Goin' Down to Mama's

Daddy Says: "Wipin' and Swipin'"

I call home to see what the parents are up to.

Mama's Version: "Well, I took one of our bedrooms a-part. I took down the drapes and washed the blinds, took the bed apart and vacuumed all under it, then I flipped the mattresses and made the bed and vacuumed the carpet and cleaned all around the baseboards and dusted real good. I mean that room is clean. And I am give out. Your daddy's in his recliner."

Daddy's Version: "Well, I'm watching a little TV. Your mother's doing a lotta wipin' and swipin'.

Recipe Swap: Tomatoes

Tomato pie, tomato soup,tomato gravy—you say tomato, I say 'mater. They make the summer heat worth the sweat. (Though, as we all know, Southern women don't sweat—we glisten.) Tomatoes are starting to appear on plants all over my yard, and I am on the hunt for all kinds of tomato recipes. When we got married six years ago (Dave says it seems like only sixty:), I asked the friends and family who hosted my bridal tea to include a request for recipes in the invitation. And I got a recipe box full of great ones—from our friend Billie Darby's breakfast casserole to my sister-in-law Linda's sweet potato casserole to my cousin Vivian Ann's tomato pie. (Hey, VA, mind if I post it here?) There's no better gift you can share with people who love food. So if you have time to post and share, please do!

Tomato Time!

Ladies and gentlemen, we have achieved tomatoes! And not wormy ones. Or rotten ones. Or I-don't-know-why-they-won't-mature ones. No. We have yummy little sweet ones. And others on the way. A life-long ambition has been realized, with help from my mother, Uncle Chick, and one of our garden-savvy friends who helped us decide what to grow. 

I grew up watching Mama and my aunts and uncles grow tomatoes like it was nothing. Easy as breathing. So when I bought my house and finally had a yard, I figured I'd just march right out there and grow myself some. I planted them in a huge container of horse manure that Daddy brought over--not garden soil enriched with manure--the straight stuff. What I grew was roughly the size of a sequoia and had not a single fruit on it. Good shade plant, though. 

I continued my quest over the years--big plants and small ones, starting seeds (and pitching them out when they got gangly a month before planting time), in the ground and in containers. No tomatoes. But now--drumroll please-- TOMATOES!!

Inside the Mind of Hank the Cat

My mother, who never would allow animals in the house when I was growing up, initially thought I was crazy for treating Hank the Cat like a human. But then she cat-sat for me. And I got a phone call: "That cat looks at you like he knows what you're saying to him!" He does know, Mama. And since he knows what you're saying, it's only fair that you should know what he's thinking. Herewith, a snapshot or two inside the inscrutable mind of Hank the Cat.

Vacation Bible School

A million little Baptist feet have circled this old tree. It was always kid central after church on Sundays and during recess at Vacation Bible School. It had a ring of bricks around it, and we'd walk around and around that ring, testing our balance. (Well, the little kids would. The older daredevils were leaping off that porch on the old sanctuary and landing in the bushes till their mamas caught them and reminded them that they were on holy ground and ought to know how to behave themselves by now.) As brave women across the South prepare for "VBS," I wonder if you remember . . .

"Just Like Your Mother"

Apparently, mamas take it on the chin in every culture. Check out this video from Indian comedienne Vijai Nathan. Hysterical.

 

Mama Says: "Jane uses Jergens."

Mama glanced from her winter-white legs to mine on that first warm-enough-for-shorts day of late spring. "Reckon we ought to try some of that Jergen's tanning lotion? Jane says she uses Jergens." Jane is our dear friend and church organist. If you want to know the truth about a situation, ask Jane. We felt we could trust her not to mess around with any good-for-nothing tanning potion that didn't work. Back in the day, we got our suntans via the actual sun. My cousin Kathy and I used to drive our Grandme INSANE by putting on our bathing suits, dousing ourselves in oil, and "laying out" in the back yard.  "When I was a girl," Grandme would rant, "women PROTECTED their skin! Why, you wouldn't DREAM of going out in the sun without your arms covered up and a hat to shade your face. You are going to KILL YOURSELF in that sun!" Of course, we didn't listen.

When I went to college, it got even worse. We actually tanned using baby oil, because it has an SPF of hellfire and will fry you faster, which is important when you're trying to get bronzed in that three-hour break between history and biology.

Mama-Tested: The Melon-Baller Trowel

How's this for a garden innovation: melon baller as mini trowel. I was struggling to pull my tomato seedlings out of those teensy holes in the starter tray when I thought to myself, "Hmmm. What digging apparatus do I own that might be small enough to handle the job?" Ye ole melon baller worked like a charm. Technically, Mama didn't test this herself. But when I told her about it, she gave it a "Well, I guess that oughta work." (Translation: "Sounds nutty as a fruitcake to me, but go on and give it a try.")

Congealed Salads: Just Say No

I've said it before and I'll say it again: there's no such thing as a "good" congealed salad. My mother sees this as an indication of some great failure on her part—the same way she would feel if I waltzed into church wearing shorts, flip-flops, and an "I Slept on Panama City Beach" T-shirt. It's just tacky. It demonstrates a lack of refinement on my part and casts doubt on my qualifications as a Southern hostess. But here are my issues with those salads. They are squishy. They have confusing textures. One minute you're in cream cheese and Cool Whip, the next, you've got pecans or marshmallows or shredded carrots in your mouth. And somewhere in all of that is Jell-O—a perfectly respectable food group on its own, but with raisins? And then there's the color palette. Green food should be crisp and snappy or fried—like lettuce or asparagus or okra. Green food should not jiggle. Ever. And yet, the first congealed salad I remember was lime green. And so Mama knew she had a fight on her hands when she insisted that I try yet another one for Sunday lunch yesterday. I tried to resist, but she hit me with the Raised Eyebrow of Mama Shame and I caved. I have to say, as congealed salads go, it wasn't bad—pretzels and strawberries and Cool Whip, etc. But as long as you're going to the trouble to make a dessert, why not just make a brownie? There. In the immortal words of Holly Hunter in O Brother, Where Art Thou,  "I've said my peace and counted to three." (But back to the brownie idea, check this one out at my friend James Schend's blog. He's a former Southern Living foodie who now works his culinary magic in San Francisco.)  http://www.dairyfreed.com/2011/05/brownies.html

 

Mama Says: "Don't fuss."

Mama: "I've figured out my menu for Sunday lunch—we're having meatloaf.

Me: "Sounds good."

Mama: "Now I've made a salad, and I don't want you to fuss about it."

Me: "Why would I fuss about a salad?"

Mama: "We're having it for dessert, and I just don't want you to fuss about it."

Me: "A salad for dessert? [Pause. Think it over. Figure out the one word she's leaving out.] Oh. You mean a congealed salad."

Mama: "Yes, and I now how you are, but this one is good."

Me: "You always say that. What's it got in it, not that it matters."

Mama: "Don't be like that. Listen. The crust is crushed pretzels and butter and you press that down in your dish and bake it a few minutes. Then after it cools, you make a layer of cream cheese and Cool Whip and a tat of butter."

Me: "So where's the Jell-O?"

Mama: "On top. With the strawberries. And I'm telling you, it's good—and it's low-fat, so I don't wanna hear any fussing."

Me: "Yes, ma'am."

[A review or the aforementioned "good" congealed salad will be forthcoming.]