If I never eat at another Picadilly in my life, I swear I'll die a happy woman. My grandparents Sunday ritual is to go to Picadilly for dinner. Or get it to go and bring it back to the house, if my grandmother isn't feeling up to going out. So that's been what...three weekends in a row? Maybe more? I think I've eaten enough bland, fatty southern food to last the rest of my life. And I've realized that there are three requirements for southern food.

1. It must be fried in bacon fat.
2. It must be slathered in butter.
3. It must be engulfed by brown sugar. Or molasses. Or Sourgum.

The thing is, most of the time, a single southern dish will incorporate all three requirements. I made some really good, whole wheat, organic pancake mix the other night. I woke up the next morning, and my grandpa had already beat me to it and made blueberry pancakes. Except he cooked my uber-healthy pancake batter in bacon fat. Fat from the gross tin can that he puts on the back of the stove to collect all the grease after frying bacon. I don't even want to know how long some of that gunk has been in that can.