Marise's Down Home Cooking... Recipes for Remembering

It was a difficult trip, driving down the interstate to Morven in South Georgia. Mama was going home for awhile to tend to some business... tax appraisals, dentists, doctors... and to touch her place in this world one more time. All the way home mama and I talked about the remembers... Remember when your daddy and I bought the farm and built the house? You and Gayle helped your daddy plant the pasture with sprigs of grass. It had to be replanted twice because the hot Georgia summer sun dried that grass up. Remember Uncle Harold helping your daddy build fences (some still standing after many years) all over the farm? Remember your sister... remember your daddy... remember all that came before you were born and all that came after... remember.
And, the visit to Uncle Harold, now ninety one, stooped and frail with an irrepressible Puck attitude towards life. We sat in the small living room of my grandmother’s house, my Aunt Burma Lou curled up in an Alzheimer fog on the sofa while mama and Uncle Harold remembered. As we stood to leave for the three hour drive back to Morven, my uncle teared up as he hugged mama goodby. “This may be the last time for us to see each other, Shirley.” It may indeed be so.
We drove home with mama pointing out the homes and farms of great-grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins, some known and others unknown. Uncle Rob and Aunt Alice, Poppa’s, cousin Jaymon, poor Mrs. Parker... memories of lifetimes that were a part of her life with my father. Each homestead had a story or a description of those who had lived there in long ago days. Remember...
As the only surviving sibling of our immediate family, I find myself trying to hold in my heart all the remembers my mama has. When she is gone, the remembers will need me to tell their stories. Remember Aunt Elly? When she was too poor to afford meat, she would put her dishcloth on a board and pound it with a coke bottle so the neighbors would think she was tenderizing steak. I remember, mama. Remember Burma Lou’s seven layer chocolate cake with cooked icing? I remember. Remember when you were three and your cousins were shooting at you with the B.B. gun and nearly put your eyes out? Remember Sukie Lou, your first calf that you raised on a bucket? Remember Miss Ora, your step-great-grandmother, who made all the quilts I have? She needed the money and mama needed the covers. I’ll remember.
Then it was time to drive away, back to North Carolina, leaving mama behind for a month or so. As we walked out to the car, mama said “This is my last trip home. I no longer feel safe here alone.” We both wept as we turned away from each other, neither of us wanting to bear the other’s grief in our parting. The last trip home... the end of her life in Georgia... remember, now, where you come from. I will, mama.
On the drive home, we stopped in Vienna (Vi(long i)enna) for lunch at Marise’s Down Home Cooking. It is well off the interstate and you have to know where you are going to find it. On the outskirts of town, a modest rectangular concrete block building had a parking lot that was filling up at Sunday noon. The Methodists and Presbyterians had just gotten out of church and were forming a line. We beat the Baptists so the line was still short. The AME and Bethel Pentecostal Church of God would follow the Baptists.
Little Will was playing with Mr. Lee in front of us. We could tell they were friends from church. Will, like all the other boys there, was dressed in khakis, an oxford cloth shirt neatly pressed and a tie. A little girl, like all the other little girls, was dressed in her Sunday best with lace on her socks and a bow in her hair. All the grown-ups were greeting each other with small town familiarity, comfortable in their knowledge of one another, dressed for worship in their Sunday best, too.
Marise, along with her family members was serving dinner. Ham, fried or baked chicken, greens, pole beans, macaroni and cheese, dressing, mashed potatoes, potato salad, cranberry sauce, pickles, tomatoes, onions, cornbread or biscuit cooked like mama and grandma used to cook... meat and three sides with a drink for $6.95, dessert extra. Black and white folks mingled in the line waiting to be served, talking and calling each other by name. Comfort food... the food that feeds the community... the soul food that comes with remembering. These folks sitting in the dining room at Marise’s, members of that small town community, bowing their heads to say grace, laughing and joshing with one another taught me a lesson at Sunday dinner.
Show up for worship and for dinner. Wear your best and behave your best at least once a week. Listen to the preacher and your mama when they tell you the stories about your people and who you belong to. Remember my name. Remember who I was and where I came from. Remember me in my time of trial. Remember me in my youth and in my old age. Remember me when I am dead and gone.
Feed my sheep, Jesus said. I wonder if he meant for us to feed our souls with remembers? Do this in remembrance of me... Share a meal. Call each other by name because you know each other’s souls. Call my name and remember me. I remember, Lord, I remember. In my remembering, I will tell the old, old stories that live on in my heart of Jesus and his love. And I will remember, mama, where I come from and the stories you have told me.