has nothing do with political scandals or major league baseball ‘round these parts.
I spent three days in Tennessee sipping weak coffee and strong sweet tea, eating piles of barbecued pork that melted in my mouth as easily as the waitress’ sweet Southern twang draped itself over my ears, and looking out across the Smoky Mountains, wondering if this New England girl could ever fit within the confines of Southern expectations.
It wasn’t home. But it was real nice. And I mean reeyal nahhce. Nice enough to make me want to go back someday for a little more of that sugared-up hospitality and tasty, rib-sticking food.
But this is home.
Snowy Sweet Home.