Before moving to Austin, my understanding of Texas was a bit limited. I’d had my first encounter with Texans, these backwards people, in Hawaii of all places– an odd place, one might assume, to meet your standard textbook Ranch hand.

I had gone to Maui to escape the mainland and the constraints of my stifling college dorm life- proper rebellion for someone in her early twenties- to secure an island wage and an Aloha lifestyle. I was convinced that this romantic and simple existence would afford me the time and solitude I needed to expand my insatiable mind and fulfill my higher intellectual purpose.

That I spent the majority of my days riding around paradise on a mountain bike listening to Guns N’ Roses, and my breezy evenings serving jell-O shots to swarms of frat boys is a tragic tale for another day.

It was behind this rum-soaked, oceanfront bar that I served Mai Tai cocktails alongside two Texas chicks. These Dallas gals were the embodiment of happy hour- loud and uninhibited- and they welcomed me with well-oiled, open arms into their Rodeo-Circle-O-Fun.

These Dallas gals were the embodiment of happy hour.

Their signature alcoholic poison, the Mind Eraser (served sans umbrella), and their stories about home resembled nothing I recognized. This “Texas” they spoke of seemed as far away to me as The Emerald City and truly, (once I got off this island), I had no intention of ever making it there.

It was several years later that I met Will from San Antonio. A recent transplant to the Bay Area, this TV producer spent all his young energy at company parties slamming the “over saturation of pretentious wine bars in this city. What this city needs, he preached from the corner of Columbus and Union, is a queso bar.”

I scoffed at this unrefined boy who obviously had no appreciation for the sophistication of my City by the Bay and dismissed him as a simple dumb ass.

Looking back, perhaps that judgment was a bit harsh.

At the time, I lacked the understanding of how bowls of melted cheese with a jalapeno sting could command a steady line of dedicated patrons, but now appreciate and have witnessed the patriotism and fervor with which Texans consume this unofficial state food.

A queso bar is actually, not a bad idea.

In fact, a woman at my Austin gym refers to queso as a “staple.” I feel safe in predicting that her favorite food will fuel the renewal of her gym membership. Hot cheese does not mix with hot buns, after all.

Looking back, perhaps that judgment was a bit harsh.

Before The Husband and I exchanged vows and I was still living in San Francisco, I worked with a sassy-pants producer from Houston. One night, we took a moment out of promoting the evening newscast (murder, fire, mayor gossip) to share some old-fashioned chitchat. She blurted her life story; she was Texas born and raised, on her second marriage, just had a baby, was fixin’ to have another, blah blah.

Finally she took a breath and as an afterthought, said, “And you? You’re married right?”

“No,” I shook my head unapologetically.

She looked back at me with complete understanding.

“Widow,” she said. It wasn’t a question, but a statement!

“What?” I said, not understanding that in Texas you’re either married or your husband’s dead.

No I’m not a widow. No way. Where do these ridiculous ideas come from?

Texas. That’s where.

With that, my grand-sweeping generalization about these backwards people took shape. They are fun drunks who love cheese and marry young.

It is with this slanted perspective of Texas culture that I packed my big, sophisticated city life into the back of my car and headed with my betrothed towards the Hill Country where we would set up our own version of life on the Ranch.

Tweet This Post

Posted Friday, July 6th, 2007 7:31 am Category Izzy on Stepmotherhood, Step News. Get the RSS feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.