Happy Birthday

Mother turned 88 years old Sunday.

We had a big spread, the cost being spread out amongst us. We aren't a big family, but when you put us all in one house, it feels pretty big. Sixteen this time, as we had two Texas cousins join in the fray.

We put the eclipse photo on the birthday cake (see previous blog), which she had not seen. She asked, "Is that me!?" We said yes. She said, "Lord, I look like I weigh 400 pound." 

Now, my mother used to be pretty chubby. She used to be about five feet five inches tall and weighed in the 160's. She has shrunk to five feet and weighs about 109, maybe. 

She blew out her candles (two large 8's).

We ate. She kept telling her great-grandson to stop dawdling and eat so she could open  her presents. This made him giggle. He's six.

Her great-granddaughter, age 2, had a love/hate relationship with Brother of Many Surgeries dog,  Elmer. (I apologize for the name.)

He's three times her size, so she was afraid of him. Yet when he disappeared, she'd look around and ask, "Where's dog?" She'd find him, and he'd get up to follow her and she'd run screaming bloody murder. I swan, I saw that dog roll his eyes. But they were fast friends by the end of the day.

She got lots of nice gifts. We ate good food. We all talked a mile a minute. We took photos.

But my favorite is of Mother, Daughter and  myself: 

I don't remember what was so funny, but we seemed to be enjoying ourselves.

And here is a group with only Niece missing, 'cause she's taking the photo and Husband as he went home puny:

A good time was had by all.

Even Elmer.

Here We Go Again

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.

It Takes a Village

I just ate supper. I am full as a tick that just fell off a hound dog. (Look a lot like one, too, swole up and all. I really need to lose a dozen pounds, and I'm willing to share them if you want 'em. I'll even deliver (which is what I look like I'm about to do).)

I needed a bracket to put outside my two parentheses up there, but there ain't no brackets on the keyboard!

I digress. Scampers back up off the rabbit trail and gets back on the main road.

I prepared part of this food - but let me tell you about the rest. I was on the phone with my bestest friend (yes, she is taller, blonder and can sing AND play the piano, outshining me at every turn, but hey, I love her anyway). We were planning a play date, because school is finally out. She is still hanging on, not retired yet, but I have everything crossed but my wires that this upcoming school year will be her last so we can play more often.

Anyway, we started talking about food right outta the gate because she was grilling zucchini and squash. Then she told me about a salad she was marinating, and by the time she finished, I was drooling into my ears (I was lying down, resting my stupid back).

Since Husband was doing a grocery run in a few, she insisted he come by and she'd send me some of both.

Then Mother called and had a big old dutch oven full of baked beans, and gave instructions for Husband to pick some up.

So, he came back from the grocery store laden with not only the regular fair, but real food ready to eat.

I added to it, we ate like pigs, and the rest is history, so to speak.

We Southern women show our love often times through feeding those we love.

Today, I was shown a lot of love.

I am thankful for this love - I have shown it myself from time to time.

You make sure your baby is well fed. A man's heart is through his stomach. Romantic dinners, breakfasts served in bed.

The list goes on and on.

Now, can someone please help pull me out of this chair so I can waddle into the kitchen for clean up duty?

Blame it on the Folks

During this harsh winter, when there have been hours at a time that we have been unable to leave our house, we have found relief.

We eat.

I was a bit apprehensive when putting on my jeans yesterday for fear they wouldn't meet in the  middle. I have been watching myself practically balloon out this past week.

They did fasten, and to town we went.

But, truly, we have cooked and eaten like there was no tomorrow. Does snow increase the appetite?

Salmon, chicken, steak, pork chops, spaghetti, vegetable lasagna, taters, corn, beans, peas. I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

I do believe it's obvious whose fault this is, however: our folks.

Did they not have to fatten up during the winter months for the onslaught of hard labor come spring and summer?

Look at what all you will have to do when springtime finally peers over the horizon and smiles.

You'll have to- um - cut some fresh flowers to bring into the house. Pay the yard boys for mowing and stuff. Open a window to let in fresh air. Close the window so you can stop sneezing and call the cleaning lady to dust and vacuum all the pollen off everything. And you probably have a library book or two that needs returning.

See what I mean.

All the fault lies with our folks.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.

Food for Thought

My family's middle name is food. If we had a family crest, it would be a carved piece of fried chicken and a biscuit.

For some reason (maybe it is because my middle name is food, I don't know), I was thinking back to Saturday nights when I was little.

My daddy loved steak. He loved crab meat, fish, shrimp, etc. too. But he really loved steak. I don't know who taught him how to eat all these foods when he was raised on beans and taters, cornbread and biscuit with the occasional piece of fried chicken or pork roast.

I remember, back to Saturday nights, I would get a few pieces of Daddy's steak. It was bloody and more or less warm. I would also get a few bites of Mother's steak, which was crispy critter dead. As you might not be too shocked to know, I can eat steak any way I can get it, but I usually eat medium well because of health safety stuff.

I know you were on the edge of your seat wondering how I ate my steak.

Since Daughter has been sick, we have obsessed about her eating: what she can tolerate, how much she can eat, how much she has eaten, etc.

Now Mother is unwell. She called my sister-in-law to come see about her. She (my mother, not my sister-in-law) ain't eating worth a flip and she's taking medication anyway, medication that she should have food in her belly before taking.

So now she's having terrible stomach pain. Maybe it's an ulcer, Daughter's is and their symptoms are similar.

Today's conversations with Brothers have been lengthy and only about the food my mother does and does not eat.

Well, her stubborn, do as she pleases no matter what you say attitude, was mentioned too.

I called to check on her a little while ago, and although she told me she was beginning to hurt again and if things got much worse she would have to "go somewhere" (ER, I reckon), she was most frustrated because she'd sent Brother to the store and he'd got chicken noodle soup instead of just chicken soup, which she had underlined twice on the list because, "I am never going to get Granddaughter's chicken and dumplins made without the right ingredients."

So you can see, dear readers, my family revolves around food, eaten and uneaten (leave the uneaten around long enough and Husband eats it).

PS: I got my birthday cake a week early. It's Italian Cream.

The Nose Knows, No?

I cooked dinner today. (please, hold the applause.)

I had decided on bar-b-cue chicken. Now, I mix my sauce up with whatever strikes my fancy, and, although it is never the same, I'll have to say it's never turned down by my family.

So I was rummaging in the fridge for whatever, and saw one of those little plastic cups you get when you eat take-out food at home.

Looked like bar-b-cue sauce, and I thought that would add some interest to whatever else I chose.

Fortunately for me, and for the rest of my family, when I took off the lid I smelled of it.

It was a very dark chocolate sauce.

Now, I love chocolate as much as the next person, but I'm not sure the world (or at least my house) is ready for chocolate chicken.

But now that I've said that, it don't sound too bad! Hey! Won't the fair be here in a few weeks? Don't they sell fried Twinkies and crap like that? What better for the main meal than chicken (fried, of course) with a warm chocolate sauce poured over it? You could use chocolate gravy to go on the mashed taters.

I have actually seen a recipe for chocolate gravy. You eat it over biscuits, I reckon.

The importance of smell is pretty big in the kitchen. My eye couldn't tell the difference between a rich, dark tomato based sauce and a rich, dark, chocolate sauce. But, boy, my nose could.

I've looked at meat, and it's looked okay, but when I smelled of it....urk.

I've looked at exotic food and  thought it looked okay, but when I smelled of it...double urk.

Our  noses are pretty good. To breathe fresh mountain air, a baby's skin, the pages of a new book, the first rose of summer....

They save our lives sometimes, too. Smoke, poisonous fumes. I think danger has a smell all of it's own, sometimes.

Anyway, between Daughter and myself, we  had fine chicken along with a yummy squash casserole, mashed taters, crowder peas, salad and rolls.

I'd invite you for leftovers, but there weren't any.

There's a Yankee in da House

Okay, the truth is, she is only part Yankee. Her mama was Southern. Actually, her daddy was Romanian. Hmmmm. Okay, but she was RAISED Yankee. I apologize for this fact, because I love her anyway.

We spent every summer together, because as soon as school was out, her mama ran from Yankeedom and came home and stayed with her parents until school had to start again.

We've only seen each other twice before this visit in twenty-two years. We look the very same as we did when we were young adults, only different.

I cooked Southern for her today: Chicken, creamed corn, fried okra, green beans from our garden this past summer, mashed taters, cornbread, sweet onions, and of course sweet tea.

She barely escaped the blizzard - last flight out of the North - and it had to be de-iced and the take off run way shortened because of a snow drift. But she risked it because she was coming south.  I  mean, who wouldn't?

The visit will be way too short, our voices will give out way too soon, we will have to sleep way too much.

There's never enough time with someone you love, is there?

Regular Writers versus Southern Writers

It dawned on me the difference between we who are Southern writers and those who are not.

I am reading a novel, and the main character is a chef of fame. She has cooked a romantic dinner for her possible boyfriend. There are double chocolate brownies in the oven.

The oven dings. She says, "That's the brownies."

Then the doorbell rings, and her landlord gives her a message.

We never hear more about the brownies. Not if they burned to a crisp during the upset, nothing about them being taken out and wrapped for later, or how wonderful they tasted on the way to the airport.

Nada.

You see, some authors use food as a filler. Background music, if you will.

Southern writers, on the other hand, use food as a main character.

I hope you never find a southern character sitting before a well described meal "moving her food around with her fork, her appetite suddenly gone." Or "The meal was forgotten as passion overtook the couple."

Now, I've known passion, folks. But it ain't never got in the way of my T-bone steak and baked potato.

I want to hear how the food tasted. What they talked about while they ate it. How their granny came up with that particular recipe during the Great Depression, making it taste better'n ever.

Beat me with a stick if I ever don't give good food its due in my books, will ya?

Thanks in advance.