The Food of a Younger Land (18 page)

T
his is the largest and best known of the Negro mythical places. Its geography is that it is “way off somewhere.” It is reached by a road that curves so much that a mule pulling a wagonload of fodder can eat off the back of the wagon as he goes. It is a place of no work and no worry for man and beast. A very rootful place where even the curbstones are good sitting-chairs. The food is even already cooked. If a traveler gets hungry all he needs to do is to sit down on the curbstone and wait and soon he will hear something hollering “Eat me!” “Eat me!” “Eat me!” and a big baked chicken will come along with a knife and fork stuck in its sides. He can eat all he wants and let the chicken go and it will go on to the next one that needs something to eat. By that time a big deep sweet potato pie is pushing and shoving to get in front of the traveler with a knife all stuck up in the middle of it so he just cuts a piece off of the end and so on until he finishes his snack. Nobody can ever eat it all up. No matter how much you eat it grows just that much faster. It is said, “Everybody would live in Diddy-Wah-Diddy if it wasn’t so hard to find and so hard to get to after you even know the way.” Everything is on a huge scale there. Even the dogs can stand flat-footed and lick crumbs off heaven’s tables. The biggest man there is known as Moon-Regulator because he reaches up and starts and stops it at his convenience. That is why there are some dark nights when the moon does not shine at all. He did not feel like putting it out that night.

Baked Bluepoints, Rockefeller
Half Grapefruit DeLuxe
Cream of Celery au Crouton
Crabmeat and Avocado, Riche
Little Neck Clams
Fresh Fruit on Chartreuse
Assorted Canapés, Varie
Consommé Madrilène
Celery Hearts, Green and Ripe Olives, Salted Almonds
Whole Broiled Florida Pompano, Maître d’Hôtel, Sliced Cucumbers
Fried Frog Legs, Roadhouse Style, Sliced Cucumbers
Sirloin Steak, sautéed à la Minute, Cabaret Potatoes
Baked Suckling Pig, Baked Apple, Stuffed with Mince Meat
Breast of Chicken, Marie Christine under Glass
Baked Kentucky Ham, Burgundy Sauce, Spiced Watermelon
Roast Young Turkey, Giblet and Cranberry Sauce
Roast Prime Ribs of Beef au Jus, Yorkshire Pudding
Fresh Broccoli, Polonaise New Peas and Fresh Mushrooms in Cream
Timbale of Spinach
Baked Idaho Potato, au Gratin Potatoes, Candied Sweet Potatoes
Sweetheart Salad, French Endive, Lorenzo Dressing
Plum Pudding, Hard and Brandy Sauce, Hot Mince Pie,
Pumpkin Pie, Fruit Cake
Frozen Charlotte Russe, Coupe à la Noel, Assorted Nuts
and Cluster Raisins
Coffee, Tea, Milk
After Dinner Mints

Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Appetizer Buffet
Soup
Oyster Soup with Country Ham and Roasted Sweet Potatoes
Fried Croutons Persillade

Grilled Asparagus, Prosciutto and Capicola Ham, Roasted Peppers, Grilled Artichokes, Marinated Olives

Grilled Radicchio Salad with Roasted Chestnut
Vinaigrette
Salmon Mousseline with Jicama Ginger Cider Slaw
Roasted Squash with Orzo Pasta, Feta Cheese and
Vinaigrette

Smoked Salmon with Traditional Garnishes, Mussel Salad,
Seaweed Salad
Shrimp Cocktail, Crab Claws, Assorted Sushi

(Choice à la Carte)
Sautéed Yellowtail Snapper with Navy Bean Savoy Cabbage
Apple Wood Smoked Bacon, Toasted Coriander and
Fennel Seed Butter
Veal Medallions with Sautéed Sweetbreads
Acorn Squash Creamy Polenta
Foie Gras Sauce
Braised Lamb Shank
Garlic Goat Cheese Mashed Potatoes and Roasted
Root Vegetables
Merlot Wine Sauce

Viennese Table, from our Pastry Chef
Yule Log, Cassis Mousse, Gâteau Saint-Honoré, Mini Savarin,
Chocolate Sacher Torte
Mini Tiramisu, Raspberry Tartlets and Assorted Petits Fours

JACK KYTLE

G
randma” Susie Higgins is a saintly woman with the stars already being set in her crown, but at the annual footwashing and feast of thanks in Lonely Dale that sultry August day, “Grandma” Higgins was revealed as only a human being, after all.

Her soul was bared as human because the impish light of vanity appeared in her flashing black eyes that day, and because she unsheathed an avenging sword to fight for a little, grayish, conquered woman who had forgotten how to fight for herself.

In all the breadth and length of Alabama’s green wilderness there is no better cook than “Grandma” Susie Higgins. She knows that she is good. Her yellow cakes with goodness knows how many eggs in their fluffy interiors are famous in the backwoods. Her chocolate cakes, with the creamy, milk-full fillings that cover all the golden layers have been praised by hundreds of preachers and laymen alike. But the crowning glory of “Grandma” Higgins’ cooking lies in the magic of plain country ham and biscuit.

My, but she is a kitchen magician! There is that about her ham which brings the delicious satisfaction of perfect culinary accomplishment. Her biscuits are never cut from the white dough in tiny wheels that make only a mouthful. “Grandma” Higgins rolls them with her hands; huge, feathery knobs that come from the wood stove soft and brown; like golden nuggets of a Caesar.

The thick, browned slabs of seasoned country ham are laid into the broken interiors of these. And there is always just enough red gravy to lift such sandwiches to the heights of palatable grandeur.

On that sunlit day in Lonely Dale, “Grandma” was unusually diligent in spreading her famous feast beneath the towering oak that offered the coolest shade, beside a sparkling spring of cold water that pushed from the mountainside. She carefully spread a snow-white tablecloth over the rough pine slabs, placed side by side to serve as a table and lifted three feet from the ground by six two-by-four posts. She was smiling just a little as she began unwrapping her cakes and palate-tempting ham biscuits; and the smile was just a little grim.

Now and then she lifted her eyes from the task to quickly scan the faces of men-folk awaiting the welcome call to eat. They stood in groups, striving to keep a courteous distance, but plainly straining at the leash. They talked crops and politics and the raid last week on Sam Bernett’s still, but always they watched “Grandma” Higgins.

True, other tables were being laid, but “Grandma’s” table was the one from which all the others seemed to radiate. Gangling, bare-legged girls in vari-colored sun bonnets quietly helped their calico-clad elders. Now and then the girls cast shy glances at red-faced youths, who shuffled their unpolished brogans timidly in the white sand and tried desperately to return the glances. The preacher stood in front of the white-painted, steepled church, thirty yards from the eating ground. He looked at his big silvery watch that was latched to a silvery chain and edged three good strides toward “Grandma” Higgins’ table.

She was unwrapping her third chocolate cake when Wash Hornbuckle wiped the perspiration from his bearded face with a red bandanna handkerchief and walked to the sparkling spring. “Grandma” paused just a moment to watch him, and it was then that she began revealing herself as only a plain human. There was a brighter flash in her black eyes, and she began baring the avenging sword.

Wash laid his piggy eyes upon “Grandma’s” festive board and smiled a saintly smile. He took the tin dipper from a tree twig and calmly proceeded to rinse the snuff from his big mouth; and all the while “Grandma” Higgins only watched and bided her moment.

He was a big man, was Wash. His beard, brown and unkempt, reached to his barrel-like chest, and his arms were long and packed with power. Only his legs and feet were comical. Legs like match sticks supported a huge hulk, and his feet were wrapped in number twelve, hobnailed boots that turned up at the toes like a Turk’s Sandals.

When the long-awaited call to eat came, Wash bounded to “Grandma’s” table like a hound dog hot on an opossum’s trail. He rubbed his huge hands together and smiled that desperate smile of a man who has reached the promised land “at long last.” The preacher was right on his heels, but it was Wash who reached for the ham biscuit with an arm that was like the darting length of a bull snake.

“Stop!”

The word was like a whip’s crack. Perhaps the crown of stars still rested upon “Grandma” Higgins’ gray head, but it must have been sitting lop-sided upon her ear. Her eyes were like fiery beads and the avenging sword was flaming.

Wash paused, with his hand drooping limply over the coveted biscuit. A surprised, stricken expression swept into his deepest eyes. His smile faded like a forgotten fire.

“Why, Sister Higgins!”

His voice was pained in righteousness.

But “Grandma,” looking for all the world like a terrier unleashing an attack on a St. Bernard, ran around the table to face him in short, indignant steps. She looked up into his bearded face, and the crown of stars tilted backward.

“You skunk!” she exploded into the beard, “you crawling, liverless skunk!”

The preacher fingered his silvery watch chain nervously and swallowed the mouthful of ham biscuit that he had managed to salvage from the storm. He spoke in pained surprise.

“Why, Sister Higgins!” he exclaimed, “that is an unheard of thing. You must ask forgiveness and wash Brother Hornbuckle’s feet at our washing tomorrow.”

She turned upon him, tiny fists clenched so that her knuckles were icy white.

“If I ever wash his feet,” she snapped, “it will be at the end of a cooling board upon which he is laid out. And the only reason I would wash them then is because I know they need washing, and I wouldn’t want him to face his good Lord with them looking as they do now!”

She darted a single, scornful glance down Wash Hornbuckle’s full six feet, then pointed her finger toward a table several yards away. A tiny, grayish woman with the look of a stricken fawn in her eyes stood beside the table, her hands folding and unfolding nervously.

“Go over there,” Grandma ordered, “put your arms around that sweet little wife you have and eat what she has to offer. Tell her it is the best food you have ever had, and that you are sorry for the thing you did yesterday.”

There was only a great silence then, like the cloak of quiet that shrouds the wilderness before the storm. Then Wash lowered his buffalo head, turned slowly and walked toward the tiny grayish woman. He took the red bandanna handkerchief from his hip pocket and lifted it to his face. Tears welled suddenly into his piggy eyes and he blew his nose so that it gave off the blast of a trumpet.

“I will wager to you,” Grandma Higgins said quietly to the preacher, “that he has an onion in that handkerchief.”

“Why, Sister Higgins!” the preacher said again. “Brother Hornbuckle is the most Godly man!”

It was one of those feasts that tempt the feaster to linger and over-eat, finishing at last in the shade of some joint tree where sleep is undisturbed. “Grandma” righted her crown of stars, recaptured her smile and called for all to “stand and cram.” The preacher and a hundred others took her at her word, so that the afternoon preaching was delayed more than an hour while the Man of the Word snored from the fullness of his stomach.

Only after the meeting was over did “Grandma” Higgins reveal that which barred her table to Wash Hornbuckle. She had learned that even while his mouse-like mate was preparing her simple cakes and sandwiches for the feast, Wash had taken a bowlful of batter from her table, deliberately placed his big feet in it one after the other, and had then proceeded to track over the spotless board she had recently scrubbed.

Come a sunlit day this next August, there will be another feast and footwashing service in Lonely Dale out there in the wilderness. “Grandma” Higgins again will bake her rich, fluffy cakes and place the thick slabs of country ham between golden, soft biscuits; she will again sound the call to “stand and cram,” but she will have righted her starry crown. Wash Hornbuckle has earned the right to eat one of her ham biscuits and a crescent of her rich cake, because the mousy woman who belongs to him is happy again. And it is cruel for the neighbors to say that Wash has treated her kindly a whole year to gain the reward of standing room at “Grandma’s” famous table.

A
form of entertainment that has recently become very popular, particularly in the smaller towns, is the Coca-Cola party. Usually the ladies assemble between eleven and twelve in the morning at the home of the hostess. Trays of tall iced glasses filled with Coca-Cola are passed, followed by platters of crackers and small iced cakes. The dining table is decorated like any tea-table with flowers, fruit or mints, except that there are little buckets of ice so that guests may replenish their glasses as the ice melts. Other bottled drinks are usually provided for those who do not like Coca-Cola, but these are few in Georgia. This simple, inexpensive form of entertainment is particularly popular with the young matrons and young girls, who use it to honor a visitor or a bride. Occasionally the parties are held in the afternoon, but usually the afternoon is time for the more elaborate tea.

T
he most enthusiastically attended Negro event in Delaware is the Big Quarterly celebration at Wilmington, which attracts members of the colored race from such distant points as Georgia, West Virginia, and New York. It is a day of intense religious fervor, mixed with feasting on foods prepared by some of the best Negro cooks in the state, and gaily taking over the streets of the city that have been roped off for the occasion.