"Well! If this isn't the cutest, most awesome little place!" exclaims Ginger. She bats her mascared eyes even though she has yet to see the first thing.

Fighting like cats and dogs, the two of them have been trying to out-do and out-talk each other since they arrived. I haven't opened my mouth in so long I've forgotten what my voice sounds like.

During a sudden lull, I jump in and speak so fast it sounds like Pig Latin. "Trust me, gals. Everything on this menu goes beyond delicious. Barbara Jean skipped the class on how to cook badly. She only serves good, down-to-earth food."

Two sets of batting eyes stare back at me as though trying to figure out who I am and why I am seated at their table. After a moment of silence, they resume their talkathon with mouths flapping and hands flying every which away.

Our waitress, obviously on her last nerve, lets out a Titanic sigh when Ginger says, "Listen up, Hon. I got a recipe off the Internet the other day that you'll love. Chop two green onions tops and all and marinate them in grape jelly and . . ."

I tune out and shake my head at the young woman waiting to take our order. "Come back in a few years," I suggest.

Then, as if there are no other people in the restaurant, Doris's voice breaks the sound barrier. "Oh, shut UP!" she yells good-naturedly.

"No, YOU shut up!" Ginger replies, then they high-five each other and shout, "Awesome," in unison.

Before their Yankeeness becomes a catalyst for the Southern diners to remember Fort Sumter and take revenge, I grab Doris by the arm and threaten to pinch her till she's cyanotic.

"Simmer down!"

"What for?" My cousin-in-law finally seems to recognize me.

"Because you sound like a couple of sixty-five year old displaced Valley Girls, that's why. You're too loud."

"This is how we always talk. What's wrong with that?"

I must have been crazy to think I could take these two wackos out in public.

Ignoring my rebuke, Ginger pipes up with, "Ohmygawd, look at this! Totally awesome."

I totally hate that word, but my natural inquisitiveness demands a peek at the menu item to which Ginger is pointing. It's today's special: Pork chops, black-eyed peas, collard greens. Yum.

"You people don't actually eat this stuff, do you?"

Did she actually say 'You people?' This is such a bad dream. Please God, when can I wake up?

"Oh, that's nothing," shouts Doris. "They even eat hog jowls and something else they callchitlins."

I bury myself in the menu, scanning it closely for Anti-Yankee Soup. I am willing to sell my soul for a double order if they can bring it to me right away.

Ginger cries, "Awesome!" again and bobs her head of wild dyed red hair. Not many people know that Ginger's hair was the motivating factor behind the Chia pet.

She has a habit of batting her eyes and I haven't decided whether it's a case of near-sightedness or the ten coats of mascara pulling at her lids. In contrast, Doris doesn't wear any makeup at all, even though a full day behind Elizabeth Arden's Red Door wouldn't do her a piece of harm.

The two of them, best friends for years, are the spitting reincarnation of Lucy and Ethel. In addition to their loud mouths, they are highly competitive. They both proudly hold the "One-Up Title." Jointly, of course

"Cappy, I've got a killer recipe for rhubarb pie. It's better than Ginger's."

"E-mail it to me," I say, holding back the urge to exclaim, "Ooh! You people don't actually eat that stuff, do you?" Obviously, she has no idea that rhubarb, unlike collard greens, is not what you might call a Southern staple.

Ginger interjects. "No need for E-mail, Honey. Doris is the American Express woman. She never leaves home without her recipe file."

My husband's cousin travels with her recipes? Gene Pool Alert!

Doris shoots eye daggers at Ginger who takes a look at the menu and says, "They have zucchini. I used to love it, but now I can't bring myself to eat it. Not since I named my dog Zucchini. Did y'all know that when I give him spaghetti, he sings Puccini?" She takes a deep breath, settles back in her chair and fans away a hot flash with the menu from which she is never going to order.

The aroma of good food is making my stomach growl so loud that people at the next table look around for Ginger's singing dog. The waitress, engaged in a head-to-head with the security guard is gesturing towards our table.

"Well, that's nothing. My cat, Esmerelda, can open doors," Doris counters with a smug look that crosses the table and one-ups Ginger right smack in the kisser.

"ANY door?" I ask, my eyes fixed on the exit.

"Yepper. She just crawls up there, turns the knob and lets herself out."

I push back back from the table. "Y'all excuse me while I go wash my hands, okay?"

I turn the corner and stride right past the Ladies Room on my way to the back door. I don't need Esmerelda to open it for me and I'll bet you a Cuban Cigar that Lucy and Ethel will never even notice I'm gone.