“Alright Big Daddy girl, will you have a banana pudding?”, the rough and tough waitress asked me in Montgomery, Alabama. I had ordered a barbecue pork sandwich called the “Big Daddy” which apparently gave me the fine title of “Big Daddy Girl” for the evening. She was the type of waitress who told me Blue Moon was a local beer, calmly frazzled on her first day of work. The sun had just set on Montgomery when I overheard a conversation. A group of guys shouted across the street to their friend heading on her own way. They asked her if she would be fine walking to her car. She joked in the Continue Reading