Since it is World Story Telling Day I thought I would share a story from my book Sheetrock. Enjoy with my dearest wish that you have excellent stories in your life.
Putting Food By
Sometimes you hang on to things that are gone through
the things that are left behind. In my Grandfather’s
house was a pantry. It was a large
closet ringed with varying height shelves.
These shelves held the usual canned and dry goods common to a proper
southern home in the sixties.
My grandmother was very particular about her pantry
in that she had each section of each shelf assigned for certain items. Canned goods were housed on the left ordered
in categories from fruit to vegetables, subdivided alphabetically. Dried goods belonged in the rear and home
canned foods filled the right.
Placing new items in the pantry was a ritual for my
grandmother. She would set her bags or
boxes of goods on her kitchen stool outside the pantry and begin the ritual of
rotation moving the older items to the left of the shelf and newer items to the
right. She would spend an hour sliding
and placing each week when she brought home groceries. At the end of canning season there was always
a major overhaul. The left shelf of the
pantry would be emptied to the dining room table and then the new items given
precedence over the space.
Once the new
items were placed in proper order the older ones were given any remaining
space. Anything that would not fit was
sent home with me or given to neighbors and friends in need.
I was allowed free reign of the pantry when I
visited my grandparents as long as I did not disturb the orderly placement of
things. I would often sit on the stool
in the pantry eyeing the full shelves of canned vegetables and preserves. Possessing a severe dislike of most
vegetables, I could never understand why freezer or pantry space was given to
the likes of Brussels-sprouts, Lima beans, and okra. I understood the need to put by the beauty
that is sweet corn, cucumber pickles, Vidalia onions, black-eyed peas, green
tomatoes[1],
pickled watermelon rind[2],
and pickled beets as they were revitalizing tastes of summer that could be
served up mid-winter to restore the heart yearning for the far off thaw of
spring.
Concoctions such as her corn relish, chow-chow, and
piccalilli[3]
lay in store for holidays and Sunday dinners. For the unfamiliar these are preserves made
from vegetables that serve to highlight meats and salads. My Grandfather would blend the sweet corn
relish and fiery chow-chow so that the sweetness and heat balanced each other
perfectly. We often passed a Friday
night watching Live Atlanta Wrestling, Tarzan, and eating fried catfish laden
with chow-relish.
Most important on the shelves were my grandmother’s
stores of pickled peaches, prepared cobbler fruits, and pear preserves. These homemade delights fascinated me for
hours on end. Memories of meals past and
dreams of meals to come revolved around that pantry wall full of lovingly
prepared southern finery.
I know that many of you will not understand the true
value of pickled peaches until you have tasted them. Properly put by they represent the perfect
balance between tart and sweet, appetizer and desert, delicacy and provincial
fare. Even in the canning jar they look supremely
elegant. Their rich yellow color beckons
you to open the jar. Pickling spices
swirl around the peaches infusing their various flavors into the rich tender
peach flesh.
In addition to peaches my grandmother put by
blackberries, strawberries, pears, and apples.
These sweet fruit preserves served as ice-cream toppings, cobbler and
pie filling, and toast spread. Often on
Sunday afternoons I would help my grandmother pack a basket with canned
vegetables and preserves to take to a family in need or someone who was sick or
shut in. I could always gauge my
grandmother’s level of regard for the person by what she packed. She never sent things that were useless or
unwelcome but some things were only sent to those she held in highest regard or
for whom she felt the most compassion.
The way to tell if she really cared for someone was if she put in a jar
of her prized pear preserves.
I have never been a fan of pears. They are acceptable as a common fare, but to
me they are a humble mealy fruit. On
occasion I have enjoyed them prepared in some exotic form but given the choice
I will choose most other fruits over them and they disappear in my mind when on
a shelf next to strawberries or the ever alluring Georgia
peach. The only exception was my
grandmother’s pear preserves. Quart jars
of dark brown pears rich in sweetness and thick in syrup lined her pantry
shelves in a place of honor. If my
grandmother sent you her pear preserves she held you in high regard.
Just a few weeks ago, I sat in a Chick-fil-A in
Smyrna having breakfast with my sons. [4]
I had not thought of my grandmother’s
pear preserves in easily a decade. As my
sons and I dined on our exquisite breakfast I watched an elderly gentleman move
from the counter to his seat. In his
hand he carried a tray with two biscuits and a cup of coffee. Tucked under his arm were a newspaper and a
brown paper bag.
The man sat near the window, spread the paper out on
the table, and withdrew from the bag a quart jar of pear preserves. Reverently he opened the lid to the jar and
carefully spooned the preserves onto the hot biscuits. Just as reverently he replaced the lid, bowed
his head for a moment in prayer, and ceremonially held half a biscuit up to the
jar before taking a bite from it.
My mind raced back to weekend breakfasts with my
grandparents. I could smell the richness
of my grandmother’s biscuits and taste the sweetness of home churned butter and
over sugared pear preserves. The syrupy
juice of the preserves flowed from the jar over the biscuits luring the mouth
and flooding in with anticipatory water.
Long gone is that era when fast food was not even a
term. No one went through a
drive-through. You pretty much only got
fries with burgers and hot dogs. Milk
shakes were made with milk, ice cream, and fruit or chocolate. People were polite and did not swear in
public. Shrill cell phones never
interrupted important conversations.
Those days left some time ago, but the man at the other table reminded
me.
I could see
my Grandfather tipping his coffee cup so that the coffee flowed into the saucer
allowing him to observe that waning tradition of drinking his morning beverage
“saucered and blowed.”
I wondered to whom the old man paid homage as he
prayed over and honored the jar of preservers.
Perhaps they were a gift from someone who prized his friendship. Maybe they were lovingly put by in his home
and they are all that remained of a spouse now gone on to glory. All that is certain is that my sons saw me
light up. They asked me why and I told
them of my grandmother and the richness of her pear preserves. They are young men I love and respect but for
a brief beautiful fleeting moment they were boys with me crowding onto the
stool in my grandmother’s pantry.
[1] Yes I
said green tomatoes. My grandmother
possessed an ability to put by these rare delicacies in a way that allowed them
to retain their firmness and flavor.
Often during my stays in winter she would surprise me with a plate of
fried green tomatoes as succulent and tart as if it were high summer and the
tomatoes had just been pilfered from my Grandfather’s garden. How she did this is lost to antiquity and I
will send a free copy of my next book to the first person who can tell me how
she did it. Recently these trademarks of
southern cuisine regained popularity through a movie by the same title. Please note that all fried green tomatoes are
not created equal. They must be fresh,
firm, and fried. They must be tart and
breaded. They may not be seasoned,
sautéed, baked, or battered. If someone
tries to give you fake fried green tomatoes expose them for the carpetbagger
they are and show them the road.
[2] Yes, I
said pickled watermelon rind. My
grandmother introduced this true southern delicacy to me in order to teach me
to waste nothing. A little sugar,
cinnamon, and vinegar turn unwanted green rind into cold sweet refinement. Properly chilled one can stretch summer into
the bleakest day of January. John Tobias
[3] Corn
Relish, Chow-Chow, and Piccalilli are all amazing combinations of vegetable and
spice that enhance any meal by brightening both plate and palate. The recipes are in the in appendix.
[4] If you
have never had a Chick-fil-A sandwich you are truly mistreated by life. The sandwich is a perfect balance of breaded
moist chicken breast, butter, and a pickle on a soft bun. The soul of all that is southern cuisine is
captured in this simple and delicious delight.
Mr. Truet Cathy ,
founder and owner of this restaurant chain is an amazing man. He is good to his employees, insists on hard
work, and does not allow his stores to be open on Sundays. Guess what.
This works.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
Mat 13:52 So Jesus said to them, "That is why every writer
who has become a disciple of Christ’s rule of the universe is like a home
owner. He liberally hands out new and old things from his great treasure
store."
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