Okra love.

If someday in the very distant future I am blessed with a daughter, there's an ongoing list in my head of important things I will teach her.

I'll teach her to love Jesus more than anyone or anything else.
To cherish the little moments and be thankful.
To bake a cake.
To find good deals at the grocery store.
And of course, to fry up a perfect batch of okra.

I know what you're thinking. Could anything be more unhealthy? For me, I make a health exception for this one. After all, fried okra is a family legacy. It's a skill that's been passed down through the women in my family, from my great-grandmother Nene to her daughter Reba to my mom and now to me. And let me tell you, there's really nothing like fried okra. I'm thankful it's a staple in the Southern diet. I honestly couldn't believe when I moved to Chicago that people had never heard of okra. They were eating their bratwurst and missing out on something so much better (ok, I know some will disagree). :)

So anyway, back to my future daughter.
I'll teach her how to pick ripe okra from the garden, twisting it off at the base, making sure it hasn't grown too large and become tough. She'll learn how to wash it, slice it, coat it in [gluten-free] flour, egg, then corn meal. Then she'll fry it up in hot oil until it's just golden brown. I'll make sure she knows she can sneak just enough bites to not be noticeable before serving it to hungry bellies.

And I can pretty much guarantee, she will savor every bite.