From yesterday’s “News of the Weird”:
You so gotta love the south. Makes you wish they really were their own country just so we wouldn’t be associated with people like this. 
Did the killer at least get to enjoy his well-earned sweet-pertater pah before Andy and Barney hauled him off to the pokey?
Coming soon, to a theatre near you…
The emotional drama of a simple man pushed too far over the edge…
Pie Blade, starring Billy Bob Thorton.
“Mmmmmmmm-hmmmmmmm. I reckon’ yu cin make me some sweet’ pertater pah. Mmmmmm-hmmmmm.”
Well, you obviously have never had a really good slice of sweet potato pie… Yumm…
Of course, the true Southern thing to do would have been to slap said offender with your gloves and challenge him to a duel, but hell, if he’s already eating your pie, you may as well kill him.
It’s kind of like in “Men at Work” when either Emilio Estevez trys to take some of his boss’s fries… You just don’t touch a man’s fries, or a southerner’s sweet potato pie!
Skerri, who now has a craving for warm, sweet potato pie…
Dangit… that should say “when Emilio Estevez” not “either”…
Sorry… Not enough coffee this morning makes for a bad afternoon!
You should try living in the south and being associated with that sort of person. We ain’t all like that, folks!
Oh… I live in Montgomery, AL. (Not by choice)… so I know not “all” southeners are like that, but still… over a piece of pie?
Funny stuff Jester, and I’d like a piece right about now too Skerri.
Oh, you are too!
You mean people eat PIE outta sweet potatoes? Euw.
We have a Christmas tradition in my parents’ house of baking a sweet potato and forgetting about it until after dinner. Then, it gets fed to the dog.
I, sir, have eaten sweet potato pie. This subject has come up before in a thread about grits. Sweet potato pie and grits, along with pellagra, are abominations championed (suffered?) by citizens of the former Confederacy. Claims of under cultured pecker woods to the contrary notwithstanding, the best of sweet potato pie has the taste, texture and general appearance of wet cardboard. It is suitable only as feed for the blind hog that can’t find an acorn. To kill a rival for a piece of that God-awful stuff is about as silly as a fight to the finish for the affections of a homely and frigid woman. If it were pumpkin pie, I could understand it.
You have obviously never had my mother’s sweet potato pie. I have it on firm authority that wars have erupted over that sort of thing.
Spav: Hell, I’m a lifelong urban Yankee, and even I know there’s never been a punkin pie baked that hasn’t wished it was a sweet potato pie.
You tell ‘em, Ike! A well-prepared sweet p’tater pie makes even the best punkin’ pie seem shallow and insubstantial in comparison.
Anyone who casts aspersions on such a heavenly creation either has never tried it, has been served a poor substitute, or has particularly ill-formed taste due to some childhood trauma.
The only thing that compares with sweet potato pie is a good pecan pie, or a really good bean pie bought from an old black woman who sells them door to door (along with boiled peanuts).
Boiled Peanuts?!
Oh gawd, it’s been sooooooo lonnnnng…
Noooooooooooo! The jones has awakened!
Gotta find raw peanuts…gotta find raw peanuts…
Pecan pie! Now, there is something to fight for. One of my few regrets about living north of the Ohio-Missouri River line is that pecan trees can’t stand the Northern winter. All we get are poor sad plastic bag pecans. There is a tavern/cafe in Charlottesville, Va., that makes a fudge and pecan pie that would make W.T. Sherman rebuild Atlanta.
In defense of pumpkin pie (really made from squash), in the midst of a howling northern winter, 20 below with a 40 mph wind off the Dakota prairie, it is cold pumpkin pie eaten over the kitchen sink that is the breakfast of champions. It has the sweetness of fresh cream, the bite of old whiskey and lays in the stomach like a twelve pound shot. When the 12th Iowa over ran the breastworks at Vicksburg in was sustained by cold pumpkin pie lovingly prepared by hundreds of gray haired mothers and sent down the Father of Waters from the vast pumpkin warehouse at Davenport by fast steamer. When the moss backs at the State Legislature voted for our ridiculous State Flag it was in the middle of the great pumpkin (squash) blight and their thinking was addled by a pumpkin pie deprivation. When the waters of the Mississippi and the Ceder and the Iowa threaten to inundate this fair and fertile State each spring, it is pumpkin pie that fuels the volunteers and National Guardsmen who man (and woman) the dikes and levees. When thousands of middle-aged nut cases bicycle across the State from the turbid Missouri to the gleaming Mississippi, the true object of their efforts is the attainment of a piece of cold pumpkin pie to go with the sweet corn and pork chops. Pumpkin pie is the pinnacle of the culinary art. Cold and a day old it is even better.
Don’t bother me with sweet potatoes, boy, I’m busy.
I feel your pain, Blue.
It’s been decades for me, too.
The closest I’ve been able to get is those soybean appetizers they serve at sushi restaurants.
But they’re nothing like the warm, juicy, salty goodness of a greasy bag fulla berled peanuts sold by a kindly ole lady who knocked on your door… Mmm, mmm. It ranks among my fondest childhood memories.
Just don’t pronounce it pea-cannn, right? I hear they lynch you for that down there.
Pea-kan is, I think, a Texasism. Civilized folks always pronounce it as pee-con.
You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie there, dan.
When I first moved South, my then father-in-law had offered me some pie once. It looked familiar, so I asked if it was pee-cannn pie.
He put that pie down and said, “Boy? What in hell kind o’ talk is that? It’s pronounced puh-cahn. A pee can is somethun’ ya take in the car on a long trip. Damn Yankee.”
I had sweet potato pie once. I really don’t like pumpkin pie, or sweet potatoes, for that matter, but this tasted like pumpkin pie, only sweeter and more flavorful. Yummy, with really flakey crust!