I grew up in a traditional rural Southern home where my parents "parented" with a capital "P." The capital "P" was particularly applicable, as it applied to Sunday school and Worship service attendance.
My brother and I found out early there was no need to argue, as any sass would result in Mama giving us that "bad old look." It was a non-verbal warning with a raising of the right eyebrow that said, "Get your clothes on and find your Sunday school lesson book. We ARE going to church."
The days when we had "fellowship meals" were a major upside of attending church. Most churches in the Deep South, regardless of denomination, are famous for fellowship luncheons, dinners and anything in-between.
At these fellowship meals, there is always an array of regional favorites spread in profusion and one lady at each church famously known for a particular "off the charts delicious" dish. When she appears with a covered cake plate, eyes are riveted on her, watching like a hawk for the location on the table where she places her culinary treasure.
At our church, I spent a lot of time watching and waiting for the late Ruby Shaw, a dear lady and beloved friend, to appear with her famous pound cake or homemade peanut brittle. I can also vividly remember the late Irene Beauchamp Bozeman's coconut pie and her homemade butter pecan ice cream served at ice cream socials. Now, don't get me wrong; my Mama is one the best Southern cooks in the world. Anyone will be hard pressed to beat Mama's red velvet cake.
Here is the point, one learned early on to move quickly to those well-loved and very popular culinary delights before they were gone; others had the same idea. You moved with well-mannered stealth and with a single-minded purpose, as you could taste those treats.
So imbedded are those memories in the Southern psyche that a cousin phoned me not too long ago and related that she dreamed we were at a family reunion. "I could taste Cousin Mary Lou's red velvet cake," she said. I understand that; I can close my eyes and taste the homemade fudge made by my neighbor, the late Gloria Hunter, or the old fashioned coconut cake made by the late Kitty Carver, or anything made by Oleta Lindsey. I can taste Rheba Lee's Italian cream cake and her special, original cheese ball right now. I could go on, but you get the drift.
During the time one shares a delicious meal with a friend or loved one, the cares of the world diminish for a while. Many times we share laughter, memories and stories during a meal. I always loved the stories and still do.
Those dear friends and their wonderful dishes, shared freely with others, truly taught great lessons and preached superb sermons. With each wonderful bite, I felt their care. I remember those dishes being shared, not just on church fellowship days when joy and laughter rang, but also when mourning wreaths hung on doors.
In her famous novel, To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee wrote, "Friends bring food for death and flowers for sickness and little things in between." In the South, when the death of a friend or of loved one occurs, often the first thought is, "What can I do?" That thought often moves us to the kitchen and we cook, we remember, cry and smile or laugh remembering the departed.
One taste of warm chicken and dumplings or a slice of homemade pound cake helps at times when one feels numb, lost, or deeply hurt. That dish, prepared by a beloved friend, speaks to the heart and says, "You can go on, because I care; I am here for you, I mourn with you, I won't forget you. Love goes on forever."
To those dear friends who prepared food with love for fellowship dinners, lunches, ice cream socials and at times of death, I won't forget you, I thank God for you. Love goes on forever.
From the Eight Mile Still on the Woodpecker Route north of White Springs, wishing you a day filled with joy, peace and, above all, lots of love and laughter.