macaroni and cheese (made with Velveeta, also mandated by law), and chess pie. If you've never experienced any of these dishes cooked the Southern way, you just haven't lived, my friends. Your arteries will never be the same again. Here's how to recreate some of that yummy bounty in your own home.

First, you take your fresh-shucked green beans, preferably homegrown, but canned will do. Then you boil 'em in water until all the nutritional elements have been fully leached away. Throw the result in a casserole dish and add some mystery sauce to kind of glue them together, and sprinkle chopped bacon on top. Cook in the oven for an hour. Voila, an instant classic. Some people use a ham hock or pig knuckle instead of bacon. It's gotta have a pig product, though. Anything else is just cheating.

Macaroni and cheese made with Velveeta has a special gooey taste that is positively addictive, and leaves a gross kind of film on your teeth afterwards. That's the hallmark of a really good mac and cheese casserole. You'll want to load your plate. And be sure to save room for chess pie, a Southern favorite that is nothing but pure Karo syrup baked in a pie crust. Oo-wee, that's some pie! Make my dentist appointment soon.

So you can count on at least four and probably five of each of these dishes to be proudly displayed among the fried chicken, three-bean salads, biscuits, creamed corn, ham rolls, jello-and-whipped-cream salads, sweet potato pie and turnip greens. I got used to these dishes turning up at the company picnics and holiday parties, and I even got to like some of them (though I went eight entire years without ever once touching turnip greens, thankyewverymuch). I really missed some of the food of my own culture, though.

One November my company made a major tactical error. They chose me to be in charge of the Thanksgiving potluck dinner. "We'll buy the turkey and fixings," they said, "if you'll organize the rest." A gleam came to my eye as I accepted the challenge. Two of the social committee looked as though they were having second thoughts, but I just laid on my sweetest smile and they relaxed.

When the sign-up list went up on my office door, I heard gasps from everyone who looked at it. I had diabolically listed the food categories I wanted represented, and I limited the number of twice-cooked green beans and chess pies to no more than two. I allowed three mac and cheese casseroles as a concession. Nonetheless, I had the major food groups listed in the classic pyramid structure and I insisted on someone bringing fresh vegetables.

"Eew, you mean crunchy stuff?" Deanna reeled in redneck horror. "I ain't gonna eat none of that crunchy stuff." A couple of people were peering over her shoulder looking at their choices and making disgruntled noises.

"I was gonna bring chess pie, but someone's already signed up," Lita complained.

"Tough. Bring something else. Your teeth don't look so good, anyway," I responded unfeelingly. She sniffed, and grudgingly signed up for fruit salad.

By the end of the day I had defiantly added the Sushi Food Group, the Couscous Food Group, the Dim Sum Food Group and, to compromise, the Chocolate Food Group. My office mates were baffled. "This isn't traditional Thanksgiving food," they said plaintively as they stared at the sign-up sheet. "You haven't got deviled eggs on here."

"Nope," I replied with northern sang-froid. "You're going to cook a normal turkey dinner for your family, right? So let's have fun at work! Come on, relax. You'll love it."

About a third of the company thought it was kind of cool to have different stuff. Another third thought it was pretty bogus and clearly planned to bring what they considered appropriate food. The final third didn't express itself to me directly but I'll bet I was a hot topic in the lunchroom for a few days.

On the big day I got up at 6:00 a.m. and started the turkey in my oven. I ran home at noon and wrestled it into a big pan along with a 9x12 pan of homemade bread crumb stuffing, and hauled the whole thing back to work. Just for fun I brought along some tins of baby octopus (Product of Spain) for decoration. I set out everything on the tables and directed the flow of food as everyone began putting out their contributions. Squeals of disgust arose every time someone caught a good look at the octopi. The whole group crowded into the room at last, dressed in their flowery lace-collared best (though not the men), and looked at all the weird food awaiting them while our president said a few words. Then they descended on the feast and ate themselves into a stupor.

"It wasn't so bad after all, was it?" I asked Deanna as I sat down next to her. I noticed a few tentative snowflakes drift past the window and silently thanked whichever supreme being had finally lowered the temperature to normal.

"Naw, it's all pretty good," she said happily as she dug into a heap of pasta salad. "I was kinda worried you were going to bring sushi, though."

"Heck, no," I said, chowing down on curried eggplant and shrimp dumplings. "Why waste good salmon roe on people who think fried catfish is the height of gourmet treats? Besides, all I really wanted was for everyone to have fun with food instead of just bringing the same old thing."

But I noticed that no one touched the starfruit, kiwi and banana pie. Oh well. The War of Northern Aggression wasn't won in a day.

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