Occasionally when I go grocery shopping, I am pleased to find fresh okra in the veggie aisle. It’s not a regular occurrence up here in Yankonia, so I assume it happens because a shipment gets waylaid or misdirected from its proper, intended destination grocery store in the Carolinas or Louisiana. But why ever or however it gets here, I’m always happy to find it. I bought a pound today, came home quick, washed it, cut it up, and popped it on the stovetop with a can of diced tomatoes for a couple of hours. No other vegetable pleases me as much as this one does. I’ve already been nibbling and sampling as it cooks, so by the time dinner gets here, most of it will probably already be in my belly, where it belongs. No one else in my house likes it (the other two family members are Northerners), so either way, I’m the final destination. With the possible exception of boiled peanuts, okra is my favorite Southern food. Boiled, stewed or fried, it’s good eats. The world would be a better place if every recipe requiring chunks of that vile and odious stalk, broccoli, substituted instead a delicate, delicious piece of okra. At least my world would be anyway.