Goin' Down to Mama's

Break Out the Dotted Swiss

Easter's fast approaching. Is your dotted Swiss washed and pressed for Sunday services? What I remember most, when I look at this picture, is not the dress but the bangs. Mama always trimmed them herself. It wasn't the trimming that I dreaded—it was the "evening up," as in, "I'm almost through, now, so be still while I even them up." By the time she had evened me up, I'd have what seemed to me a vast expanse of bare forehead where hair used to be. A while back, Mama came to me with the scissors. "I feel like I've got a tag," she said. (That would be a little shot of hair sticking out past her neckline.) I made a few careful snips. "Did you get it?" she asked. "Yeah," I said with a diabolical laugh, "I just need to even it up."

Daddy Says: "Gone for days."

This just in from my cousin Grey, visiting my parents yesterday. Daddy expressed some concern about his expanding waistline, so Mama shared a favorite tip she learned in a weight loss program: Whenever you find yourself thinking about food, go for a walk instead of heading for the fridge. To which Daddy replied, "But I could be gone for days!" [Thanks, Grey, for that fine field reporting. Check's in the mail.]

Mama Says: "Well, isn't that different?"

"Different" is Mama's euphemism for "heinous." Let's say, for example, we're in an antique store and I point out a shabby (but in a good way) kitchen table I'm thinking of buying. The conversation will go something like this:

Me: "So what do you think?"

Mama: "Well . . . it's different."

Me: "You like it?"

Mama: "It sure is different—I'll give you that."

Me: "Don't you think it'll look good in my kitchen?"

Mama: "Well . . . it'll be different."

Loose translation: "That's the tackiest thing I've ever seen in my life, and I wouldn't make a peanut butter sandwich on it."

Daddy Says: "Long hair, a beard, and a cowboy hat . . ."

I had just graduated high school when Urban Cowboy came out, and suddenly everybody I knew was out shopping for boots. Daddy, with an eye to my dating life (such as it was), offered this advice: "You just remember—long hair, a beard, and a cowboy hat can cover up a whole lotta ugly." [Daddy, as you can see, took his own style cues not from the Gilley's crowd, but from Elvis.]

Her Special Day

Just about every bridal magazine at the newsstand right now will tell you that your wedding is all about you. It's "your special day." And they would be wrong. It's not just your day. It's also your mama's. She has been waiting for this moment ever since they wheeled her into Labor and Delivery. For years, she has been studying color schemes and floral arrangements, collecting addresses for the invitations, and mapping out the traffic flow for the reception so everybody gets a piece of cake and a cup of punch in a timely fashion. She has debated whether the soloist should sing "O Promise Me" or "Whither Thou Goest." Don't even think about "something small and nontraditional." Mama ain't havin' none o' that.

 

Daddy Says: "Never Turn Down a Mint"

I thought he came up with that priceless little bit of advice all by himself, but he says he heard it from my uncle, who heard it on TV. So for all I know, it could've originated with Oprah. "It makes sense when you think about it,though," Daddy said, "because if somebody's offering you one, you probably need it." Now somebody at First Baptist quotes Daddy's, er, mint-condition proverb every time we pass the peppermints at choir practice.

Creamed Corn

When I was a kid, “doing corn” was a major production—300 ears of Silver Queen gathered by Daddy and my uncles just after sunrise, before it got blistering hot outside.  Mama and Aunt Joyce would set up an assembly line of lawn chairs and galvanized washtubs filled with cool water to protect those darn-near-white ears as they were shucked. My cousin Kathy and I eventually graduated from shucking to silking, using a paring knife to remove every last silk. Cutting corn off the cob required a razor-sharp knife, which I was never allowed to use. I can still see Mother and Aunt Joyce, each with a dishpan in her lap and a cob of Silver Queen in hand, slicing in rhythm—up, up, up, down, down, down . . .

Skillet Cornbread

Remember the first line from the song "Do-Rei-Mi"? Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start . . . Well, when you're making cornbread, the very beginning is a Lodge cast iron skillet. Between us, Mama and I have them in four or five different sizes. Nowadays, you can buy them pre-seasoned, and they're sold everywhere from Walmart to Cracker Barrel. You could probably make cornbread in something else. But then if your Memaw found out, you'd be in big trouble. (This recipe makes a small batch, cooked in an 8- or 10-inch skillet.)

Potato Salad

Now who’s bringing what?  That’s how every big gathering begins in our family—with the women huddled around a kitchen table, and Mama or one of my aunts asking that question. We all have our specialties—Aunt Grace’s cornbread dressing, Aunt Patsy’s apple salad, cousins Kathy, Jenny, and Machelle on layered salad, peach ice cream, and sweet tea, respectively. And Mama? Well, she’s the potato salad queen. I know there are all kinds of it—from mustard to German, creamy to chunky. But Mama’s is the best.

Fried Chicken

When I was a child, and my family lived with my maternal grandmother, there was a stump at the end of the clothesline where Mama used to pluck chickens recently laid to rest from Aunt Eva’s chicken yard. She was only in her 30s back then.

At 30, I could barely make cheese toast, and I was so caught up in my job that I rarely cleaned my apartment and didn’t have a clue how to make things grow. But life is different now. I have a husband and a home and a garden to tend. And I am amazed by the farm girl who raised me—by the young mother who could grow flowers and tomatoes, drive any vehicle to her brothers' fields, and sing beautiful alto in the church choir. My mother could do anything—even pluck a chicken and fry it right up. And now she’s teaching me . . .