A COOK I'LL NEVER BE

When I married I thought cooking was following from memory how Mother prepared her food.  She was a dynamo in the kitchen, and my sister and I stayed out of her way. She never offered to give us lessons, nor did we show interest in learning. Many years later she told me she never wanted to force my sister and me into the job. She began at age four when she could reach the top of the old wood stove while standing on a stool. Cooking was a chore to her. Cooking became my chore also. In my marriage I had two unfortunate cooking incidents I’ll never forget.

When I was growing up, my favorite meal was fried chicken, rice and gravy, and English peas. Mother knew how to crust the chicken pieces just right and keep juices inside for tenderness. This was my choice first meal in the aging barracks apartment at Ole Miss in June,1954. 

  

Frying chicken was a cinch, I told myself. Countless times I’d watched mother as she wiped each piece with a wet paper towel, dredged the pieces through flour filled with a sprinkling of salt and pepper, plopped them into hot grease in an iron skillet. Turn the pieces over in, um, a minute or so. No sweat. Rice, no trouble, if by directions; peas, a double cinch; rolls, a kid could do in her play oven. 

   

As the chicken crackled in the grease, I stirred one cup of rice into two cups of hot water, opened the canned English peas and poured them into a boiler set on low heat. I remembered to turn over the chicken pieces before I opened canned rolls. Then I laid them in straight rows on the baking sheet, slid the sheet into a 375 degree oven. I was satisfied with a prep job well done.

For a silent few minutes a vision of my dear mother came to mind:

 She’ stands in the kitchen, one of her pretty aprons tied around her waist, perspiration dribbling down her face and arms. The room swells with fragrances from the sweet muffins inside the oven as unexpected visitors roll up the driveway. She can stir up a muffin batter and push the full muffin pan into the oven in quick time. When the guests walk inside the door, they say with glee, “I smell muffins. Ann, did you bake these for us?” 

  

I set out mint-colored paper napkins to match our pottery splashed in greens, browns and yellows. What a nice table, I beamed, as I surveyed my handiwork. This was my main job growing up. I smiled remembering my Home Economics teacher praising my “table dressing.” For the few events we had my senior year, I was in charge of preparing the tables.

 A strong aroma of fried-ness meandered from the kitchen into the living room and curled into the bedroom. I slapped my hand above and around the old stove for any resemblance of a vent hood. Didn’t all kitchens have them? I failed to think that the veterans’ apartments were built right after WWII. I visualized R's entrance into class that afternoon smelling like he’d pulled duty in a restaurant’s kitchen.

I rushed to open the four windows in the upstairs apartment, turned off the heat under the chicken, and lifted each piece carefully from the skillet to a paper towel and onto a warm plate. To make the gravy I poured water into the pan and stirred it into the fried residue and grease remaining. As I poured the peas into another pottery bowl, I noticed how pretty the green brought out the bowl’s mult-colors. 

I turned off the heat under the boiling rice. Ah, the rolls. I stooped and pulled out twelve burned balls from the dark oven. Well, the insides should be okay, I told myself with no feeling that I had an F in baking yet. Everything’s ready. Nope, the rice. Without checking it for done-ness (I didn’t remember Mother doing so) I drained the rice into a sieve, ran cold water over it and poured the glob into a pretty, matching bowl. 

We sat down to eat our first meal since our marriage two days ago. We’d moved to Oxford in a hurry so Richard could meet his first summer class. At noon he rushed up the old wooden stairs and greeted me with, “I could eat a dinosaur.” Well, wait until you bite into my chicken, I thought. I was giddy waiting for his compliments.

One second into the first bite, “Hon, uh, the chicken’s not cooked,” My new husband said, “ See the pink inside?” He waved a leg in the air. “We’ll get food poisoning.”

So what if the insides of the chicken were pink? The meat’s sure to taste delicious, I thought. I took a deep breath and five seconds later I said with feigned cheer, “I’lll reheat the skillet and give the chick a few more minutes.” I raked our pieces back onto the serving plate. Had I ever noticed to the color of cooked chicken before? 

 “Uh, have you tasted the rice? It’s clumpy. Why is this different?” Tears burst into rivulets down my face. Already I was a failure. Couldn’t he eat and lie by declaring this was a delicious meal?  I fled to the bedroom and flung myself on the bed in complete frustration. Where was sympathy for this beginner? A hug, or maybe a handkerchief to wipe my tears? At least an apology for hurting my feelings?

After a few minutes I realized my disappearance wouldn’t feed my new husband. With all the bravura I could muster, I returned to the table. Most of the rolls were missing, including the brown crusts, and all but one helping of green peas. I refried the chicken. This time the meat was a bit tough, the skin dry.  We ate in silence broken with my occasional sniff, sniff.  

I didn’t fry chicken nor cook rice for several years.  A review with Mother about my mistakes was on my first-home-return agenda. For the time being, I switched to spaghetti with meat sauce as my special dish.          

                                                           

****

  

We moved to the small town of Picayune for a new adventure in 1963. Richard left the Highway Department after he was hired by a new home construction company. My husband thought we’d make a million dollars with this company which would build new houses to accommodate the “thousands of workers” guaranteed to move into town. NASA was building a space center in the area.

  

My cooking had improved by this time, nine years later, with the choice of canned and frozen items. They were easier and quicker to prepare for consumption. Even today my kids, who now as grown-ups eat organic foods, laugh at what I served from cans in their growing-up years: Spaghetti-O’s, hot tamales, vegetable soup, pork and beans, to name a few.  

My mother-in-law was our first visitor to our rented brick home to see her third grandchild, Jane, born two months after we moved. I shook when I thought of her criticizing my every move. However, I determined my time with her would be a success and planned her dinner with us.  Previous meals with her had gone well when we lived in Jackson. I’d never had a failure with my spaghetti dish.

  Stir the meat seasoned with some salt, garlic powder and dried onions in a hot skillet. 

      Plop dry spaghetti into boiling water until tender,

            Open a can of tomato sauce, add a dollop of Tabasco, and pour into to the sizzling meat. Stir and lower the heat. 

      Open a package of French bread, slice and roll margarine across the pieces in a baking pan, sprinkle garlic powder, 

         check the oven is on BROIL.

             When spaghetti is tender, run under cold water, pour into a sieve and into a large bowl. 

       Add meat mixture. Stir and when good and hot, pour over spaghetti sitting in bowls.

              Run bread into the oven. Be sure to watch for done-ness.

   

   Elizabeth set the table and filled three glasses with ice and tea. We sat down to warm bowls brimming with Italian/Southern-style aromas.  I wiped my face on my napkin with relief. Would I pass muster? Seconds passed; the roar in my ears began.

    “Hon, what’s this floating in my sauce?” 

  

    “I don’t see anything,” I replied, refusing look at my spaghetti. I steeled my mind to the oncoming disaster.  

  

    MIL agreed, ”I see them, too. They’re BUGS!”

    I bent my head almost into my bowl and swore in silence I’d not howl if dozens of dead crickets lay among the spaghetti.

  “Vivian, we can’t eat this with bugs. I’m throwing our food out.” A heavy silence reigned for a few seconds while silverware scraped against glass bowls.

   I resolved to eat my spaghetti, bugs and all. Within a few quiet moments I had  a solution.  “Rinse the spaghetti and put on more meat and sauce. That should give you enough to eat.” I wasn’t going to leave my hot bowl to satisfy these critics. I felt MIL cringe at my suggestion.

 “Don’t worry, Dear" his mother said, I’ll find something to cook for us.” Their dishes rattled in the sink. As MIL ran water over the dirty bowls, I imagined her smiling as she gloated over my failure. 

   Not to be outdone by these two weaklings, I seethed and thought: What if this was the only food they had while stranded on a mountain side? After a tornado hit our house? We were shivering in the cold as we watched our house burn? I gobbled my spaghetti with grunts of satisfaction, knowing full well if there were bugs they were quite cooked. My guest and her son ate eggs and bacon.

  I never learned to cook any better. Over the protests of my husband that they weren't healthy, I switched to TV dinners. No bugs, m'lord, in these meals.

  

MOTHER'S TALE

 Mother's mind was always tinkering with somewhere to go.  If no one accompanied her on some wild chase or if she had no personal transportation, those reasons failed to stop her.  I love telling this one adventure.

My sister and I were privileged to attend summer camp in Montreat, NC in 1944 and 1945, During the second summer Mother decided she needed a vacation, put her job on hold and moved temporarily to Asheville to be near us. She found a job in a small hospital as a telephone operator.  She loved being in a different place, without the hassle of her husband.  She'd take my sister, seven-years old, and twelve-year-old me out to lunch, after chugging to the camp up the mountain side in a taxi. Some days she took us to a movie.  We never let on that we missed the camp's activities. We loved our mother too much to complain. 

At the end of the summer she rode the train with us back to Mississippi.  During that time, and many times later to different audiences, she told us of her famous taxi ride.  She hopped a taxi when she first arrived in Asheville without a hotel reservation. She asked the driver to ride around so she could check out the hotels.  He did, and during that ride looked through the rear view mirror and said, "Where are you from, Madam?" (Now I must remind you in those years women felt very comfortable alone in public.) Mother said Mississippi, to which the driver replied, "I was stationed in Jackson, Mississippi, a few years ago -- at Hawkins Field." Mother then added, "I was switchboard operator at Hawkins for six months." He introduced himself, as did Mother and they realized they had shared one incident together.

Mother went to work at midnight at the field. She drove her car down the paved road leading to the sentry.  A short distance from the entrance, she saw four servicemen getting her attention with waving hands. She stopped and they breathlessly asked, "Can you give us a ride through the sentry? Otherwise we'll be late, and that can't happen." Mother agreed and they mushed themselves into the small car, she sailed through the sentry with her pass, and the guys unloaded down near the barracks.

"I've never forgotten you. Your name's Ann, isn't it?" She said yes.  "Well, this ride's on me. I'll show you a good place to stay while you're here.  In fact, anytime you want to see the sights of the city, I'm at your service."  Mother, not wanting to lose an opportunity, said, "I want to see a still." I'm not sure if this announcement surprised the driver. He answered, "Give me a few days to find one rather safe for you."

In due time Mother tromped through tall grass and around bushes to see a whiskey-making still in action. She was thrilled when she took a taste, and even more thrilled when the makers gave her a jar of their famous liquid.  

I never have heard of another mom desiring a visit to such an operation. She remembered that experience the rest of her life.

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CARE PACKAGES TO FRANCE

I’m young enough to still remember the patriotism and aid my family joined with other American citizens to support the home and the war fronts in the mid-1940’s. We saved tin cans, limited our sugar intake, made balls out of  foil gum wrappers. The most memorable effort in which our four-member family participated was saving our money to help others.

           

 Living in Jackson, Mississippi, during the 1940’s did not afford many luxuries. We owned no car, using the city bus or walking to and from work or school. Movies were inexpensive enough to afford a night out with friends a few times a month. However, everyone possessed a radio, the single most important way to hear the  progress of the war, general news or the President to deliver his “Fireside Chats.” There were fun shows like “Amos and Andy,” and “The Jack Benny Show“. After dishes were washed and dried and homework complete, we listened to the radio from 7 p.m. until 9 p.m.

        

One evening we heard an advertisement seeking Americans to send food packages to families in war-torn Europe. Sending in $25  the applicant  was supplied with the name and address of a European family with whom to correspond. The money sent to CARE, Inc., afterwards would be converted into a food package for the assigned family.

Before the evening was over, we had voted to save dimes from our change. My sister was only six years old and I thirteen. We wouldn’t be handling much money. But the excitement of nightly checking Daddy’s pockets and Mothers’ coin purse, with their permission, of course, made Sis and me as much a part of the savings effort as that of our parents’. 

My metal dime bank was cylindrical in shape. A narrow indention on one side  measured amount of money saved. The little bank sat on top of the dresser in our parents' bedroom. When the bank reached the top at five dollars, my sister and I took turns pouring the coins into a box. The savings began again. After we accumulated twenty-five dollars, which took from a month to six  weeks, Dad sent a money order to the CARE . Then we waited several weeks for a letter from France.

Time has erased the particulars of a French family. There were a mother and several children. Since I was the letter writer in our family, I wrote them about our lives, school, our friends, being careful not to offend this family under strife. I had to restrict my words to two sheets of onionskin paper, for keeping the postal services open for mail to and from soldiers was another voluntary aid to the war.

Madam Poret scribbled on a page shaped like an envelope laid out unglued. She folded the flaps and with a swipe of her tongue sealed the letter.  She wrote in her small, careful handwriting using a fountain pen of blue ink. In each letter she described the contents in the latest box, about her children, how they were growing. Never did she mention the war.

When the familiar white envelope decorated in red, white, and blue arrived from France, stamped with PAR AVION, we were eager to get it translated. Jackson was small then, and Mother, who worked downtown, inquired around about a translator. One man, the patriarch of a Greek family and owner of a downtown restaurant, volunteered to read our letters. Although he agreed to the job, he never seemed happy to see me. He instructed me to be in his restaurant on Capitol Street at exactly 3:45 p.m. My school rang its final bell at 3:15. I rushed the two blocks from school to the bus stop to catch Bus #4 to arrive at the precise time. 

Never did he see me more than once a month, but any customer enjoying his afternoon coffee would have sworn with Mr. Translator that I was in there every week. Without a hello or good afternoon, Mr. T took my letter, mentioned nothing about my sitting down. He remained behind the cash register to read.  Fretting, he skimmed the pages, murmuring that the letters were "poorly written”, and then spit out the translation like he‘d eaten hot peppers. That, combined with his heavy Greek-English accent made listening difficult. There was no time to jot notes, despite my having a pencil and pad ready. The strain of listening to the news between his mutterings trained me to memorize better. By the eighth letter I could spout the exact information. Until then, I reviewed the contents in my head while riding the bus home. It was important to relay the information at the evening meal.

There were probably fifteen letters in the two years of correspondence. Mother kept the letters tied with a ribbon on a bookshelf in the family den. Over a span of thirty years when I visited my parents, my eyes drifted to the family den to check on the bundle. Just that move gave me the satisfaction that they had not disappeared.  One day I asked permission to take them home. They needed to be in a safe place, I told to Mother. By that time I had studied two years of French and wanted desperately to renew their contents. 

My mother died in 2002. Cleaning out her house, I gathered up all her correspondence and boxes of albums full of snapshots of a life time. Inside one was a sepia photograph sent by Madam Poret. She had been a beautiful woman whose long brown hair swept up in a pompadour above her face. The photography studio stamped its name and address on the back. The printed copy was very small, as though part of a strip of prints. She looked away, perhaps at the photographer, with a slight smile.

In 1975 I made a trip to Europe with a group of students. The packet of letters had not been located before I left. I had the idea of going to the town where she lived and inquire about the family, if there was such an opportunity. That town is now long forgotten, but M. Poret and her family are not.