I'm a better writer than a friend. A better recluse than socialite. I can articulate conversations in my head, but trepidation fills my voice when I speak. In the midst of child-bearing, I, somehow, lost my ability to interact, became socially innate, overly sensitive, and awkward. In return, my child-like ambition returned alongside scribbling out of lines, PBJ's, bed head, jumping in puddles, forgiveness, being humbled and having the ability to speak in tongues.
Food in-a-way is reconnecting me to people. Using food as a third-party in my relationship with others is an easy icebreaker. I love putting my heart in soul in a meal, and sharing it. It's easier to say, "Thanks, neighbor," when I have a batch of cookies in my hand, or "I appreciate your help," with a loaf of bread.
Yesterday, I didn't feel inspired to exercises at the local Y. I sat in the foyer of the gym, sitting in a pink-cushioned chair browsing through the Lee's Brothers cookbook, while my children played in the daycare, and the husband ran his mile(s). I just wanted to read, to browse, to jot, and get lost in a cookbook or two. In the hour-or-so of waiting, I had become a part of three, separate conversations centered around Southern cooking.
The first gentlemen was in his late 60's, an elderly man with maroon, colored mesh shorts, and a white shirt with a Junior League emblem. In passing, he saw I was reading:
"You readin' at the gym."
"Yes, sir," as I looked up sheepishly, "Well, I should be studying, but I'm reading a cookbook."
"Oh, you like to cook, huh? You have kids, m'am."
"Yes, Sir, I have two children."
"Aw. I see. I see. You need to cook well for those children."
"Yes, I am trying to be better."
The conversation concluded with the man explaining how important it was for me to preserve my time in the kitchen as tradition, to see it as a sacred thing, to teach, to eat, to savour the food, and more importantly, to let my kids be around it.
He ended with a "God bless you."
Within a few minutes of the first man leaving, a man in his late forties, over-sized yellow shirt, and black running shorts approach.
"What cookbook is that?"
"The Lee Brother's, cooks from Charleston, South Carolina."
"Hmmm, I never heard of them."
"Oh." [What do you say after that?]
"They use a fresh approach to Southern cooking." [The only thing I could think of]
"Well, I'm working on a cookbook. Straight-up Georgia Southern cooking."
"Oh, can you tell me the difference?"
"I'm not going to have any of that fresh cooking," he joked.
"God bless, m'am."
And right after, a woman in her late 50's and a cat shirt, sat next to me...
"Are you here with someone?"
"Yes, my husband and two children."
"You didn't feel like exercising."
"No, m'am, I wanted to read."
"A cookbook? Bless your heart, dear."
"What kind of cookbook?"
"The Lee's Brothers from Charleston, South Carolina."
"I think I might have heard of those two. Now, 'ain't that neat."
"Be good to 'dem kids, dear."
Her husband approached, and she walked off.
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When I came to Georgia, I had a snubbed, flared nose, and haughty attitude. I made the assumption that Southern cooking didn't apply to us. I was wrong. I was ignorant. It has everything to do with me, with my family, with my children. The history of Southern cooking is extensive, long, enduring, and described as "one of great cataclysm, and change," by the Lee Brothers. The arrival of the English, Irish, Scots, Portuguese, French, Germans, and enslaved Africans are among the few who brought their methods of cooking to this region.
I am learning to respect regional cooking. While there are many meat-centric dishes, there are many things that I have loved, and have integrated in our everyday cooking with items such as collards, kale, cornmeal, and buttermilk. And, after reading, the Lee Brother's cookbook, these dishes can evolve, and be fresh, and new.
I love the hearing the 'yes, sirs' and 'yes, m'ams.' All said with a harboring, and strong accent, always ending with a "God bless" and polite "thank yous." I loving being a part of it. I really do.
