Belle Weather (17 page)

A Queen at Last….

There comes a time in every mature Southern woman’s life when she finds herself sitting on a screened porch, a dishpan full of butterbeans waiting to be shelled in her lap, and a gardenia-scented breeze stirring just enough to make her souvenir-of-the-Outer-Banks lighthouse wind chimes go all tinkly-tankly, and she thinks to herself: “It just can’t get any better’n this.”

Simple pleasures are a Southern woman’s divine right. And they can be as simple as pulling a pan of cathead biscuits out of the oven to be served, directly, with turnip greens and chowchow you made with the bell peppers you picked your own self.

I was that simple soul sitting on the screened porch one day, but then the phone rang and everything changed. And that’s when it hit me that sometimes not-so-simple pleasures are equally delicious: I’m going to be a queen, y’all.

Being a queen is the other divine right of every Southern woman and it’s a sin and a shame how few of us actually get to do it.

I’m going to be a QUEEN! And not just any queen but the North Carolina Pecan Harvest Festival Queen!

When the festival organizers called to see if I would be their queen, I had one only one question:

“I won’t have to wear a bathing suit, will I?”

“Oh, Lord no!” said Bill, the chipper festival coordinator.

“Well you don’t have to sound so dang happy about that,” I pouted. I’d been a queen for less than twenty-five seconds and was already a diva, bless my heart.

Bill chuckled. “You can wear one if you want to, but it will be in November so you might get chilly riding on that float.”

A float?!

I’d only ridden on a float one other time in my life and that was just a couple of years ago in a tiny town in east Texas that was having a book festival. From the back of a decorated flatbed truck, we got to toss beads and Starbursts to an underwhelmed January crowd of about forty.

There was a handmade sign on the side of our “float” that said “Assorted Authors” (I know; who wouldn’t want to brave thirty-degree wind chill for “assorted authors”? I felt like we should be wearing those masks of famous literary figures, like Shakespeare or Nathaniel “Hot ’n’ Horny” Hawthorne). A few of the sparsely scattered spectators looked genuinely fearful that we might start conjugating verbs or diagramming sentences or something, but their passion for free beads and candy won out.

But that was just a flatbed truck and I didn’t even have a tiara so, clearly, it wasn’t really a queenly moment.

But this! This was different.

“You’ll be crowned at the luncheon on Friday,” said Bill, reading from some notes he’d made for me before the fateful call.

“Can I keep the tiara?”

“Uh, it says here, ‘If she asks, tell her she cannot keep the tiara.’”

Whoa. My reputation precedes me.

A little while later, while I was still basking in my future queendom, parade organizer Suzanne called to tell me about my ribbon-cutting duties and how I’d get to reign over the pecan cook-off.

I loved the way Suzanne said “pee-can” instead of the haughtier-than-thou “pe-cahn” which, along with the vile “any-ways,” is further evidence that Yankees are ruining our Southernspeak one syllable at a time.

Suzanne then told me that I’d be surrounded by eight teenage girls dressed in antebellum gowns with hoop skirts.

“They will comprise your official Queen’s Court,” she bubbled.

Somebody pinch me; I must be dreamin’.

The use of words like “reign” and “court” were most appealing and I figured that since the pecan belles basically exist to do my bidding, I would instruct them to detail my Taurus while I was in town.

I’m not sure why I was selected to be the North Carolina Pecan Harvest Festival Queen, unless it’s because I make a fairly fabulous pecan pie owing to a perfect mix of light and dark Karo syrup and a crust flakier than Drew Barrymore on
Letterman,
don’tchaknow.

I plan to research proper queenly behavior because I could practically hear Bill wince over the phone when I told him in a subsequent call that I’d done a little research and I was pretty sure that we could “kick Georgia’s ass” in production next year.

Hey, I’ve done my homework. I’m no lightweight queen (especially true after I sample ten kinds of homemade pecan tassies, which I can practically taste right now as I write this). Sure, we’ve produced five million pounds of pecans in a year before, but I think we can do better.

In fact, I’m issuing a royal decree. Yes, unlike poor Kate Middleton, who invested five years of her life trying to be Mrs. Prince William, I’m really going to be royalty.

I realize that it may seem a tad hypocritical of me to embrace my impending queenhood so enthusiastically when I’ve been known to make fun of pageant queens, but this is different y’all. I was not asked to be North Carolina Pecan Harvest Festival Queen (gawd, no matter how many times I write that, it still gives me goosebumps) because of big boobs (heaven knows) or babbling in the interview segment of some contest about how I want to help adults learn to read ’cause, let’s face it, y’all, they really shoulda learned that shit back when they were in school, am I right?

This isn’t a beauty contest; it’s about wisdom and maturity and, possibly, the ability to speak out when Little Miss Tiny Lower Possum Creek and Surrounding Tributaries won’t move her ass out of the way in time for me and my float to get on local TV.

This, I vow and declare, my hons: Although I will be queen for two full days, I won’t let it go to my head.

I will still sit and ponder the simple, perfect moments in life on my screened porch and I will nevah, evah forget all the little people who made my reign possible.

Oh, and I’m keeping the tiara, bitches.

As always, I am deeply grateful to my fabulous agent, Jenny Bent, of Trident Media, and my incredibly talented editor, Jennifer Enderlin, of St. Martin’s Press. Without you two, there would be no new kitchen and I’d be back to writing obits and weddings for a living. Thank-you just doesn’t begin to cover it.

Thanks to my precious husband, Scott Whisnant, whom I’m trying hard not to hate on account of he lost twenty-five pounds this year and I found ’em.

I’m grateful every hour of every day for my sweet daughter Sophie. Darling, you are the very reason I get up in the morning. Well, that and the fact that I really have to pee.

Thanks to Lisa Noecker, who understands what it’s like to be raised at the edge of a cornfield and want more. For all the “idees” you have given me over the years, I should pay you, but, well, I’m still hoping to add a guest bathroom.

Thanks also to David and Tricia Reid of Vicksburg, Mississippi, whose bravery and humor inspire me more than they could possibly know; and to Miss Sarah Saucier, the smartest seventeen-year-old in Louisiana, who already knows to carry a fried chicken purse into the movies. God help me if she ever starts writing books.

Love to family and friends and to everyone who has taken the time to e-mail me with words of support and ideas for books yet to be written. I am honestly humbled by your kindness and generosity.

—CELIA RIVENBARK
Wilmington, North Carolina