(by Kathryn Louise Wood)
“When Mama moves to Wilson.” That had been our family’s euphemism for when our mother would die and be buried beside our father in Maplewood Cemetery in Wilson, North Carolina. At 92, and fighting ovarian cancer since the tender age of 87, Mama had remained optimistic most of the time and continued to “fight the good fight,” demonstrating daily that she did not intend to “go gentle into that good night.”
But Mama was a practical woman, growing up in the Great Depression years, earning her college degree while our father dug foxholes on the bullet-ridden beach of Normandy, rearing two baby-boomers through the turbulent 1960s, providing home and care for her own mother during that matriarch’s final years, then tending to our father as he struggled with heart disease and Alzheimer’s before he “moved to Wilson.” Life had taught her that change was expected and death was inevitable, so one best prepare for it.
Mama was also a woman who liked to be in control. “Well, somebody better be!” was her unspoken but clearly heard message. Daddy had been a gentle soul, more poet than patriarch, who had done his duty of providing for our family through the business world of commercial real estate, an occupation of his brain and work ethic but never of his heart and soul. His true world, the place in which his spirit had dwelt, had been in the nebulous realm of the wordsmith. In short, Daddy had been that most pitiable creature: the frustrated writer. His natural inclination toward daydreaming and native aversion to the regimented world of business had made for a difficult, albeit determined, career in management. This confusion in his psyche had led to less-than-optimal stability in both his work and personal life.
Enter Mama. Command Central. The anchor of our family’s boat when tossed upon Daddy’s intermittently tempestuous seas. She was so good at this role, it was not until I was middle-aged that I became aware of how close our family had come at times to financial freefall when Daddy’s artistic heart threatened to overrule his head. As much as I feel sorrow for my father’s thwarted dreams, I am grateful for my mother’s steely determination to keep our little vessel afloat, our household running smoothly, and setting Daddy back on course.
And so, practicality and control intact, Mama had begun packing her bags for Wilson. Part of the process was making sure she had passed along as much of her wisdom as possible, mostly to me, her only daughter who, along with my understanding husband, had provided her a place to live in her last years. In addition to the bedrock foundation of her legacy—that of unconditional loving faith in God and family, loyalty of friendship, kindness and connection with the four-legged among us, an abiding appreciation of nature, and the ability to laugh at one’s own foibles—Mama had made it her duty to try to impart knowledge to me in three basic areas: gardening, fashion, and home cooking. I do not use the word “try” loosely. Just as she had been dead certain of her ideas in these matters, I had been quite often, a hopeless (and, sometimes, adolescently stubborn) case.
I'll focus, here, on home cooking, Southern home cooking to be exact. For her 89th birthday, I had collected and published a slim but comprehensive volume of her recipes that has become a treasured addition to the cookbook shelves of our family and friends. Dictated directly from Mama, some of the ingredient amounts, especially in the "old timey" recipes, are inexact.
With tongue (somewhat) in cheek, I had included a page of "Oleta's Culinary Clues":
· When in doubt, add bacon.
· Lettuce should be crisp, and cooked vegetables should be tender.
· Make it pretty with a sprinkle of paprika.
· Keep most seafood preparation simple.
· When frying food, have a "fanner" stationed under the smoke alarm.
· Go light on the garlic and spices.
· Rolls and loaf bread should be soft and white.
· And whatever you do, never add that green stuff! (In other words, no dried green herbs, which had been rampant from the kitchen of the retirement center in which she'd lived prior to moving in with us.)
Although I did not fully embrace the tradition of pork fat as the universal flavor enhancer, I successfully learned to prepare one staple of her cooking, something she always ate with seafood of any kind: fried lace cornbread. Not only had I learned to cook it to her exacting standards, I absolutely loved to eat it.
Fried cornbread is made of three simple ingredients, producing a down-to-earth food that connects me not only to my mother but to the generations of family cooks before her. Cornmeal, salt, and water, stirred together and pan-fried in oil—that’s all there is to it. But mixing the correct proportion of water to cornmeal and getting the oil to just the right temperature are as much art and experience as culinary science. Cornmeal, salt, and water—solidity, enrichment, and sustenance. Three qualities of this home-cooked wonder that pretty much sum up my mother’s contribution to our lives.
And so, on a summer Sunday morning, five months before her passing on the day after Christmas 2016, I had sat beside Mama on a church pew, a place she had longed to be each week but, more and more, had been unable to make the physical effort required. Through much of the hour, she had thumbed through a hymnal and matter-of-factly, with no sense of depression or self-pity, had gently poked me and pointed out the hymns she wanted for her funeral service. Mama, ever practical, ever in control. If only I could have controlled the tears welling up as I sang the next hymn in the church service. The minister would have surely thought he’d hit a nerve. No. It had just been Mama packing her bags for Wilson—after all, she'd already passed me the spatula.
I've never fried a batch of cornbread since she left us.
I think it's time.
(Better station my husband beneath the smoke alarm.)
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Kathryn Louise Wood is the author of the Zephyr Stone series of children’s books. She also has been a teacher, social worker, actress, massage therapist, and award-winning photographer. She lives in Edenton, North Carolina, and can be found at www.kathrynlouisewoodauthor.com, on Facebook and Instagram.
Fried Lace Cornbread
1 c. very fine ground plain cornmeal
salt to taste
water
enough oil to coat the bottom and a little up the sides of a skillet to cover edges of the cornbread patties
optional: honey or molasses for serving
Add salt to taste to cornmeal.
Stir in enough water to obtain pancake consistency.
Heat oil in skillet over medium heat until hot.
Drop large spoonfuls of batter into skillet.
(Patties should not touch. May need to cook only a couple at the time depending upon the size of your skillet. Edges of the cornmeal patties may become lacy...if you're lucky!)
Brown on both sides.
Drain on paper towels.
Delicious drizzled with honey or molasses for a savory-sweet treat.
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