I hate to bring up this subject again.
But I been thinkin' on it for days, so I might as well get to it.
When my cousins from Texas, Indiana, Ohio and in-laws from Alabama visited, guess what we reminisced about the most?
That's correct: food.
Mama Harper's biscuits. Daddy John's gravy. Daddy John's fried chicken. Cold watermelon pulled out of the creek. Iced tea with beads of sweat runnin' off the outside of the glass because it was so dadblame hot from cookin' biscuits, gravy and fried chicken.
Walkin' to Edna's Cafe' for an ice cream cone and it meltin' down your arm till your pit smelled like strawberries and you couldn't raise your arm, cause it was stuck together.
Blackberry cobbler. Banana puddin'. Warm pound cake. Homemade ice cream. Apple jelly. Cornbread (we argued over who made it at our grandparent's house. Some said Mama Harper, some said Daddy John.) Fresh beans, maters, taters, cucumbers, squash, corn, onions, and peppers straight out of the garden just a few feet away. We never trusted Daddy John about eatin' peppers. He would sit there with sweat beaded up on his lip, pouring down his face and swear the peppers weren't hot, urging you to try one.
I trusted that man with my life, but never would I have taken a pepper from his hand to my lips again. (Once was quite enough.)
We talked about other things, a little. But it seems so much of our memories are tied to that kitchen table - that one and others that our families ate and talked from.
My in-laws even got in on it, when I revealed to my cousins that Maw Maw (Husband's mother) made biscuits that tasted just like Mama Harper's. There was a reverent silence, as those around me contemplated such.
They even stopped chewing for a minute.
Of course we ate big while folks were here. In the house and out.
We visited graveyards and old home places, tryin' to walk off some of the cornbread.
But nothin' conjured up our love for the past like the food we shared with those who loved us as children.
I guess nothin' ever will.
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