I came home to visit my momma this week.
Well, "home" is kind of a relative word (no pun intended.) By that, I mean that I don't get to go to the place where I actually grew up anymore. Life's circumstances have dictated that my mom no longer lives in my home town, and is no longer married to my dad. After I was blessed with a wonderful childhood with both of my loving parents, my father passed away at the all-too-young age of 55. That number is staring me in the face, a fact that I consider more often than I'd like to admit.
But, anyhow, my mom is an amazing lady and has been fortunate to have been married to an equally amazing gentleman for the past 19 years -- their house is as close as I get to coming "home" these days, and it's a good place to be.
We have spent some time doing important things -- like sitting down with old family pictures and talking about who was from where, who married who, what it was like growing up on the farm with brothers and cousins and such. I suppose it's those upcoming 55 years that cause me to long for such connections.
I learned this week what a beautiful woman my great-grandmother Brown was. I also learned a lot more about the hell-bent adventures of my mother's cousin, "Bear"...all I can say is, I wish I'd a knowed him.
I have relaxed out here on the farm; Mr. Larry, as my mom's husband is known to my family, has cattle and a great big garden (out of which we enjoy the delicious bounty when the vegetables start coming in.)
It's quiet in that country kind of way that you just have to experience to understand. The couch in the big family room sleeps as good as any place I have ever laid my head -- so I've laid it there for a nap every afternoon.
Tonight, we sat down at the table and, I kid you not...I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Before me was spread a veritable feast of my favorite foods. Fried pork tenderloin, fried potatoes and onions, white beans (not fried, but slow-cooked in a pot,) cole slaw, fresh tomatoes, cornbread and "iced tea." (I never knew there was any other kind, but I now add the "iced" descriptor for all my Yankee friends.)
Dadgum, it was good!
I knew right then and there that I felt as at home as I was ever going to feel. That thought was kind of trickling around in the back of my mind while I made my nightly foray onto Facebook, where I posted the contents of the supper table for all to behold.
One of my friends responded by saying, " You know, I'm full from supper.... But reading the word 'fried' twice in one sentence made my stomach growl."
That's when it hit me; it has everything to do with the culinary background of so much of what it means to me to go "home."
To a Southerner, "fried" is how you know you're home. We love to eat, because so much of what we eat symbolizes the way we love.
Our fondest times and grandest celebrations are marked by food; even when folks are in trouble, the first impulse of most Southern women to this day is, "I need to take them something to eat."
Nobody ever had to tell us we were eating "comfort food" when I was growing up -- we automatically knew we were comforted every time we sat at the table (and we did sit at the table back in those days!)
I love my mom and the rest of my family; we make every effort to sit down and eat together every chance we get. I'll admit that there is much less fried food on the dinner plate these days, and that's probably good in its own way.
But, every once in a while, it sure is good to go "home" -- cholesterol be damned!
Well, "home" is kind of a relative word (no pun intended.) By that, I mean that I don't get to go to the place where I actually grew up anymore. Life's circumstances have dictated that my mom no longer lives in my home town, and is no longer married to my dad. After I was blessed with a wonderful childhood with both of my loving parents, my father passed away at the all-too-young age of 55. That number is staring me in the face, a fact that I consider more often than I'd like to admit.
But, anyhow, my mom is an amazing lady and has been fortunate to have been married to an equally amazing gentleman for the past 19 years -- their house is as close as I get to coming "home" these days, and it's a good place to be.
We have spent some time doing important things -- like sitting down with old family pictures and talking about who was from where, who married who, what it was like growing up on the farm with brothers and cousins and such. I suppose it's those upcoming 55 years that cause me to long for such connections.
I learned this week what a beautiful woman my great-grandmother Brown was. I also learned a lot more about the hell-bent adventures of my mother's cousin, "Bear"...all I can say is, I wish I'd a knowed him.
I have relaxed out here on the farm; Mr. Larry, as my mom's husband is known to my family, has cattle and a great big garden (out of which we enjoy the delicious bounty when the vegetables start coming in.)
It's quiet in that country kind of way that you just have to experience to understand. The couch in the big family room sleeps as good as any place I have ever laid my head -- so I've laid it there for a nap every afternoon.
Tonight, we sat down at the table and, I kid you not...I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Before me was spread a veritable feast of my favorite foods. Fried pork tenderloin, fried potatoes and onions, white beans (not fried, but slow-cooked in a pot,) cole slaw, fresh tomatoes, cornbread and "iced tea." (I never knew there was any other kind, but I now add the "iced" descriptor for all my Yankee friends.)
Dadgum, it was good!
I knew right then and there that I felt as at home as I was ever going to feel. That thought was kind of trickling around in the back of my mind while I made my nightly foray onto Facebook, where I posted the contents of the supper table for all to behold.
One of my friends responded by saying, " You know, I'm full from supper.... But reading the word 'fried' twice in one sentence made my stomach growl."
That's when it hit me; it has everything to do with the culinary background of so much of what it means to me to go "home."
To a Southerner, "fried" is how you know you're home. We love to eat, because so much of what we eat symbolizes the way we love.
Our fondest times and grandest celebrations are marked by food; even when folks are in trouble, the first impulse of most Southern women to this day is, "I need to take them something to eat."
Nobody ever had to tell us we were eating "comfort food" when I was growing up -- we automatically knew we were comforted every time we sat at the table (and we did sit at the table back in those days!)
I love my mom and the rest of my family; we make every effort to sit down and eat together every chance we get. I'll admit that there is much less fried food on the dinner plate these days, and that's probably good in its own way.
But, every once in a while, it sure is good to go "home" -- cholesterol be damned!
