Gary, now a famous playwright/critic, who spends most of his days on a plane, as opposed to by a plate, always wants to hear about what Nana has cooked, created, invented, resurrected from her kitchen shelves.

Nana’s kind of magical that way.

And she has become something of folklore in my social circles, and many of my friends eagerly await for my Sunday dinner details. (I can think of one person who eagerly awaits for an invitation, patiently, week in and week out…I promise to make that happen, Maddy, I promise).

But, for those who have made the trek to the countryside of eastern Winston County, seemingly at the very line where the red clay becomes true dirt, well, those few can give honest testimony to the validity of her culinary talents.

Talents Gary had me bragging about in under fifteen minutes.

He was waiting in the airport for a return trip to NYC, and hadn’t had a “decent, damn meal in days.” Gary, though a southerner by birth, has since adopted the native tongue of the New Yorker.

“Tell me, tell me good, in long details, what she made today.”

So, I did.

And he told me I was a fool if I didn’t sit still long enough to right this all down. Which I then started to do. I do have an old church cookbook that has some of these recipes in them, already, but his point, fervent and directed at me specifically, made me think of how blessed I’ve been in the world of food.

I mean, I think I can honestly say I don’t come from sinners in the kitchen.

I come from saints.

No sooner had I started rattling off the menu: homemade potato salad (as in we grew the potatoes); pork barbecue ribs bathing in Nana’s secret sauce; yeast rolls, Moon biscuits and gravy, zipper peas (a favorite of mine!), freshly shelled butterbeans, apple pie…excuse me—

—my hand started to cramp from the weight of those delicious words—

Suffice it to say, Gary’s response was prophetic in its simplicity.

“Don’t ever think she didn’t love you. Mean people don’t cook like that.”

I’m inclined to agree, and since so much of my upbringing revolved around food (whose doesn’t, really?), and since so many of my blogs end up in some talk of the table, I thought what better way to honor the Nanas (and the U.L.s –don’t get me started on his coconut cake) of this world than by passing along a few of our secret family recipes, but nothing fancy, mind you…

I still want to be remembered at Christmas…

(Maybe you just don’t tell anybody I did this, OK?)

Ok.

Tigi’s Green Tomato Pickles

                1 gal. sliced green tomatoes

                8 medium onions, sliced

                3 green bell peppers, sliced

                3 c. vinegar

                5 c. sugar

                1 tsp. ground cloves

                2 Tbsp. mustard seed

                1 Tbsp. turmeric

Cover the first three ingredients with and ice and ½ salt. Soak 3 hours or overnight. Bring the remaining ingredients to a boil.  Add drained vegetables to this and cook until they turn color or comes to a good boil. Pack into sterilized jars and seal.

Cornbread Salad

                1 pan cornbread, cooked and crumbled

                2 lg. tomatoes, chopped

                1/3 c cooked bacon, crumbled

                2 boiled eggs, chopped

                1/3 c. sweet pickle juice

                1/3 c. sweet pickles, chopped

                1/3 c. onions, chopped

                ½ c. good quality mayonnaise like Blue Plate

                salt and pepper to taste

Crumble cornbread and add all other ingredients, then the mayonnaise. Mix well. Serve immediately, or for better taste, let it set overnight in the refrigerator.

Biscuit Pudding

                6 to 8 left over biscuits

                6 eggs

                1 tsp lemon (or vanilla) extract

                2 c. milk

Butter left over biscuits, place them in oven to crisp a bit. Mix remaining ingredients and pour over the biscuits, in a deep iron skillet. Bake at 350 until firm. You may want to add cinnamon to the top.

Chocolate Cobbler

                2 stick of butter

                1 ½ c. self-rising flour

                1 ½ c. sugar

                ¾ c. milk

                1 c. sugar

                6 Tbsp good cocoa

                ¾ c. hot water

                another ¾ c. milk, set aside

Melt the butter in a 9×13 pan. Mix flour, 1 ½ cups of sugar and ¾ cup of milk. Combine 1 cup of sugar and the cocoa; sprinkle over flour mixture. Combine hot water and the other ¾ cup of milk; pour over the sugar mixture. Bake at 350 for 30 minutes.  After the cobbler cools, you might sprinkle a little powdered sugar and cocoa over the top. 

Trust me, there’s more than one cookbook’s worth of deliciousness in the collective heads of my family. Of course, when they find out I’m passing along the contents of their “secret cabinets,” I might be impeached.

In the meantime, try them out. Ask me for more. See what you think.

Personally, I’m shooting for the chocolate cobbler, for the first time, on my own, for a little party I’m attending this weekend. 

My goal? To get it to at least look like Nana’s.  

The taste part only comes with age.

Related Posts:

• Yes, Virginia, I am a vegetarian.
• The Dollar Bill Incentive, Or, Being Good For Nothing.
• Five foods that made me who I am.
• That’s how we bring up all children in our family: by ear.
• Phenergan’s Wake

Meaning, since confessing to you about my lust and love for the said potato log, yesterday afternoon, I’ve not been able to think about anything else except food.

And so, at the risk of offending some of you, I feel I’ve no choice to move myself past this obsessive food-thinking other than to write about it. So, I’m going to spend the next few moments with you, making one confession after another about a few dishes, recipes, snacks, and various other, sundry foods that I not only grew up with, but that, I feel, have defined who I am, today, in large part.

I hope you like me by the time I’m done.

I know some of my culinary cred is going to be challenged, disputed, if not taken away from me completely. Because, Lord knows, I have a very distinctive palate. (Maybe, you’ll all take pity on me and send me recipes for the foods you think I should be eating, instead).

Either way, I think it’ll be worth it, talking about this.

Now, I can’t remember what her name is, but I do recall a random TV show on the Food Network that I was watching, oh this has been months back, in which this philosopher (a food philosopher, mind you; I know of only one other in the country, and that is my good friend Dr. Glenn Kuehn) made this profound statement, “Our history, [the only one that matters], is right there on our plate.”

It is to that sentiment that I, then, share with you, a little of the History that’s found its way onto My Plate, over the years. I’ll try not to bore you, and I think the only way to not bore you is to limit my plate to a regular-size, Noritake informal dinner plate: it should only hold five items, and no item should touch the edge.

(Note: This list is not vegetarian).

Let’s get started, shall we?

1. The Banana Sandwich. Contrary to the legendary gullet-stylings of Mississippi’s own Elvis Presley, we did not, in my family, follow suit with his particular banana sandwich design. Instead, we would often take two slices of white bread, usually Sunbeam, and slather it with mayonnaise. To this, we sliced a fresh banana, added cheese, and smooshed the whole thing together. I would, on average, eat five or more of these a week, all through grade school and beyond. U.L. started this internecine tradition, and with the exception of the kind of cheese, the glorious tastiness of this family snack has stayed relatively unchanged between his house and Nana’s. Sure, sure, you are probably already cringing, and that’s fine. I might, too, had it not started so early in my life. Every time I make a banana sandwich to this day, I can’t help but think about being a little kid, sitting by U.L. on the kitchen counter, oozing mayonnaise onto my knuckles, looking out the picture window at all the birds and the “idiot-fools, drag racing down the road. I’ve a mind to go call the sheriff, right this second […]” It’s more than a sandwich, you see; it’s the threat of a highway patrol encounter. Those were the days…
2. Biscuit Pudding. What, you say? I thought you hated pudding, Kris. And I still do, but this isn’t really a pudding. It’s a family secret recipe. My first exposure to the kitchen came, literally, at the heels of my great grandmother, Tigi. Her real name was Tiny Gertha. That was her real name and she lived up to it, all four feet, eight inches of her. She was born in the latter 1890s. And to this day, I love the idea that I am living in the 21^st century, but knew someone born in the 19^th century. It lends credibility to my old soul. She never used the first measuring cup, blender, food processor, or microwave. Everything she measured, she did so by using her hand or finger: to the first knuckle, a teaspoon. To the second knuckle, a tablespoon. She cooked by use of dashes, pinches, smidges, bits, and the evergreen rule of “Well, what’s it smell like?” A favorite dessert of hers, having grown up in the gumbo mud of the Delta, was biscuit pudding. The trick was to use stale biscuits. She’d line her trusty iron skillet with the crusty, tough buttered bottoms of the days-old biscuits, pour over that her own sugar cream syrup with the juice of whatever fruit might be around (usually apple or, pear, or if without fruit, Blackburn molasses), crumble the biscuit tops into the mixture, and bake it, like everything else: “on hot and until it smelled right.”
3. Nana’s meatloaf. I’m not sure what magic she uses when she makes this but I do know the process calls for it. That, and a good full morning of uninterrupted focus on her very specific mise en place. There was nothing easy about this meatloaf, but every inch of it was pure mouth ecstacy. In some order, the following went into the loaf: meat (beef and deer, sometimes turkey), green peppers, onions (sweet only, Vidalia above all else), red peppers, Worcestershire, eggs, day-old bread crumbs (homemade, soaked in butter), milk, and some other things. She’ll tell what the ingredients are, she says, but I know for a fact that she leaves a few choice ones out. Still, I have made this replica of hers a thousand times (before The Change, a.k.a. vegetarianism) and it’s never worked. Hers would melt into itself, and in the cooking process, some juicy, meaty pieces would slide off and into the corner, collecting what, even to this day, I can only describe as a liquid Shangri-la. I miss this dish more than anything else, and harbor about a quarter cup of jealousy when she serves it on Sundays.
4. Black-eyed peas and mayonnaise. Here it is again, that absolute necessity of the southern kitchen: mayonnaise. I mean, what’s better? Nothing. Mayonnaise covers all the bases whether it’s in a dip or flying solo. I realize, looking back, that I had (have) perhaps an unnatural kinship with this vinegar and egg by-product, but say what you will…it got me to eat my peas.  I don’t know if it’s the creamy romance that results from the mixing of the earthy pea flavor and the tang of the mayonnaise, or if it just grossed my sisters out, but it stuck. Many is the night that I was found, sneaking into the kitchen, uncapping the Tupperware bowl of peas and glopping a tablespoonful of mayonnaise on top of the gelatinous mass of legumes. I was afraid of the stove for many years, so until the microwave arrived, I generally ate this snack cold. Thank god for Kenmore.
5. U.L.’s Tuna Salad. Only U.L. could take something as easy-to-make as tuna salad and turn it into an art installation. U.L., the youngest child of Tigi, took after his mother in many ways. Despite being the baby, and thus the farthest from her culturally, he let nothing stand in his way of becoming as creatively frugal as she was. Granted, he’s allowed a can opener, a microwave, and a Quik-Chop in the house, he still uses only one large mixing bowl, and a knife that came over on the Mayflower. I can’t argue with him, though when a) the bowl and knife have withstood the test of time, coming from an era when things were made well and with genuine craftsmanship, and b) the tuna salad is so deliciously made with love it knocks out the fish smell. This is not your mama’s tuna salad; it’s my uncle’s, and that means, it ain’t fast food: boiled eggs; an onion; pimentos or Ro-Tel; a handful (i.e., cupful) of homegrown, homemade sweet pickles that, I should add, live in a butter churn kilned by my great-grandfather and hasn’t seen the sun since 1944; and a mayonnaise-based cream sauce that includes the juice from the tuna, a little paprika, a little lemon-pepper, vinegar…salt, and pepper. The last two, he says, you add just for taste, but if you do that, I’ll tell him.

Now, go have a great day.

Related Posts:

• Yes, Virginia, I am a vegetarian.
• Gary makes me hungry.
• After that, I ate my chocolate cobbler in silence.
• Nothing but the blood: Tigi
• Because that’s what beards are meant for: hiding fat.

I don’t think so. No.

I. Don’t. Think. So.

I am, personally, mad-dog in love with the potato log. I look upon its tasty goodness as a drowning man would a life raft.  (I wrote that and then had this visual of being a drowning man and seeing a life raft and then, in that life raft I saw, like,  hundreds of potato logs and my heart started beating really fast and I almost had to take half a Xanax).

So, you know…I really like a potato log. It has taken a place of supreme necessity in my life, the potato log.

It has become—a reward.

For what, you ask? Why, for driving to work each morning.

Still confused?

Here, let me explain:  See, I hit this same halfway point (of melodramatic ennui) every morning.  This halfway point is roughly next to that strange Mexican restaurant that might also be a hotel at the second four-way stop-that’s-really-a-six-way-stop between Brooksville and Macon.

For some reason, each morning when I pull up to this engineering near-failure of the MDOT, I’m tempted to call it quits, throw in the towel, or turn the car around and go back (something I never do). And each morning, I have to force myself to take a large-down-to-my-heels breath and say, “Kris, you can’t get a potato log if you don’t get to Scooba. That’s where the potato logs are, Kris. Scooba. So, get it together and drive on.”

It’s a successful piece of motivation if for this one reason only: I’ve tried the potato logs at every other available gas station between here and Scooba (even the pitiful, dilapidated one that, at first glance, would appear to be a prime locale for those in search of the White Rabbit, but is indeed a usable gas station. The sign practically yells it at you, “Yes! We are open! Yes!” They did not, however, have potato logs).

And I did not stay there after realizing that fact.

Truth is, they just seem to fry a potato log better in whatever the oil is at Gas Station #3, also known as Scooba Junction, with its little train logo on the building.

And no…I don’t want to know what’s in the oil.

I just know that if I want a potato log the way God intended, I have no choice but to go all the way to Scooba. (Well, that and also I work in Scooba).

Sigh.

Today was one of those days that nearly won out over my want of a paycheck. Today hurt. I have never wanted to get in my car less than I did this morning, and that’s counting days I’ve driven through tornado watches, fog advisories, and goats.

I wasn’t sick, I wasn’t unhappy, I was simply done. That’s what I realized this morning.

I was simply done.

I couldn’t fathom another hour and some such minutes behind the wheel of my car having to share the road…or share, period. I’m through with it, mentally. Why my body continues to go and drive to my office every day is beyond me.

I’m worn out with being a “roadie.” I’m tired of all the truck drivers; I’m tired of Miss Jesus Is My Co-Pilot who absolutely must drink her coffee while applying eye shadow at 83 MPH, and smoke. I’m tired of nose pickers, cell phone talkers, motor-mouth singers, speed demons, omni-blinkers, and the elderly.

I’m tired of all of them. All of these people who, I can only assume, wait every morning just for me, before pulling out from their respective driveways and back roads for the sole purpose of getting in my way.

As I slung my own car, Tigi, onto Highway 45, bright and early this morning, I slowed a teensy bit as I came up to the first (and last) exit that would allow me to easily wind my way back home, but I didn’t because a) I’m not independently wealthy so I have to work, and b) I was starving and I knew of only one thing that could satisfy it: potato logs.

So, I suckered myself into the drive.

Maybe I was hungrier than I thought, maybe I was eating out of anger and frustration, or maybe I’m really just a big, fat lovable porcine extra in Charlotte’s Web, but I bought six potato logs, each roughly the size of a firm banana.

I added to that order a Coke Zero, or if you prefer, Joke Zero, and three small plastic tubs of ranch dressing…and one of honey mustard.

I am not one ounce ashamed, nor do I have even a gram of guilt about it, either.

Instead, I savored each hot morsel of that salty tuber flesh, licked the tips of my mystery- greasy fingers, and for several long seconds, when I’d eaten all of them, sat back in my chair and wore the crumbs like a well-deserved Purple Heart.

Because teaching is hell, and war is hell, and if this were a valid and logical syllogism, then you could say that teaching is war.

And you have to fight a war in order to get a Purple Heart. Even if you’re wounding yourself by gorging on a sack full of what’s floating in a gas station’s back room Fry Daddy.

It’s a fitting metaphor, trust me. Around here, the battleground never flattens out; new trenches are dug every day, and the troops stay primed for ambush.

And me? I stand out like the sore thumb of a sitting duck trying desperately to teach them about Sophocles and pageant wagons.

Maybe by the end of the week we’ll at least be able to spell Sophocle.

I mean, Sophocles.

See what I’m saying?

You’d eat your way to a Purple Heart, too, I imagine.

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• Five foods that made me who I am.
• I guess Boston has everything.
• I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
• I couldn’t see the title of the book so it must have been about Scientology.

Amanda was recounting her recent trip to Boston, in which she was finally able to satisfy a small bit of her boundless love for ethnic foods: Cuban, German, Haitian, Indian, to name several.

I guess Boston has everything.

And as you might expect, the conversation stayed focused on the topic of food. That’s what happens when you’re with cultured people, eating cultured things such as Chivda sounds—for the record, I used Reduced Fat Jif, the crunchy kind—until there came the smallest lull, allowing Amanda to confess her exciting dietary adventures.

She’d been a tad antsy, eager to share.

So she did.

“I finally got to eat Ethiopian.”

This, of course, was roundly applauded, and with genuine interest, I began to ask for specifics. What was it like? Was it even real food? Because, aren’t they kind of known as a country without food?

I couldn’t imagine what they authentically ate, and I found it ironic that though the country itself is constantly on the verge of agricultural collapse and starvation, a few of them have managed to come to America and open up a restaurant to cook food for us.

Still, I honestly wanted to know what authentic Ethiopian food was like. I honestly wanted to know every detail about this particular dining experience.

So, she told me, us.

Apparently, they pile all their food on top of a large table of bread, and you eat everything in sight. Possibly, even the chair and napkin, should you be given one.

And also you use your hands.

I want to say “Gross!” but I wouldn’t mean it. Secretly, germ-conscious as I can be, I would love nothing more than to squish peas through my fingers, or to cup a handful of goat cheese up to my mouth and shove it in, sans-utensils.

But, and chide me later if you consider this misleading in retrospect, the conversation came to a full halt when Amanda replied that the food, the experience, the actual Ethiopian meal was…well, not authentic as much as it was authentic-ish.

Authentic-ish.

The word, in and of itself, isn’t really the issue, but that manmade suffix…is.

Because I hear it all the time.

My students, my friends, passers-by, that ridiculous trollop of a Wal-Mart Associate from last night who insisted on giving me a buggy despite the fact that I even took the time to tell her I was only getting a half-gallon of skim milk…that little -ish is everywhere.

We’ve become a society of opinionated adjective-pushers.

I mean, this, this, it’s becoming an epidemic. Or, epidemic-ish.

And yet, it’s complete and utter genius.

Because its overall purpose, I now see, is to function in daily conversation as a general whitewash. An excuse of non-description by engaging all descriptions. Tacking that –ish onto any and every word known to Man is both answering the question and closing the subject, at the same time.

My grandmother for years harped and nagged about the “ugliness” of people who cursed. Her reason: it negated their ability to find a creative way to express themselves. Instead of describing the pain, the event, the whatever, people would scream out one obscenity or profanity after another. If they’d take the time to think it through, blah, blah, blah…right?

That was my first reaction to this –ish business…until the other night.

Because really, what did I expect? They were Ethiopians living in America. Are they really going to go whole hog on the authenticity of the nutritional habits of their people? I doubt it. How could they? They’d probably be shut down by the FDA. They’ve done what all ethnic and cultural entrepreneurs have done when they emgirate: they Americanized.

Which, in turn, gives rise to the handiness of that little peckerwood of a suffix –ish. Because that was in fact the correct descriptor to her “cuisine experience.” She was eating authentic-ish Ethiopian food.

And the deeper beauty of –ish is that it isn’t relegated only to eating.

No, not by a long shot.

I teach students who appear to be serious-ish about passing, I’ve been in love-ish before, and god knows, I’ve spent a few too many nights, drunk-ish, texting everyone in my phone, even my mother, talking about any number of stupid things from recipes to recalling an old feud between me and a friend over a broken tambourine.

There are even days when I’m thankful for that little –ish.

When I’m just sick-ish instead of having the stomach virus. When I’m sad-ish but my heart’s not broken. When the day’s OK-ish, but it’s not bad.

You know what I’m talking about, and you agree. Don’t you?

At least, sort of-ish?

Yeah, I thought you would…even if -ish just a little.

Related Posts:

• So, you know…I really like a potato log.
• Yes, Virginia, I am a vegetarian.
• Five foods that made me who I am.
• After that, I ate my chocolate cobbler in silence.
• I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.

You know what’s harder than that? Trying to explain yoga to your precious family of aging Southern Baptists.

Because if it’s not explicitly typed in the King James version of the Holy Bible then it’s most likely of the devil, who probably created yoga to trick Christians into performing exercises that would get them into positions they couldn’t get out of, thus holding them in place so he could catch them.

But, yoga is a later issue.

First, we have to address a more pressing item, though there are several items overall, not the least of which is the fact that my hair has suddenly gone from brown to a bronze-red, due to a slight miscalculation of coloring when I tried to turn it fully blonde. For me to get bored, you see, is a dangerous mistake.

One my family, specifically U.L., prays constantly about.

So, last Sunday, U.L. asked me how I’d been doing, all the while staring at my mane of flame. I did a fair amount of traveling over this past holiday and hadn’t been “at home” as much as I usually am.

Some of that, though, was by choice. We’re still rebuilding the burned bridge from several months back when I finally had to break down and confess to my family that I was indeed a vegetarian.

And that’s what I’m writing about today: vegetarianism.

To say that I was a vegetarian was as shocking a statement to make as saying, “I’m gay,” or worse yet, “I’m moving my letter to the Episcopal church.”

I plead the fifth on both, for the time being because they pale in comparison to what I actually said, which was, “Yes, Virginia, I am a Vegetarian.” (Virginia is GamVa’s real name, by the way).

Man cannot live by peppers alone...entirely. He will also need tomatoes.

To admit that I was no longer eating meat was tantamount to saying I only read the short chapters in the Bible, or that I think the Flood was really God’s tears about the danger of having termites on board the Ark.

My family is rather self-sufficient. We grow (and certainly used to, back in the day) most, if not all, our own vegetables. We have a good bit of land, and we share what we grow with our neighbors, because that’s in the Bible, and we can what’s left over so we have homegrown vegetables in the winter, etc. etc.

On top of this, we also have our own private cattle farm. Which means fresh, organic meat. And when various hunting seasons start, we send out our gentle menfolk to kill for the sake of eating. We keep in stock fresh deer meat, and have been known to wrangle up a real, bona fide turkey for Thanksgiving.

All of which I, for many years, enjoyed. I do not deny this: I grew up with meat, and I liked it.

But, then, I had a horrible, disgusting dream about eating meat which was so pervasive that it forced me into becoming a vegetarian, and to this day, I honor it. I will actually celebrate my tenth month anniversary (which is almost as long as any relationship I’ve ever had) as a veg-head, next Sunday.

I don’t have anything big planned, other than an argument.

Because that’s what it’s become. Every Sunday. An argument.

Is this what lifelong veg-heads have had to endure? Every week, I have to defend the fact that I choose not to eat meat to my family. I have never known such judgment as I’ve encountered since becoming 100% veggie-friendly.

I have been castigated about everything, and not just by my family. They’re biggest gripe really is the meat part, if you will. Because Nana cooks so much of it, each week.  Very meat-centric.

Ok, now, blow.

Now, every sniffle I have, every little bitty cough, and their immediate diagnosis is, “Well, if you ate meat…”

I had no idea that meat was such a cure-all. The next time U.L. gets the flu, I’ll see to it that he gets a nice hot bowl of chicken fried steak.

I mean, it’s not that I disagree entirely: I think all food is cyclically healthy, in its own way, but there are substitutions…good, FDA-approved substitutions.

And, my god, the way we eat, each week, I’m surprised none of us are dead, yet.

But, the judgment from others, is what’s staggering. I’ve been looked up and down and chastised for my “vegetarianism” while I seem to have no trouble “wearing leather gloves.”

They were a gift, by the way.

People have joked about what shoes I’m wearing, what materials my clothes are made of, and it’s not just animal-based products either. There is no end in sight to the scope of judgment I’ve shouldered, all in good humor: plastics, woods, and…well, OK, my list has an end, but that’s just because I have no political agenda about the “cause.” So, I don’t keep a tally of what’s “in” and “out” where “green” is concerned.

It has, still, however, brought a lot to light.

Am I just caving into a trend with my dietary habits? Am I really a true vegetarian? (I know I can’t be vegan because I could never do without cheese, and though tapioca is a fun substitute, it just doesn’t do it for me).

Or is doing even a little good, just not good enough? Now, I’m starting to question everything I touch, buy, or put in my mouth, on my face, on my body, near an elbow, you name it…I worry about it.

I recently returned from NYC, and I made sure that every purchase of mine was animal-, environment-, and judgment-free. From my shoes, to my shirts, to the foods I ate. And at quite a cost.

The (insert noun here)-free world is not a cheap one. Which sometimes smells a little like a conspiracy, doesn’t it?

What started out as such a simple way to make the world a little bit better has quickly escalated into an addiction, and one with a price tag.

Which brings me to two points: 1) We must be doing something wrong in this country because hundreds of other countries live this way and don’t go broke doing it, and 2) U.L.’s argument that what I’m doing is somehow “wrong” is testament to what this current culture has become: Lost.

Because in a sense, the way I’m living now, the way I’m eating and thinking about eating is no different than the way U.L. grew up (or me, for the most part). They farmed everything themselves, they grew fresh vegetables, they milked cows, they created their own health.

Cow, sheep, goat, soy, or rice. God loves us all the same.

And took pride in it.

But, somehow, because what “was” has now fallen into the hands  of what “is” (meaning people who use words like yoga as well as people who are part of the corporate-farming network), it has become a dirty thing, a nasty deed, practically ungodly.

However, I hold firm because I still believe that a journey of a thousand miles begins with just one step…and what matters is that you take that step, either way: whether you’re vegetarian, pescatarian, or Presbyterian.

So…you know, just hush up and start walking, already.

A thousand miles is a long, long way to go.

Related Posts:

• Five foods that made me who I am.
• I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
• Gary makes me hungry.
• So, you know…I really like a potato log.
• I’ve never had a mullet, and other Things I Can Brag About [...]*

* The full, real title is I’ve never had a mullet, and other Things I Feel I Have the Right to Brag About and also Things I Cannot Stand. Just, you know, FYI.

You should know that what follows is a) a partial list only, and b) they’re not in any particular order of Cannot Stand vs. Brag. I would say to put your Big Boy Panties on and read carefully, but it’s odd how similar the things I can’t stand and the things I want to brag about actually are.

I’m not sure what that says about me, but anyway – to be safe – how about I don’t say anything about your panties. No need to tip the scales against me…

This is the very face of irony. And its finger.

Just enjoy the read.

• I will not eat food while wearing a jacket.
• I’ve never been bitten by a rattlesnake.
• Pudding, Cool Whip, and/or meringue, formless foods that try to make you think they can stand alone.
• I cannot, cannot, cannot abide a haircut where they “wet your hair” instead of rinsing it, fully.
• I hate talking on the phone.
• I have good teeth.
• People who pass gas and are proud of it.
• I don’t like people who don’t use turn signals, myself included.
• I rarely get sick.
• Animals like me.
• I’m a very good driver.
• I can listen to a song I like on repeat way, way longer than you can.
• I do not appreciate tardy people, and I tell them that.
• I cook well.
• Interestingly, I can give myself a fever.
• I disapprove of people who smack.
• I am, for the most part, actually clever.
• I’ve been featured on the back cover of The Dramatist three times.
• Spandex.
• I frown on poor penmanship.
• People who say “kewl.”
• I’ve never broken any bones…well, not my own. (Please see the next bulleted point).
• Once, I got so mad at this boy, at some Christian Bible camp I had to go to, that I wished and wished he’d get hurt. And he did, he broke his collar bone.
• I dreamed once that a man was going to drown, and he did.
• Meetings. Meetings. Meetings. And talk of future meetings.
• I am routinely complimented on my penmanship. FYI.
• Truckers.
• I learned Hebrew when I was four.
• I’ve never had a mullet.
• But, I have eyelashes of jealous, enviable length.
• No one in my family has ever baby talked the babies.
• I wrote my first poem when I was eleven.
• People who prefer not to use deodorant.
• 4-way stops.
• Answering the phone. (Please see the fifth bulleted point, above).
• Lying.
• I only have original art in my house.
• I’m more than likely the reincarnation of either Truman Capote, Noel Coward, or Oscar Wilde. I’m just saying. Because that’s like, totally something to brag about.
• Fedoras and scarves.
• My cat, Aristophanes, is part-bobcat.
• Church cantatas that include handbells. 
• My legs.
• Hang nails.
• I have a brother who is half-Iranian, a second brother and sister who are half-Polish, and a third brother who is half-Cherokee, between my parents. On top of that, as you might have guessed, we’re all half-siblings. Now, add on top of that this: the Iranian brother is Muslim, but our mother comes from a Jewish family, which makes us Jewish, so I feel certain war will eventually break out between us. Talk about a conflict of interest.
• I was once ranked third in the state in Men’s singles tennis.
• My brother who is half-Iranian is also an up-and-coming rap artist, in Las Vegas, by the way. I thought you should know that.
• I have an autographed book by Eudora Welty, who was a friend of my mother’s.
• Screaming, and any variation of it.
• Proselytizers.
• Mississippi is no longer the fattest state in the nation.
• My grandmother once made me stop the car and get out, to help a turtle get across the road. That’s the stock I come from.
• Billy Hull, who lived down the road from me, was once the longest-serving County Supervisor in the United States. He held the record until he died.
• My cousin, Lucy, was a second-alternate for the 1996 Olympic gymnastics team, behind Amanda Borden.
• My Uncle Oscar started Morrison’s Cafeterias.
• My Nana is deaf in the same ear as Caesar.
• Feet.
• I was Little Mr. Winston County in 1983.
• Fred Phelps.
• I won the Mississippi State Horticulture award in 1994, even though I didn’t climb the tree like everyone else at the week-long camp did to retrieve a sample of blighted mistletoe.
• Boogers.
• People who end all of their sentences as if they’re asking questions.
• I’ve never gotten pregnant.
• I almost met Harper Lee.
• I can play the piano by ear, if the piano is out of tune like U.L’s.
• Oh, and get this, U.L. had a brother who was a dwarf, named Ran.
• I saved a young boy from drowning when I was fifteen.
• Coffee.
• I know the world’s greatest drummer. No lie.
• That being said, the world’s foremost banjo player is from my hometown.
• My mother dated Marty Stuart, years ago.
• Pumpkin pie.
• I once sang a note, and held it for a minute and twenty-eight seconds. But, only once.
• Even people who hate me, like me.
• Sweating in work clothes.
• Computers that are slow.
• I once got stung by twelve yellow jackets, at the same time. Three on the face, alone. And lived to tell it.
• I used to make my own books of poetry from discarded gift boxes and wood glue, which I for years thought was more durable than normal glue. They fell apart, though, after about five reads.
• One of my neighbors, growing up, had a pet monkey that did not like curtains, or his daughter.
• My Aunt Sally lived to be 100; my Uncle Pat, 102.
• I am the Cat Whisperer.
• People who pepper their conversations with French. How gauche.
• My blog is an app on someone’s iPhone.
• Rude children.
• Waking up.

Both art and a good philosophy.

I’d like to continue but, ironically, another thing I can’t stand is writing. Who’d’ve thunk it? I’m driven to write, though, I can’t ignore that, but I still find it painful and grueling.  Probably because it’s such a raw craft, makes me vulnerable…or better yet, makes me think and feel that I’m vulnerable.

Which reminds me…

•  Being vulnerable, you know, and stupid things like that.

Oh, and, one last thing…

•  I’ve held a baby gopher turtle. I bet you haven’t.

I know that makes you jealous, the baby gopher turtle part, and I’m sorry for that. I would be too, I mean, come on! It was a baby gopher turtle! You’ve probably never even heard of a gopher turtle, in the first place…raise your hands if you have.

I didn’t see a single hand go up.

Ok, I’m done. That’s all for now.

So…go on and have a good one.

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Because I love desperate people, people who are in dire need of belonging to Something: a group, a party, a conversation. They’re simply fascinating to watch in public because they have no radar for ridicule.

My money's on the guy in the yellow shirt.

Enter: Me. The Radar.

I’m not always “in your face” about things, but it takes all kinds, I know, and I respect those who are. For me, I’m much more like a Dorothy Zbornak; I like to fight with my wit, when I have any.

Like that girl, last night, whom I’m supposing I met thought I don’t recall an introduction. She was one of the beautiful and desperate people I’m referring to. They always make such good stories. And she, you see, had Something To Say.  And she was going to tell whoever was listening, or, as it were, not listening.

But, let me set the scene.

I’d decided to treat myself, yesterday. And I fully intend on doing much, much more of that in the future, as a means to “get through the day.” It’s a nice goal to focus toward, as in, God I hate this job but I’m getting a fried green tomato sandwich and peach mango martini when I’m through and that’s going to be just fine, you know that sort of thing.

Next on my list is a massage.

I get to the restaurant before the rush. It’s practically empty. I love this. I love having a huge restaurant entirely to myself. It makes me feel gauche and worth it.

I sit at the bar and place my order. The bartender looks awful. He’s aware of this and begins to tell me this horrible, god-pitiful story about botulism, that he acquired at an Olive Garden in Florida two weeks ago…he assumed I was going to ask, I guess.

Not your usual entry point into a conversation, I know, but as it just so happened, I, too, had a botulism story to share, and it also involved the Olive Garden, but this one was in Tuscaloosa. I’ve been hedging my bets on going back to the Olive Garden, convinced it was more than likely an isolated event. I do not feel this way anymore.

I will never eat in an Olive Garden, again, ever.

He, the bartender, had been hospitalized, then confined to bed rest, and now, though he was able to be mobile, he was unable to eat. He couldn’t keep anything down, not even crackers.

Not even crackers.

I knew too well that feeling. He’d lost almost twenty pounds, already, he said. (I felt that was just rubbing it in my face, but whatever).

It was at this juncture in our exchange that a body appeared and plopped down right next to me. She was, in fact, too next to me.

“God, dude, you look like sh*t.”

Clearly, she could have sat elsewhere.

Whatever happened to hello? Then, I realized she wasn’t even talking to me. She was talking to the bartender. She was merely sitting almost in my lap for funsies, I guess. To be fair, there were only twelve other empty bar stools available. I should cut her some slack. Though it would also have been fine if I could have just cut her, period.

She launches into such a casual tirade of swear words that I’m fairly certain I blushed. I used to blush all the time when my Grandfather Lee would curse, out of embarrassment for all tri-state listeners. Yet, it was like an art form, how effortlessly he interwove harsh language with typical parentheticals and everyday How Do You Dos. Just like this Wandering Dandy of a Thick-Calfed Girl.

I’m not sure if I blushed out of respect or fear, with her, though.

Still, on she went, stating the very obvious in the most colorful of terms. I excused myself and went to the bathroom; I felt the need to wash my hands.

When I returned, she hadn’t left.

I was determined to enjoy my treat, though, and I wasn’t about to shovel this delectable sandwich down my throat…so, I did what we all do down South. I grinned and bore it, all the while telling myself that I would just blog about it later.

After several PBRs (at least they were in the bottle), she seemed to mellow. Thankfully.

Now, in my own experiences, I’ve discovered that people who “cuss” excessively are either socially awkward geniuses or functionally retarded. Not mentally, and I’m not trying to belabor an ill-conceived joke, I mean they have been slowed down in the state of being able to function, independent of coarse conversational skills, in an effort to hide this truth: they’re mainly idiots. Well-intentioned, perhaps, but nevertheless.

I was eager to discover which category she fell into.

The TV above the bar was, as you can guess, turned to sports, which I’m strangely growing fond of watching (this is more than confusing to me, but I’m open to it, I’m open to it). During a commercial break, a trailer for the newly released (and artistically brilliant, it seems) movie Where The Wild Things Are popped across the screen.

We'll try another time, my dear.

She said, “I can’t f*****g wait to that g*d**n movie.”

I swallowed, “Yes, it looks like a good one.”

“Yeah,” she continued, “I just bought the book. I want to read it first, you know, then go see the movie…but I’m only halfway through it.”

And then, I knew. I’d made my discovery.

I said, “Yeah, page 10 is a real killer.”

She nodded, “But the pictures are nice,” and ordered another PBR, oblivious.

I excused myself, again, to go laugh in the bathroom.

I almost didn’t come back out.

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See how it mocks me with its tongue?

And I love me a good Chinese fortune cookie. I live for them; I just don’t eat them – in case they come true. The only reason I frequent any Chinese buffet, though, even the one in Dekalb, is for the sole purpose of receiving, $9.00 later, that little baked, folded, American invention we call the Chinese fortune cookie.

I guess there’s a little of Ya Ya in me, after all.

Because of her, I reserve a small portion of my spirituality for the sake of superstition. It’s fun. And she taught me that anything worth doing might as well be fun or lead up to it. Let me give you an example: I must have been nine or ten, and I was sweetly feeding the squirrels and birds in the front yard, down at Fish Camp, when out of the clear, blame blue swooped a hawk. It flew straight down and killed a redbird that was calmly eating, right in front of my face.

I stood, transfixed. Trying to scream, my mouth wide open, but nothing was coming out. Ya Ya had actually seen the whole thing from the garden, and came running to me, arms stretched out. She carefully explained how Things Work, and we cleaned up the mess and made a fan with the remaining feathers.

Of course, I never get anything worth anything from a fortune cookie.

They’re never really useful or inspired, it seems. Usually, they’re throw-away advice only, or trendy refrigerator art, like my macaroni Ark of the Covenant that I made for U.L. in Vacation Bible School, in second grade.

Rarely, do I get a fortune cookie with something I can walk away with. Yes, yes, a few times, I’ve gotten the old, ubiquitous standby, “You’ll be surrounded by great wealth.”

But, that hasn’t happened yet…unless you count that time I met Michael Eisner, when I worked for Disney. But, his knees were bent by dollars earned from my hard work…which rubs a little of the shine off, for me.

Mostly I get stupid ones, funny but not encouraging, not uplifting.

What I long for is the day I get a fortune like, “Beware the man two booths over. He’s wanted for identity theft in eight states,” OR, “This date is a loser. He lives at home and is allergic to squash. Get out.  Now.”

 I mean, those are good fortunes. That’s what I’m looking for. Something that would or could make a difference in my life, such as maintaining my own identity and finding someone who will appreciate a good squash casserole. A lot of the world’s problems would be resolved if we could just do these two things, I think. I mean, identity is everything, and squash—well, I’m sure I don’t I have to tell you all about the virtues of squash.

After last Thursday, however, I may be inclined to accept the quality of the Chinese fortune cookie based on its entertainment value alone.

And that brings me to Amanda, the case in point.

He has found enlightenment and a good buffet.

Amanda and I are known to be Buffet Buddhas. We divide our time between the two good Chinese buffets in town with the devotion of a nervous monk. And when we can’t go because of the weather, we make them come to us. We order in. We wait. We get excited. We polish our own personal sets of chopsticks and make our own hot sauce (well, Amanda does). We settle in on the couch, and again, we wait. We talk about the food, like we’ve never tasted it before. We wonder if they’ll forget the steamed dumplings this time; if they have shrimp toast, still; if it’ll be late, like it always is; if they’ll want to come in and pet the dog, again, just whatever, until the food finally arrives.

Then we lay back, and shoosh the cats and dog out of the way, turn on the TV, and watch whatever’s on. We don’t even care what’s on.

It doesn’t matter because we’re eating Chinese food.

It’s that good. (And I can’t tell you why; I don’t know why). I certainly didn’t grow up eating it. I don’t even like half of what’s on the buffet, but you see, it’s that half of the buffet that I do like that matters.

Last Thursday, though, was a good weather day, and so we decided to go to them, instead. We chose the buffet out towards Wal-Mart, so you know we were committed to have to drive that far.

We took plates and plates of our favorites: the Broccoli Cheese Thing, the Cream Cheese Thing, (NOTE: these are really just my favorites), the Egg Omelet Thing, and so on.

I was in heaven, or wherever Buddha lives, is it Shanghai? I was in heaven or Shanghai. The point is, I was there, and happy to be so.

And then came the fortune cookies, nestled on a little black, plastic tray. I grabbed mine.

I opened it and read: “You’re a good person. Thank you.”

Touching, but obvious.

I eagerly stared at Amanda until she put her fork down (just one little bite of Meat-Wrapped Shrimp Thing left!) and made her open hers.

I’m so glad I did.

Hers said: “You are capable, competent, creative, and careful. Prove it.”

Prove it? I mean, ouch.

Here she’d had such a long day, and now her fortune cookie is yelling at her? I laughed so hard I spit my cookie out. Well, what was left of it.

I hope someone invents a self-cleaning house, soon.

And every day since then, just to make sure she doesn’t forget, I’ve told her at least thrice a day to do just that. As a matter of fact, no matter what she says to me, or asks of me, or talks about, or references, I merely wait until she’s through and say, very plainly, “Prove it.”

She went on and on Sunday about cleaning the house, the house needed cleaning, etcetera, etcetera, I just stood there and when she finished said, “I agree. Now, prove it.”

I’m just hoping she won’t resort to her fists to do the proving.

Not that I’d blame her.

I never know when things get old. Ooh…wouldn’t that make a good fortune?

“Your joke is getting old. Change it.”

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All this talk about 2012, and the end of the world, has made me both hungry and excited. That’s a dangerous combination, coupled with the fact that Lil’ Wayne, The Smashing Pumpkins, and Janeane Garofalo are listed on various 2012 websites as celebrity believers in this Doomsday Prophecy. I mean, please…

That’s enough right there to make me gorge myself to near death on a jar of warm mayonnaise.

The essential southern food staple in repose.

To be honest, I’m not sure where my depth of awe in the Apocalypse even comes from. I don’t know why it intrigues me so much. I’m sure, like most everything else I learned, it was tacked onto the underside of some Bible lesson I was taught as a child, at Tigi’s feet, which were usually planted right in front of the stove. It’s not an uncommon sight: mixing faith with a wooden spoon.

That makes it sound a little like a beating.

It wasn’t, not really. Not physically, anyway.

I recognize that faith requires a bruise, sometimes…or, a deep cut across that list of things you think, or want, or try to believe in. It was a good reminder to learn about faith while supper was being fixed. There’s a definite correlation between the two; it’s what makes cornbread soul food.

In the Christian faith there’s hardly a more anticipatory event than the marriage of Them to Rapture nee Apocalypse.  For everyone else, I suppose there’s just the anxious wait…to see if comes true or not. But, whichever way you want to spin it, it’s all getting a little out of hand, this Doomsday business.

And I’m loving every minute of it.

I’m young, but I’ve lived through a lot. And not just me, I mean my whole generation. The laundry list of events we’ve witnessed firsthand is staggering: Katrina, 9/11, the 2004 Tsunami, Y2K, William Shatner’s Roast on Comedy Central. It seems like tragic world events are happening with more and more frequency.

What's your frequency, Kenneth?

Either that, or I’m watching too much television.

It all makes me nervous. Then, again, it’s supposed to. We’ve been living in the Age of Anxiety since the end of World War II. I think I believe that. I need to believe it; it makes me more sympathetic to U.L.

I’ve said before that the attraction we perversely find in ourselves when drawn to such disasters is the safe and equalizing effect such disasters have over us. After 9/11, we remembered that we were a nation of peoples, different but necessary. We loved each other. Churches became important again. Faith was found, in the backs of closets and dusty, but still: there it was. So, we pulled it out and put it on the coffee table. We made pies and casseroles and invited friends over. We ran up phone bills, went over our “minutes.”

Until it felt OK to not care so much, so vividly. That’s sort of how our cycle goes: we stress into doing right, we rest into being wrong.

But, now, here we are again, thanks to the Mayans, sitting in a new testy silence ruminating on the threatening possibility of another absolute annihilation at the end of 2012 (in December, my birthday month no less).

The fear comes from our complete inability to do anything about it, if it’s true.

There’s certainly nothing I can do about it, in the next three and a half years. I mean, not about stopping the world from ending, but I can eat. I am more than capable of going broke pub-clubbing from restaurant to restaurant, in this present interim.

So, I’m thinking about that, instead. 

And that’s a lot of stress, to think about what foods I want to eat, or what dishes I want to try in the kitchen over the next 42 months. I don’t even know where Tigi’s wooden spoon is. This is not an easy task: planning will be have to planned. I’ll have to quit my job, take what meager savings I have and map out a clear, concise itinerary for my Doomsday Delectables Tour, highlighting which restaurants are truly worth stopping for, which grocers stock the finest ingredients.

It’s intense.

I liken it to the extreme pressure a death row inmate must face when he leans across the table and tells his lawyer what he wants for his last meal. There are simply too many delicious food combos to consider: do you go classic and simple and keep it all PB&J, or do you demand a choice filet with a rich peppercorn sauce and Baked Alaska for dessert?

It’s maddening to think about, and I’ve only got 1196 days left. Which I should point out is hardly fair: death row inmates get years and years to listen and understand their pallate’s sincerest needs. According to the 2012 Doomsday Clock, I won’t even have enough time to finish my doctorate before the world ends, much less commit a capitol murder offense.

Right now, you're wishing you'd taken that bite.

And that’s fine by me because I just don’t have that kind of time, right now.

There’s such a huge degree of uncertainty, these days: will the world end; where will I be when it ends; is the economy permanently damaged; who keeps turning on the water hose behind my house and leaving it on all day…I mean these are the important questions.

And, I’m sorry, but I can only answer one of them. I know exactly where I’ll be when the world ends:  in the kitchen, cooking.

I always make extra, don’t worry…so feel free to drop by. And, on the way, could you stop by Wal-Mart, or somewhere, and get a few things?  Like water purifiers, wheelbarrows (with spare tires), dust masks, and vegetable seeds. We’re going to need these things if we intend to survive.

Oh, yeah, and a bottle of white, too, please. Pinot Grigio (not a dreadful Chardonnay)

I mean, the end of the world is not an excuse to be tacky, right? 

Let’s  go out as gauche as we came in…

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Yet, I was terribly, awkwardly naive. A bookworm straight out of the solid core of a ripe apple, I didn’t read people as well as words, not until I was much older – and oh how I wish you could shut people up the way you do a book, one flick of  your wrist and back they go on the shelf. 

But me, no, I never questioned authority, and let me tell you that came to backfire on a lot of children in my generation, in the mid-1980s; pedophilia was nearing an epidemic – remember when Snuffleupagus finally became “real?” There was a sad reason for that  - still, I respected my elders, continued to watch Sesame Street, and…

…I never, never put my elbows on the table.

But, as tends to happen, things change.

First, we had a bumper crop of babies in the family.  And as they continue to grow older, some things must necesssarily fall to the wayside (last Sunday, Wynn Chandler, 1.5,  and Connor, 3,  threw a wooden banana back and forth across the dinner table until it hit A.K.’s, 4, very full plate of spaghetti, causing it to fall into his lap and set off an alarm of some sort, a siren, buried in the back of his gut. Poor A.K., who for once wasn’t causing trouble, screamed loudly enough to make up for it). 

But, for years, it had only been me, in my adopted family. I was the baby, I was the absolute center of the universe. Careful attention was given to me, like alms and written prayers offered at the Wailing Wall. And I responded to this positive reinforcement.

Nana, for instance, was merciless in her insistence that I be well-bred, especially at the almighty dinner table. Each week I was taught with precision and focus a rule of etiquette. I could set a table for six, for a five-course meal, with formal attire and RSVP’ed regret cards (food allergies to be listed in the space provided on the back of the card) in under ten minutes. When it came to grace and civility at the dinner table, I stood alone. And above. All others. Well, at least other children.

The test came every Sunday. If I mastered the rule from the previous week: placement of water glasses, descending order of forks, the importance of balling a napkin, especially linen, at the end of the meal, as opposed to folding it (a sin!) and laying it in the center of the plate, etc. I would receive a dollar bill, magically slipped under my plate in the interim between the meal and dessert (in my family, we have a sort of digestive purgatory during this interim where we offer coffee and discussion before actually getting to dessert – well, we used to before the, you know, babies. The last time we did this ended up in a clotted mess of coffee, Berber carpet and mashed potatoes).

This went on for years, this Dollar Bill Incentive.

And I can, to this day, clearly remember the Sunday that I Decided I Would Showcase All Rules of Etiquette Learned Ever. I made a huge to-do about it, as well, telling everyone from that Wednesday night on, that Sunday would be the day. I would get absolutely everything right. That table would look ripped from the pages of Southern Living. 

We were never served pizza. So, this is a pure lie.

As a matter of fact, it wouldn’t just be set with the Sunday china, or the crystal tea glasses, it would be set with Intimidation. They might not even be able to eat, so crisp would be the napkins, so pristinely placed the plates. Instead, I told them, it might “behoove” them (yet another word I’d picked up from Aunt Maudy) to bring cameras.

Oh, how I practiced in my bedroom, drawing out diagrams, using flash cards – I know, it seems like a lot of unneccessary subterfuge just to set one table, and I know it is, shall we say, for something so truly insignificant in the greater scheme of things (like surviving a recession) but times were different then, and I was a lonely child, so cut me some slack.

I wasn’t entirely innocent, though.  No, I had a plan.

I wasn’t just diagraming the etiquette rules I’d been taught by Nana. I was busy inventing new ones, cleverly cloaked in similarity to real, authentic rules.  They’d never be the wiser, and when all was said and done, under my plate, that Sunday, would be well over $50. I was about to become the richest 12-year-old in the Wess Chapel community.

That morning I was at church so fast, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d taken a bath.

And God, how church dragged on and on…finally, we stood up for the Benediction. I knew my patience was wearing thin; I could barely, just barely, make it through this, I told myself: the song was “Just As I Am,” the uncut version, and I could already tell we were going to sing every last verse of it. I sat there praying that no one would take the altar.  I didn’t have time for that, they could just go find a closet, like the Bible said, and pray on their own time…I had a table to set. Much to my chagrin, two women, the Usual Suspects, strode down the aisle. I thought, fine, get it over with, lay your sins at the foot of the pulpit and get back to the pew…but the heavier of the two women, the one who was solely responsible for introducing Tupperware to the Social Ladies League, did a sneak-around and went to the pastor instead.

The Lord! I thought, This is going to take forever. You don’t walk down the aisle to speak to the pastor, during Benediction, to ask him how’s he doing, or where he got his suit. No, you’ve done some horribly guilty thing if it requires pastoral counseling at a quarter to one, in a Baptist church.  I was hoping it’d be about the Tupperware, personally.

I'd pray about Tupperware, too. For forgiveness of it.

You could have cut the tension in that church with a communion wafer – of course it’d have to be on the fifth Sunday of the month, that’s the only time we do Communion. Point is, everyone started praying for that woman, right then. And not in a good way. She was all the time taking advantage of the altar, something that is frowned upon at the church unless your aging mother whom you put in a nursing home even though you knew better has recently died, or your husband has left you for Brenda who up until last Monday had been the secretary at the elementary school, or your neighbor is that crazy woman who everyone knew “drove her husband to the grave with her constant migraines and other things always said in a whisper around children” had started sneaking out to her car, in her own driveway, and kicking the back fender in, and then calling the police and blaming you for it, poor Ms. Ada Lee – she had a walker for crying out loud…those were the only acceptable reasons to take the altar. 

Anything else just got you bad-mouthed.  They weren’t praying for her, they were praying about her: mainly to shut up and sit back down.

Finally, I guess, the Good Lord took her call and she got what she needed, and if not, we all knew she’d be back next Sunday. Although one time she took the altar on a Wednesday evening service, which just looked bad…no one ever did that, and also she’d worn knee-highs. The minute she kneeled to pray, it was, well, plainly unfair for the rest of us to have to look at that.

I was already out of my seatbelt, the car rolling to a stop, U.L. hollering at me “to quit doing that every blame time until he was fully stopped,” I could see him mentally adding yet another thing to the List of Bad Habits With Which He Blamed My Mother For. It was a long list and I knew, in time, it’d break him and he’d find himself at the altar, too.

I calmly stepped into Nana’s house and began the task that would make me rich and able to ruin the lives of all other children in my grade; so few at my school could afford the food in the cafeteria at the Academy. Which wasn’t really good food anyway.  But, after today, I could buy chicken baskets and shrimp boats and pizza slices for everyone.

Dinner passed by quietly, a few stunted mumbles of approval. I could tell that I’d done it, I’d pulled it off, this great heist of etiquette. Not a fork misplaced, not a napkin ring turned over, no water glass unfilled. I could barely eat, even though it was meatloaf, which was, like, number 7, in the secret diary I kept, where on the cover in glowing, loops of letters I’d written in the black magic marker: Favorite Things In Life. Coffee Time couldn’t come quickly enough, but come it did, and as we waited, and waited, so did dessert.

I got up and left the dining room, as was the customary method by which the money fairy would come; she didn’t like to be seen, and I can understand that. I walked into the front den and down the hall to wash my hands, something we all did before dessert (I like to think we did it before the meal, as well). I came back, nonchalantly, not as if I were expecting anything, and took my seat.

I don't know where Heaven is, but I know what ingredients you need to make it.

Dessert was Scotch Chocolate Cake - in my diary, it was number 11.

This was the moment. I picked up my plate, One slice please, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and I could just about make out the corners of the at-least-fifty-dollars that I knew was lying under the plate. I could see those corners of that money flat through my eyelids. That’s how sure I was.

I opened them and there was not one single dollar bill laying there. None.

I couldn’t hide my disappointment. I looked at Nana, just shy of pitching a fit the likes of which had never been thrown in this family since Pam got a speeding ticket for missing her curfew (she had curfews; they were well deserved) in front of the old Buckstove in the front den. That was a fit for the record books.

But, I bit my tongue and asked, “What did I do wrong? I thought I did it all right.”

Nana, with those large, Merle Norman eyes, said, “You did, honey. It was perfect.”

“Well, then, where’s the money?” I mean, why beat around the bush, at this point.  And in that way that all the wizened women in my family have, she put forth a small smile that had both love and understanding and sternness in it and said,

Kris, you’re almost thirteen. You shouldn’t do things because you expect something in return. You should do them because it’s the right thing to do. You should learn to just be good for nothing.

It was a slip of a cliche, probably not intended. But, when she caught herself, she laughed, a beautiful laugh, and then we all laughed, and it was all ok. It was a good lesson to be learned.

And, it’s a lesson that’s stuck…because I’ve been good for nothing ever since.

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