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Downhome Reflections From
time to time I plan to write something in this space. It will probably be like everything else in my life
done on an irregular schedule or, more accurately, as the notion strikes me. Nonetheless, it will give me a chance to say
what’s on my mind about things in general or tell a story which may contain a grain of truth.
- Bill Thompson Here is what Bill Thompson recently wrote: |
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My wife, Lynda, is a very good cook and I have the waistline to prove it. She prepares and serves not only traditional
Southern dishes such as country-fried steak smothered in onion gravy with white rice and hot biscuits but ventures into gourmet
cooking as well. Many of her gourmet dishes are the result of her ability to taste restaurant cuisine and recreate it
in her own kitchen. If she is unable to determine the exact ingredients and proportions of a particular restaurant offering
she will unashamedly ask the waiter to request the recipe or, failing to get an adequate response to her request, boldly walk
unannounced into the chef's kitchen and charm the recipe from the cook. She also watches The Food Network shows
which feature a lot of recipes that originate in other countries as well as the imagination of the chefs.
As the eventual beneficiary of her culinary expertise I assist her in every way including, of course, the consumption of the
food. I cut up vegetables, peel potatoes, and, yes, even wash dishes. I also run errands. Although such
assistance may sound trivial, when you live in the country such tasks often mean a trip to town in search of particular ingredients
or utensils. The accomplishment of such tasks is not always as simple as it seems. Late one afternoon Lynda
was watching one of the celebrity chefs on The Food Network. (Thanks to this particular network, some cooks have attained
the status of rock stars. Only in America.) This particular chef was instructing his viewers in the creation of
one of his dishes. Lynda was frantically trying to write down the recipe as the chef was reciting it while simultaneously
adding all the ingredients which had been previously proportioned, assembled and arranged in order of application prior to
the show. As soon as the chef had completed his recitation Lynda handed me her hastily scribbled recipe
and said, "Run to the store and get this right away." After pointing out to her that I really couldn't
make out some of her writing, she read the list to me. "And a pound of frog rocks",
she concluded. "Frog rocks? What are frog rocks?" I asked.
"I don't know'', she answered, "but that's what he said. It's some kind of meat.
Just ask the guy at the meat counter." Then I said, "You know, we can get this
off his web site." To which she replied, "I'm not going to wait to figure out the
technology needed for that. Just go get the stuff". My wife is not computer friendly.
So I got in my pickup truck and drove ten miles to the closest grocery store. I inquired of the meat market supervisor
as to the availability of "frog rocks". "What the ---- are frog rocks?"
he asked. "I don't know", I responded. "My wife said you would know."
"Can't help you friend", he concluded and went back to his meat cutting. I went
on to the next store, a bigger company and part of an international chain. I felt sure that they would have such an
exotic ingredient as frog rocks. I ask the meat market manager, "Y'all got any frog
rocks"? He looked at me with a kinda blank stare for a minute then said, "This some
kinda trick question, buddy? I bet you're on one of them reality shows like I seen on TV." Then he looked
around the store and asked, "Where's the camera?" I said, "No, no. My wife
sent me to get this and she said you would know what it is" "Buddy, I ain't got
a clue, camera or not", he said as he retreated to the market still looking over his shoulder for a television camera.
I went to two more stores before I gave up the quest and went home. When I told my wife of my unsuccessful attempt to
find frog rocks she questioned the sincerity of my effort. "I can't believe there are no
frog rocks in that whole town!" she said. "Surely that is not such a rare item."
"Have you personally ever seen any frog rocks?" I asked. "No, but if it's in
that recipe they must exist", she insisted. I said, "Let's look at that recipe
again. Maybe you'll know of something similar". We both read over her handwritten
recipe to no avail. Finally, I said, "Let's see if we can find it on his web site". So we
went to the computer, typed in the chef's name and clicked on the date of his show and then on "recipes".
Sure enough, the recipe popped up and we read the list of ingredients including "foie gras".
Somewhere between the chef's foreign accent and our Southern ears goose liver got lost. It was
probably right there in the store between the liver pudding and the fresh pork sausage. |
Reflecting Culinary Heritage I have mentioned many times my wife's culinary expertise but I
have never commented on my own ability to come up with anything fit to eat. I am not a cook. I can, if all other
resources cease to exist, fix eggs in various ordinary ways: scrabbled, fried, or boiled (no omelets or anything fancy like
that). I can cook most things that can be cooked in a frying pan: bacon, bologna, sausage...humm... come to think of
it, that's about it. Sandwiches are really a great testing ground for food research on my part. I have
found that almost any food placed between two slices of bread constitutes a sandwich. I have probably pushed the limits
of that assumption from time to time not so much from the ingredients themselves but the combinations of ingredients.
Some other folks share my fondness for peanut butter with just about anything: jelly, of course, then with bananas,
or mayonnaise and raisins. Not all together, just individually with peanut butter. I like raw bologna
sandwiches (maybe with cheese), all kinds of meats like chicken, steak, roast beef, barbecue, sliced roast pork, fried
pork chops, any kind of fish (without the bones) Probably one of my favorite sandwiches is cold turkey.
Usually after a holiday meal at our house there is an ample supply of left-over turkey to satisfy my love of that particular
sandwich. However, this past Christmas we suffered a lack of left-over turkey. As our family has grown it has become
more and more common for us to eat at somebody else's house for holiday meals. Such was the case this year with
the result that the week after Christmas we discovered there was no left-over turkey. Some times you just
do what you have to do. So with no left-over turkey at our house we went to the store and bought one, brought it home
and baked it, put it in the refrigerator and had cold turkey sandwiches for about two weeks. You might say it took us
a long time to go cold turkey. Fortunately, I am the "Mikey" at any dinner table. I like all
kinds of food. I also have had the opportunity to eat not only excellent home-cooked food but over the years I have eaten
at many, many dinner meeting (sometimes erroneously listed as "banquets") that featured a wide variety of foods.
Most have been excellent. Some not so excellent. Many have included barbeque in some form. This includes
pig-pickin's, eastern, Lexington, and western style servings in places as diverse as country club dining rooms and old
tobacco barn sheds. I have eaten enough cold ham and potato salad to have saved Napoleon's army on their retreat from
Russia. And it was all good and I appreciate the opportunity to share those meals with so many great people. Now I have finally come up with an original edible, uniquely my own, suited to not only my palate but my heritage and my
lifestyle. A friend of mine who has a local winery that produces North Carolina wine, specifically, muscadine,
gave me a jar of muscadine pepper jelly the other day. I figured it would be good on a cracker with my afternoon beverage.
I began my search for the proper cracker in the kitchen cabinet and wound up with a saltine cracker (a favorite from my youth).
Then I went to Pierce and Company and bought a pound of liver pudding and a slice of hoop cheese. I then put
a very thin slice of the cheese on the saltine cracker, spread a small amount of liver pudding (called "Carolina pate'
if you take it out of the casing) then a small dollop of the muscadine pepper jelly on top of it all. It was absolutely
delicious. I ate each one of my creations as soon as I made them because I couldn't wait to accumulate them on a plate.
I made a meal out of it. I called it a "Country Canapé'", my contribution to the culinary
arts. Not only did it taste good but it reflected my country upbringing and it used products produced right here in
North Carolina. We might serve it at the next garden party or family reunion. Or I might send some to Paula Dean. -Submitted 4/27/10 Southern
Snow Meteorology Announcement of the approach of the recent snow storm brought
about the usual Southern response: rush to the grocery store and buy all the bread and milk you can haul away.
This is the course of action regardless of the severity of the storm. Relatively speaking,
our storms are usually mild compared to those north of us. This winter has been a particularly active period which has
included blizzards that have stopped activity in even those areas accustomed to a lot of snow.
Meteorologists measure the severity of the snow by the number of inches that accumulated or the damage caused.
However, grocery stores measure by the loaves of bread and gallons of milk sold. Except
this year at one store. As the predictions for snow accumulations of more than normal
filled the airwaves and community grapevine, I went in to get a few items for my wife to do some baking. She cooks regardless
of the weather. A friend approached me as I was checking out and asked the usual question, "Are you ready for the
snow?" To which I replied, "As ready as I'm gonna be".
My friend said, "I understand we might get more than originally thought?" As which
point the young lady cashier said, "Oh, Lord, I hope not. We'll have people fighting over the Beanie Weenies." Only in my Beloved South do we measure storm severity by the
sale of Beanie Weenies. - Submitted 2/13/2010 Is Anybody Listening? Sometimes I wonder if anybody is really paying attention. We automatically ask questions sometimes without really thinking about what we are saying. For instance: A man was attempting to board the "down" escalator at a local department store when his foot slipped and he tumbled down the steps all the way to the bottom. Blood flowed from his forehead and his face was contorted in pain. I lady rushed up and asked if he was hurt. I had been sitting alone in the restaurant for about twenty minutes looking
at the menu. No waiter or waitress approached. Finally, a nice little girl with pad and pencil innocently asked,
"Would you like to order?" I was recently waiting in the emergency room of a local hospital when a man rushed in and said, "Is there a doctor here?" The harried nurse answered, "Probably". At a civic club ladies' night, a small gift was wrapped and placed on the table before each lady's chair and the name of the lady was beautifully written on a tag attached to the package. Invariably, several ladies would ask, "Is this for me?" Every time I am forced to venture north of the Mason-Dixon line or take Horace Greeley's advice and go west, someone will listen to me speak in an accent steeped in the orations of Sam Irvin and Ernest Hollins and ask, "Are you from the South?" The classic question and answer developed at Myrtle Beach last summer when a friend of mine in his late seventies had exceeded his own limits by trying to swim extra laps around the hotel pool. As my friend lay exhausted by the pool slowly recovering his breath, a tanned, bikini-clad life guard bent over his prostrate form and asked, "Are you all right?" My friend replied, "As long as you stand like that, I'm never going to get any better." - Submitted 2/4/2010 Older Than She Looked
I was supposed to be at the auditorium on Friday night for rehearsal then
meet the contestants, judges and some of the local sponsors for a luncheon at the hotel at noon on Saturday.
The contestants were to have the interview portion of the competition at the Ramada prior to the luncheon. When I arrived
I went into a large room where I found several of the contestants seated primly waiting to go into another room where the
judges were holding the interviews. After speaking to the young ladies I noticed a little girl seated alone on the other side of the room. She was dressed as if she, too, were a contestant. She wore a frilly pink dress with white patent leather shoes and a white leotard. Her blond hair was held back from her face by a pink ribbon with a bow at the top. She had crossed her legs at the ankles and clasped her hands in her lap. She looked like a small version of the girls on the other side of the room (except for the white leotards).
She looked lonesome so I decided I would talk to her while the contestants were waiting to be interviewed.
I offered her a handshake and said, "Hi, my name is Bill. What's yours?" She looked straight
ahead and didn't say a word. "I'm here for the luncheon. Are you
in the pageant?" Still no response. Sensing that she didn't really want
any company, I took a seat about three chairs down on the row she was seated on to wait for the conclusion of the interview
session. In a few seconds she said, "My mother told me not to talk to strangers." I said, "That's a very good policy and you should always do what your mother says".
Then she went on as if I was no longer a stranger. "My name is Olivia. I'm only seven years old which means
I'm not old enough to be in the pageant. You must not be a judge or you'd know that. My mother and
father are judges for this pageant so I couldn't be in it anyway." "Have you been in a pageant where you were old enough"? "Oh, yes. I've been in several pageants. I sing and dance. My mother says I'm another Shirley Temple, whoever that is. I really think I'm a lot like Marie Osmond though." (That tells you how long ago this all happened.) Would you like to hear me sing ‘Paper Roses'?" Without further encouragement she sang "Paper Roses" in a beautiful, little girl voice. When she finished I applauded and told her she did very well and she thanked me. I asked, "Do you like pageants?" "Yes", she replied. "But it's only make believe. I just pretend I'm a princess or a movie star, just get dressed up and play like I'm one. It's fun but it's not real life, you know. Today I'm a princess." I gazed at that little girl in amazement. She was more mature than a lot of adults. I wondered how she got so smart in such a short length of time. I looked over to the other side of the room and saw that there was only one girl left to go in for the interview session. Since I figured we were now friends I jokingly said to Olivia, "When that last girl gets through with her interview why don't you and I go in and be interviewed." To which she replied, "No, I don't think so. You're a big boy. You can go in by yourself." So I did and left Princess Olivia sitting serenely on her throne. - Submitted 1/19/2010 Fund-raising, Southern Style "It actually happened at an event I was emceeng: Only in my beloved South would
a law enforcement officer head up the raffle of a high-powered rifle to raise money for the local hospital. Bless his heart,
he raised a lot of money, too." - Submitted 12/19/09 |
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