Janis Owens

I’ve always told my children that good things come to those who wait, and for you impatient Crackers who have been waiting for the premiere of the The Great Southern Cracker Roadshow, your day has finally come. The Roadshow premiers Friday night, February 5, at 7 pm at the Flagler Auditorium in downtown St. Augustine, when me and my partner in Cracker Crime, Dana Ste. Claire, take the stage for a rip-roaring, banjo-strumming, whip-cracking evening celebrating all thangs Cracker. You’ll be serenaded by live bluegrass music from the Dunehoppers; joined by Dr. Dewey Cheetum’s traveling snake oil show; and learned in the art of whip cracking by champion Cracker whip cracker, Christopher Moore. From my cornbread kitchen, I’ll navigate the unusual world of Cracker cuisine, from road kill to Lane Cake. Dana, who is the state expert in all things cracker, will set the record straight on what makes a Cracker a Cracker, and offer a little straight history on this rogue and tenacious breed of Southern pioneer.

We’re bringing the Roadshow to life as part of Discover First America: Legacies of La Florida—the 450^th Commemoration Commission’s free seven-part series. The show is the fifth in the Discover First America series that offers entertaining programs on St. Augustine’s role as the foundation for historical and cultural development of the United States. Doors open at 6 p.m. for a Cracker Gizmos & Gadget Show, author book signings and sales. All is part of the 450^th Commemorative celebration of the Spanish landing in Florida, away back on September 8, 1565, when Spanish Admiral Pedro Menéndez de Avilés founded the Presidio of San Agustin. Almost four and a half centuries later, the city lives on as an historic testament to exploration, battles, and settlement in North America. Led by the 450^th Commemorative Commission, the 2 ½-year celebration will celebrate the multi-cultural history of St. Augustine with an unprecedented series of signature events, festivals, programs, and historical exhibits. The celebration will kick off in 2013 with a celebration of the 500^th anniversary of the April 2, 1513, landing of Juan Ponce de Leon.

We Crackers are naturally as happy as a mule chewing briars at the opportunity to brag, sang and maybe dance a lick or two in celebration of our part in St. Augustine’s long history. We guarantee you’ll leave humming, hungry and proud to be part of such an upstanding species. For more information, call Jamie at 904 209 4226. 

I seem to have left people hanging about Mama’s condition after her hip break last week. I am happy to report that she is as spry as any 83-year-old with a broken hip can be, all things considered. She’ll be in a rehab center for a couple of weeks, tops, and likes afternoon PT, which is lower body, but finds upper body PT – a series of basic movements, like folding afghans and putting little clothespins in holes – an insult to her intelligence. She finally rebelled yesterday and neither the therapists nor daddy could talk her into folding anymore afghans. I told daddy not to worry – her hard-headedness was a sign that she was returning to normal. She is also not fond of the food, which daddy admits, “Ain’t the best eating food on earth.”

I wanted to capture a little more of the magic of Girlfriend’s Weekend in Jefferson, and post a few pictures of the madness. Here is a shot of me at the Barbie Ball, dressed as the Alpha Bitch Barbie – a title that came to me spontaneously as I watched the other authors identify themselves. I told them I’d be a judge the next night at the Wizard of Oz Ball and if they didn’t vote for me, I wouldn’t forget. Behind me is the Queen herself, Kathy Patrick, dressed as Tippy Hedrin, the woman who gets her eyes pecked out in The Birds (note birds on hat.)

If you’re wondering if we partied all the time, the answer is no, we did have moments of reflection and talked books. My panel was with fellow cracker Lauretta Hammon, author of The Cracker Queen, a hilarious memoir of growing up Cracker. She is a Georgia Cracker, which accounts for the title of her book, and absurd pretense that she is the real Queen of the Crackers (grand-duchess, sure. Queen, no.) I wasted no time squashing her hubris by out-crackering her. She tried to play the po card on me but nobody can out out-po this Cracker. To really nail it, I brought up daddy’s fingers and of course, she threw in the towel. Faulkner himself couldn’t beat daddy’s old fangers. 

Next to Lauretta is Mary Kay Andrews, best-seller and sister southerner. She allowed me and Lauretta great leeway in hogging the panel with our Cracker Alpha battle. She also suggested a really brilliant excuse when I bowed out of an afternoon session and went back to my room to eat cookies and take a nap (“Tell them you get migraines and can feel one coming on – need to take a pill and lay down before it gets worse.”) I really shouldn’t share it so shamelessly, as I’m sure I will have opportunity to use it again. Just off the top of my head, here is list of other writer friends who were there (and I apologize in advance for everyone I forget): Ad Hudler, Kathryn Casey, Shelly Rushing Tomlison, Jenny Gardiner; Kerry Madden, whose latest release is Up Close: Harper Lee; River Jordan, a humble West Floridian by birth, who is now a big shot in Nashville – or so her mother tells people in Vernon :), Patti Henry Callahan, who is a great southern writer, but annoyingly skinny for a Cracker, Jamie Ford (great new book: On the Corner of Bitter and Sweet.) Also, Hester Bass, author of The Secret World of Walter Anderson. Hester serenaded the Queens on two occasions – no rehearsal, just took the mike and made up a song and sang to them. I call that a versatile author.  Last but not least, Robert Leleux, who has a memoir about growing up with a Mama as - um, what is the word? Let’s say, as challenging and inspiring, as mine. The book is Memoir of a Beautiful Boy and is the best and brightest thing I’ve read in a month of Sundays. It really carried me through a trying week; made me laugh aloud and quote so much of it to Wendel that he said he didn’t have to read it; I’d given it all way. The part about Robert’s unhappy interlude as the glazer at a ham restaurant is nothing short of genius. (Note: me and Robert & Lauretta will be at the Savannah Book Festival February 5-6. If you’re over our way, come and see us.)

My pal Pat Conroy was also there, dazzling the Queens and raising my relative value as a supper companion a few notches since I was a member of The Entourage, along with his daughter Melissa, artist and author of Poppy’s Pants. Pat held up well under the undimmed adulation of an entire Texas town. We went to Kathy’s bookstore, Beauty and the Book, on Saturday afternoon, and were supposed to take PR shots, but he got distracted by the books, and these are about as good as the pictures got.

He was there to give out the Doug Marlette Award, which went to the saint of American lit, Mary Gay Shipley, of Blytheville Arkansas. Mary Gay is of Katie B stature in my book, which is about as high a compliment as I can give a woman. She and her friend Liz Smith – another Arkansas gal – were part of the Entourage. Richard and Shirley – owners of the House of Seasons, were so gracious to all of us (fresh fruit every morning, gourmet breakfasts; baked goods by my bedside) that we didn’t want to leave. 

The Queens managed to fit two parties and a formal supper into three days. A few of us author cooks took over the kitchen of the Excelsior Hotel, and for supper we had CocaCola ham, Asian salad, corn cassarole, crawfish gumbo (courtesy of Lynn Fredrickson, author of Specialties of the House), and blonde chili (by Debbie Thorton, from Any Blonde Can Cook.) For dessert, Debbie (who is, like Patti, alarmingly skinny for someone who claims to be a Southerner) made a chocolate cake, and Queen Kay Brookshire, and her fabulous daughter Jeanne, make a modest little dish called (brace yourselves) Krispy Kream Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce. Here it is, slightly tweaked (I added pecans, not raisins) but basically intact. It is the real thang - as Daddy would say, good eating food.

Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce

1 dozen Krispy Kreme Doughnuts

1 large can sweetened condensed milk

1 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp salt

2 eggs, beaten

1 cup chopped pecans

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

2. Spray non-stick spray on 9 x 13 inch pan.

3. Cube donuts in large bowl.

4. Mix condensed milk, cinnamon, salt and eggs.

5. Pour over doughnuts and toss, then let sit for five or ten minutes.

6. Place in prepared pan and top with rum sauce, then sprinkle with chopped pecans.

7. Bake for 30 minutes.

Rum Topping

 ¼ cup rum (or if you’re Baptist, 1 tablespoon rum flavoring)

1/4 butter, melted

2 cups powdered sugar

1. In a small bowl, beat all ingredients till smooth.

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While I was out partying with the Pulpwood Queens, two separate tragedies befell the old Cracker Clan, one more fatal than the other. On Saturday night, Daddy called me in Texas with the news that Mama had fallen in the kitchen while trying to reach high cabinet over the stove, and had broken her hip. He called me the night of the Barbie Party, and our conversation went something like this:

 “Jan! I called you twenty times! Where ARE you?”

“Texas, Daddy.”

“TEXAS? Well what’s that racket?”

“I’m at a party.”

“A PARTY?”

And so on and so forth. Later in the evening, my brother Jay called and we had the same, identical conversation. I immediately understood that breaking one of her major joints was Mama’s way of getting me out of the clutches of the Texas Queens and back to Florida where I belonged. I hastened back and found her happy as a clam on the orthopedic ward at Monroe Regional, cruising on Percocet and feeling no pain. She’d already had the hip replaced, and was far along the road to recovery. Every nurse, orderly, or dietitian who came within a block of her bed was introduced to Jan, the Writer. With every introduction, my fame and PR grew. To hear Mama talk, I’ve plastered the NY Times bestseller list for forty years, and have a few Nobel Prizes under my belt. Such are the pleasant myths of Mama-World.

Yesterday was my thirtieth wedding anniversary and Mr. Wendel bought me diamond earrings, from a pawn shop owned by a cousin of a guy he works with. I can’t tell you how much satisfaction it gives me to have diamonds (good ones, too) from a pawn shop. It is so Cracker. Such a gesture says:  “Yes, we know quality, and we’re smart enough to do it cheap.” Mr. Wendel’s presents can sometimes fall a little short of genius, and we were both pleased that after thirty years, he’s beginning to get it right.

I wish I could end on that, but just on the heels of the glorious diamonds came the news that my dearly loved cousin Michael Floyd died of an aneurysm. For those of you familiar with my family oeuvre, Michael is my millionaire cousin, who was born on the West End of Marianna and went on to great success in marketing and advertising and preaching on the side. He was such a startlingly alive personality that it really is difficult to encapsulate his essence in one mortal blog. He was larger than life in every aspect, and probably the most generous human being who ever walked the earth. He had the faith of Father Abraham and was quick to remind me that my success stemmed not just from my own labors, but the blessings left to me by my grandmother (his Aunt Eula) just as his own success was built on the faithfulness of Aunt Izzy. He said it sincerely as Michael was a man who not only acknowledged the world of the Unseen, but lived his life accordingly. I am proud to have him as one of the Great Cloud of Witnesses who accompany me on my own journey to my True Home. Michael always understood me on earth. He will understand me more so in heaven. Maybe he’ll even forgive me “all thet cussing” in my books (his single, only criticism of my fiction, bless him.)

Oh Michael: how much we loved you. You were the kindest Rich Man the West End ever bore. Go with God, my love. One day I will see you again.

There are some things even a Cracker couldn’t make up, among them, the fact that the largest meeting and discussing book club on earth sprung from a beauty shop in tiny Jefferson, Texas (just north of Marshall; on the Louisiana/Arkansas line.) The creator of this particular piece of Cracker genius is one Kathy Patrick, a Jefferson beautician, who went to a book club years ago, but wasn’t invited to join. She decided that she’d create a club where anyone could be a member, and the Pulpwood Queens were born. Being Texans, they miss no opportunity to tease their hair and dance (and honey: they can dance) and this weekend they have the biggest dance of all: the Big Hair Ball at the Girlfriends Weekend. I’ll be there with too many writer friends to name – go to Kathy’s site (link to the right, at beautyandthebook.com) and read the BIG SHOUTING NAMES. She has snagged some Big Fish this year, and I expect there are billboards plastered with the news from Waco to Texarkana. I’ll be cooking Thursday night and speaking mid-day on Friday, and around and about the rest of the weekend.

If you happen close to Jefferson, come and find me and I’ll try to squeeze you in the entourage. I think they’re booked solid, but Texans know all about squeezing friends and free-loading relatives in the back door.  

My Arkansas pal, Judy, made the cheese grits from CRACKER KITCHEN for her Christmas Brunch feed, and was good enough to snap a picture before they dug in. Look at them grits: even three days after Christmas, they put me in the holiday spirit.

   And here is the thing with grits: they stay with you. A bowl will hold you till supper. They really are a fortifying grain. And, of course, nothing says love like cheese grits. Pork chops come close, but for my money, grits are the ultimate love feast. They’re not just for breakfast anymore.