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By Deb Barshafsky:
It was 1976. My hair was below my waist. I sported teardrop-shaped wire frame glasses. My favorite outfit was a pair of flowered bell-bottoms and a T-shirt that read, “I am delicious.” Painful, I know. You ought to see the pictures. My family had just moved to Georgia. The nation was celebrating the bicentennial. We were a few months shy of the election of one of Georgia’s own sons, James Earl Carter, Jr., as president of the United States. I was twelve – buck toothed, bewildered, and blissfully unaware of how suggestive my favorite shirt actually was. As the child of a northern father and a German mother (apparently also blissfully unaware), I was about to get a crash course in the ways of the only region of the continental United States we had yet to inhabit – the American Southland. My story (and, yes, it is a tale of food) […]