Sitting down with kith and kin at my dad’s 91st birthday, I was reminded that we learn to eat as children. The table last Saturday was weighed down with more than 150 pounds of crawfish and accompanying bags of spicy boiled corn and potatoes. Homemade jambalaya my sister Laura made. And, for the vegan niece, some sort of weird processed “hotdog.” We variously stood and sat as we talked and listened. Food, family, friends, and lots of conversation.
The role food played last week was the same role it played in my childhood, and still does in my adulthood, that of bringing people together. From the crawfish and crab boils to grand Sunday dinners and church picnics; from duck and chicken-and-sausage gumbos to BBQ and fried catfish, links of boudin, and platters of dirty rice; from running trotlines, fishing 30 miles out in the gulf, and hauling up shrimp nets or oyster tongs to shooting ducks and geese and harvesting deer, the end goal was always the same: food that you could share.
TV and computers were not part of our world. No screen time, head down, eyes staring. You left the table only after you asked to be excused and were given permission. Weeknights were family dinners and catching up. Weekends and holidays were gatherings of the larger group of friends and family. And always set to the backdrop of food, meat, seafood, game, vegetables, and the ubiquitous dish of rice.
Sunday was the time for the big dinner of the week. It was frequently an occasion for serving up some fish or seafood we had caught — red snapper in butter and lemon, mackerel balls fried with a cornmeal dusting, platters of oysters, mounds of fried catfish, all accompanied by coils of the spicy local sausages, warmed on the grill. The family would often be joined by guests, perhaps a couple of youth from Boys Town or a new minister and his family.
During one such dinner, with a new pastor from Oklahoma, we received a call from an elderly neighbor. Upon coming downstairs that fine spring morning, she found an alligator in her parlor. It had strolled in through an open door and made itself at home. Dad used a ski rope to make a noose, slipped it over the beast’s head, and dragged it back out to the bayou, no doubt confirming in the new minister’s mind his worst fears about where he had relocated his family.
Some Sundays after service we headed to the Piccadilly. Dining at the small-town Southern restaurant was reminiscent of the Lyle Lovett song, “Church.” If your preacher became a bit long-winded, you might just find yourself waiting in line behind the First Baptists, or, God forbid, the Methodists.
From a kid’s perspective, Fridays were hopeful evenings. My parents were active in a supper club and a bridge club. Supper club in the house meant hovering near the kitchen to snag plates of oysters Rockefeller fresh from the oven, bridge club loading up on shrimp broiled in butter and spices.
Annually, there were the church picnics, feasts of such epic proportions they required each of us to be heroes of the plate and fork. Whole tables were devoted to fried chicken and banana puddings, the memory of which would still be a siren’s call onto the rocks of gluttony, except for the fact that underpinning all the food was the fellowship of friends and family.
So today, on our farm, with freezers full and gardens gathering steam, we ask the weekly question, What do we have to share and who can we invite to join in the bounty — neighbors in the valley, friends from town or city, longer-distance guests?
Last night six friends helped us devour bowls of creamy grits topped with cooked-down collard greens and fried slices from a terrine of braised pork. We dined outside, sitting late into the evening as the full moon rose high in the sky. Good friends, conversation, and a bottle of elderberry mead helped us keep the faith with who we are as a people and the traditions we carry forward from childhood.
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Reading this weekend: Ramp Hollow: the ordeal of Appalachia. By, Steven Stoll.
