Sunday
Dinner
“On
a summer evening some years ago, two of the South's most celebrated
writers, William Faulkner and Katherine Ann Porter, were dining
together in a plush restaurant in Paris. Everything had been laid out
to perfection, a splendid meal had been consumed, a bottle of fine
burgundy emptied, and thimble-sized glasses of an expensive liqueur
drained...
'Back
home the butter beans are in,' said Faulkner, peering into the
distance, 'the speckled ones.'
Miss
Porter fiddled with her glass and stared into space. 'Blackberries,'
she said, wistfully.”
Eugene
Walter (Foods of the World: American Cooking, Southern Style, 1971)
It's
summer in the South. The farmer's markets are piled high with corn
and tomatoes, cucumbers and squash, eggplant and, of course, okra. For Sunday
'dinner' (lunch to everyone else) chicken will be fried, potatoes
mashed, gravy ladled, sweet-tea iced, and all those tasty
vegetables consumed. My great aunts used to create a spread that
filled the entire dining room. A whole ham, fried chicken, creamed
corn, lady peas, baked squash, tomatoes and cucumbers, pickle relish,
spiced peaches, coconut cake and custard pie. And, naturally, those
enormous biscuits that only Aunt Lyda could make. The entire family
would gather around the table and dig in. No matter where I go, or
how many years stretch between, their Sunday dinners will be the
standard by which I measure bounty.
Like
baby birds, we are imprinted with the foods of our childhood. I
remember well a feast in the home of Jewish friends in New
York—potato latkes, with homemade apple sauce, and chopped chicken
livers. My friend, Andy, who grew up in the Chicago area, makes
traditional barley-grits served on brown German bread every
Christmas—sweet, and spicy. And, my friend, Elsie, from Houma,
Louisiana, whose sons deliver the catch of the day to her dock every
afternoon, cooks her fresh seafood with lots of Cajun hot sauce.
My
dad's gardens were labor intensive, but they fed us for the whole
year. There's nothing better than biting into a juicy, ripe tomato
picked straight from the vine, still sun warm. In my mind's eye, I can see my dad staking up his plants, tying them to the stake with our
old nylon stockings; the plants six feet tall, and heavy laden with
fruit.
Soul
food is whatever takes you home. In the South, as in most of the
Northern hemisphere, this is a very soulful, gracious, plentiful time
of year. The peaches and blackberries are coming in, y'all. It's
cobbler season. Better come on down and get you some!
In
the Spirit,
Jane
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