My mom set the example for being the quintessential dinner
party hostess and left huge apron strings for us to tie. One of her last missions before she passed
was to have a birthday party to celebrate Jalen’s 3rd birthday. She was determined that that was what she
wanted to do for him even though she was very sick (none of us, including her I
think, truly knew just how sick at the time).
One of the things she was determined to have was a birthday cake that
looked like a fully rayed, bright yellow sun.
My sister said that getting the cones iced and arranged around the cake
was the dickens, but the cake was awesome.
It was sunny yellow, with a huge happy face and candles. I smile as I remember how in the primary
grades, all of the suns that Jalen drew had cool faces—great big balls of
orange and yellow with long rays and an impishly mean smile if he was having
one of his “mad, bad, most horrible days”, or the huge, open smile with the big
teeth and Blues Brothers-styled sunglasses on a happy day… Jalen’s suns were really cool, and perhaps
one of the happy memories his young mind associated with his grandma. At least that’s the way I like to think about
how the legacy of love rolls in the deep, to borrow from Adele.
When we get together now, my mom is still present in our
hearts and touches of her are gathered together around our table. She is always in our conversations between
bites of food and guffaws of hooting laughter, and she is also there in loving,
purposeful ways, like the place setting with the tea cup, plates, and charger
all inverted but set grandly with all of the accoutrements, or a simple
arrangement of tea roses from Mary’s Garden (the garden my dad grew for her one year as a
Mother’s Day gift) in her favorite tea cup as the center piece. She even shows up on the sideboard in the
bowl of turnips sitting there, that none of us eat but my dad prepared because
they were one of her favorites. It is a
legacy to her, a tribute of our love for her that will never die, the indelible
lessons that she carved into our hearts and souls in her undying love for her
family, which she valiantly and fiercely fought to share until the end of her
days on this Earth. It is this spirit
that fills the kitchen as we cook, nibble, dice, mix, and laugh about the good
old days as we prepare to sit down to feast.
When we sit down to dinner in a couple of weeks, we will
share in a traditional Jordan-style, Easter Sunday repast planned meticulously by
my dad. My sister and I will be helping him so that he will not have the burden
and labor of having to fix everything, even though in his plans he has taken on
the bulk of the meal—baked ham, a baked hen with gravy and dressing, macaroni
and cheese, potato salad, and a lemon Bundt cake. Yes, my dad can burn in the kitchen, even in
his golden years, 78 moons strong (I hope he doesn’t mind me sharing that
tidbit of information, but such a long life is a wished for blessing by many,
one to always celebrate with abundant thankfulness.). To add to the feeling of fellowship, the
dinner menu and the recipes used to prepare the dishes often come from my mom’s
cookbooks, equally shared between the two of them throughout their
marriage. My dad has his clipped recipes
and handwritten notes for things that he cooks tucked right along beside her
notes and concoctions for family delights at the dinner table. I am already thinking about the bomb diggity
macaroni and cheese my dad makes from a recipe that he got from G. Garvin’s
cooking show, “Turn Up the Heat”.
Bam! My taste buds are already
piqued in anticipation.
My dad sent us a letter with all of the menu needs, along
with his notes and suggestions.
According to his instructions, we divvied up the remaining dishes. My sister is preparing a sausage queso dip
with some Scoops chips, fresh cut pineapple chunks, and cantaloupe or honey dew
slices as the pre-dinner nosh. She also
is fixing deviled eggs, following our mom’s recipe, always delicious and
presented beautifully with the paprika sprinkled on top, each one neatly
nestled in Mommee’s pretty white dish with the gold colored stripe around the
perimeter, made just for deviled eggs.
My mom was always one for elegant touches and flourishes, and my sister
carries on her tradition well, even donning one of mom’s aprons while she is in
the kitchen. My sister is the neat,
dainty one, just like my mother, while I tend to be like a bull in a china shop
as I cook, mixing, pouring, and spilling just as easily as I “put my foot in
it” as I whip up my contributions to the feast.
I am forever the clumsy one, always electrified around the edges,
laughing and joking, and keeping the kitchen lively. But as I clean up my prep scraps and wipe
away the things I spilled, the aroma of what I have prepared will fill the
house—an old-fashioned corn pudding, a pot of fresh string beans, turnip greens
(which I have never cooked before), and my famous fancy punch, so easy to make
and always swilled to the last punch bowl drop.
We gave the easiest task to my brother, Patrick—bring the Sister
Schubert rolls, which are a good, but paling-in-comparison compromise to the
homemade rolls that traditionally have graced our table.
I am kind of nervous about the turnip greens, which I
confess I don’t like as much as collard greens, but it is what Daddee wrote as
the menu choice, and my sister and I did not deviate from his instructions, not
one iota. I started to call him up and
ask him how to fix them, as I have never cooked turnip greens before, but
instead I decided that I will try to surprise him and prepare them without
having to burden him with having to fuss with giving instructions to me over
the phone (as our phone conversations go with him straining to understand me as
his hearing wanes, hence the ease and practice of the art of letter
writing). The little girl inside of me
forever wants to please her father in return for all that he has always selflessly
given to me. I think that I have found a
recipe online, on a deep southern cooking blog site that based on the
directions, ingredients, and accompanying picture, is going to give me a dish
that I will not be ashamed to put out on the sideboard. The recipe does seem very Southern and down
home, and looks like it will fit in well with the Jordan Jordan
I close out today’s post with a song, traditionally sung as
a part of the devotions and prayer that begin our Jordan
Blest be the tie that binds,
Our hearts in Christian love.
The fellowship of kindred minds,
Is
like to that above.
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