The Unwritten South: Part 2 (to be revised)

2. Fields (of Fury) (in original version, "of Fury" is crossed out)
I come from an explosive dud that buried itself in a cold French foxhole, beneath the anxiety of its unhurt Army cook who paused from the letter to his beloved in nervous death-preparation.
Tick, tick, click, nothing. Silence, heartbeat, thump, thump-thump-thumpmpmpmp.
Nothing.
The shell immerses itself in soil and disappoints its German dwellers with sterility.
My grandfather never killed a man, so the shell was justified in its roulette of choosing. He trained as a soldier and flourished as a cook—even more, a lover of food. Before and after the war, Papa was a farmer. After his three kids (the youngest, my mom), his farm expanded to hundreds of acres full of corn, tobacco, cows, barns, chickens, pigs, and enough fruits and vegetables to keep my grandmother elbow-deep in preserves, skinned animals, and fresh vegetables.
I always knew my love for cooking would come eventually. It’s a genetic trait of accomplishment in my family—the females never cease to amaze me with southern-style vegetables, perfectly-fried meat, pies like candy, and honest-to-goodness sweet tea.
But that’s about as southern as I get. I disinherited my mother’s multi-syballic “Haaiii-iiii!” and my father’s excessive use of double negatives and incorrect past tense, such as “You ain’t got no sense—I knowed it would happen!”
Then again, I can’t tell if my obsession with hills and fields is Wordsworthian or if I inherited from my own garden-growing father or my farm-tending Papa.
My goals are much different—I want to extend my home to the ironic dry and fertile African culture rather than arrive with the orders to relocate. Papa served in Europe for the Army where I want to serve in Africa for the Peace Corps.
I’ve been to Europe, I’ve walked the centuries-old cobblestone streets of Belgium and I’ve seen the waterways of Bruges. I’ve absorbed the smell and taste of history in an old, sturdy barn. And I’m still relocating. Because I remember the excitement of tasting food and the fun of adding recipes to my own southern repertoire. I remember the resemblance of a Belgian garden to my father’s.
Now I want contrast. I want Africa. I’m in search of a dry, golden field with strange animals and new customs where I’ll take silent refuge in a waterless hut when I need a moment’s privacy to regain my sanity. I will sit in my sandy fox-hole of a hut, maybe invite some new friends from the village, and tell them how I came from a hole in a boat and a dud of a shell. Then we’ll share recipes and stories because all stories are recipes, and all recipes can surely generate a great story.