People who knew my mother appreciated her intelligent and unique sense of humor. Displays of affection in our home were in short supply and almost always awkward, one way we knew how to say "I love you" was to be funny. My mother and I could quickly have each other in big belly laughs simply by repeating the same old joke, with the familiar tag line that never failed. For example,
"What's the weather in Mexico? Chili today, hot tamale..." Drums please. Dear ones, remember it was the Seventies and even my politically correct mother had her limits. It is a silly joke but we would be in tears laughing by surprising the other with it at the right time. This joke is particularly endearing because it reminds me of my mother's time in Southern California, where I was born and her trip to Mexico which she talked about well into my adulthood.
My mother and father met in Los Angeles and my mother's cooking and love of diverse food was heavily influenced by her time in California. She introduced me to avocados, tacos, and yes, tamales. In the seventies, in rural West Virginia, such foods bordered on exotic. But one culinary staple that has West coast influences was enjoyed by many in Spencer at the time, chili.
My mom was an average cook. She made some great things and some things that will never be forgotten for their impact. I never forgave her for the Spam she presented as dinner, a makeshift ham with cloves and pineapple on it. She was so proud of herself and I was so horrified! She defended that dish for years, as I could never let her forget it. But my mom made good chili. It wasn't unusual or unique in any way, just good comfort food. She'd buy a loaf of french bread and we'd dip that bread into the chili and oh my it was heaven.
Although she'd make that chili every winter, it was a kick off dish to the Fall and to a special event from the childhood of most Roane Countians, the Black Walnut Festival (BWF). Spencer's BWF is festive occasion in the life of the town where people come from all over the surrounding counties, as well as other states to partake of a multitude of delicacies made with Black Walnuts, exceptional bluegrass and gospel music, arts and crafts showcasing skills that are slowly and sadly going by the wayside in our technological age, as well as being a showcase for the agricultural successes of the young people in the area. It is planned for the entire year. I remember being in 4-H and working on my projects year round, trying to figure out what I would enter in the festival, hoping for that blue ribbon (I still have ALL my 4-H ribbons, blue and otherwise!).
We lived in town, close enough to walk to everything and close enough to run home and don a sweater or take off a sweater, sometimes it was 70 degrees, sometimes it was pouring down rain. Or maybe we dropped off the goodies that had been won at the annual carnival as well as other festival treats hat had been purchased. We knew it would be another year before we saw funnel cakes, boar roast, and cherry cokes (not on the shelves at the time) again so we stocked up. We also needed respite sometimes from the cacophony. Spencer is happily a sleepy little town and the festival with all its wonders and influx of new faces can sometimes be overwhelming. I knew I could go home for a bowl of my mom's chili at anytime. Even after I was in college she would make chili if she knew I was coming.
You see, the festival is a time of homecoming for those of us fortunate enough to make our way back. It's been almost ten years since my last Black Walnut Festival. The Saturday parade, pancake breakfast, annual Nut Run, and rows of other festival foods provide a social backdrop like no other. There is no high school reunion that can come close to providing the smorgasbord of events and familiar lovely faces that can be seen during the festival. While eating a funnel cake, you might look up and see a friend who you have not seen in twenty years. It is well worth the trip. If you've never been I invite you to click on the link and soak some of it up for yourself. Just seeing the picture of the carnival on the front page makes my heart soar.
Lately, those of us who can't make it can now witness it on Facebook and other social media. Which is exactly what I did yesterday dear ones, The Farmer sick with pneumonia, I was housebound, watching pictures of the parade go up as it was happening, and happily soaking up all the status updates of the events and goings on. The best part? Seeing pictures go up of friends who have not seen each other for a while, smiling, hugging, eyes shining with happiness. Although it makes the heart a bit sad, what a joy to see those faces again. And of course I thought of Leith's chili.
So this piece is dedicated to those of us, flung far and wide, who pine for the Black Walnut Festival each year. I remember the smell of the leaves, their crunchiness under my quick steps, the vibrant colors, hearing the carnival music as I got closer to town. Oh I couldn't wait the five minutes it took to get there! And I remember Leith's chili, especially the single small pot reserved just for me that didn't have the kidney beans in it, and I am reminded that my broken mama did the best she could to say "I love you", in all her brokenness.
More will be revealed...
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Saturday, August 10, 2013
And Here's Where We Left Off...
Summer in the Pacific Northwest takes its own sweet time arriving. Generally, we understand that after July 4th we can expect what the rest of the country calls summer weather. Temperatures reach in the high eighties, the sun shines all day (rather than a slow burn off of grey till noon or later), and we have consecutive days without rain. Disclaimer folks: I LOVE Seattle weather. After being raised in West Virginia and living there most of my life, I find cooler, less humid summers a relief, grey rainy days comforting and lovely, and winters without snow, a special gift! I miss thunderstorms, lightening and brilliant fall colors, but not the conditions necessary for nature to deliver them.
This summer surprised us a bit by coming three days earlier than usual. In this neck of the woods that means that everyone ran out and purchased every available fan they could find, and that by nightfall there were none left in any store. While this might be a slight stretch, it is closer to the truth. Because of our moderate temperatures, less than 10% of the homes in Seattle have air conditioning. Most people are so elated to see the sun that they don't know how to keep their houses cool. Dear ones, growing up in West Virginia, in a house built by your great-grandfather, without air conditioning, teaches you a few things about staying cool.
So it was that I found myself prepping our home early one July morning waiting for our trio of children to return home. On such a day, I find myself slipping into an archetyped, ritual behavior that brings me into sync with my grandmother, Frances. My grandmother raised me and I watched her daily routine closely like any daughter watches a mother. My own mother was so heavily medicated in those days that she would sleep very late, so it was my grandmother who made my breakfast and got my day going. You could set your watch by her morning schedule. I grew up with this informal education, my grandmother's customs inform my own domestic engineering today.
Frances would "close the house" around 10:00, pulling all the shades, closing all the doors and turning fans on every room to circulate the remaining cool air through the house. God help the child (me) who left the door open too long in either the summer or the winter. "Close the door you're letting the heat in!" or "Close the door, you're letting all the heat out!"
My great-grandfather, when he built our home, went out to the surrounding woods and brought back a variety of flowers and foliage to surround the house. It was grand in its day. By the time I was living there, his agricultural efforts had truly taken root. The yard was encircled by beautiful, old Maples, Black Walnut, and Elm trees. In the peak of the day, the front of the house was sheltered and shaded by these stately guardians, making the downstairs "front room" a place of respite on humid, unbearable afternoons. This room was literally an extra room, so cold in the winter that my frugal grandmother chose not to heat it. As a result, it became very well organized storage for all the things my grandmother could not part with but that were too threadbare to be in the rest of the house. A huge red chair that was unbearably scratchy, an old radio that I played with as a child and transplanted to Huntington when I left, and the old cookbooks belonging to both my grandmother and my great-grandmother. The same ones I poured over that eventually led me to this blog. (a food writer is born) This room in the summer, was a haven, a highly coveted spot. I'd often find my grandmother napping there and have to find other relief. I felt so successful when I commandeered it for myself!
My grandmother's quirks and routines so etched in memory, I often do things, wonder to Self "How did I know how to do that" and Self in her knowing replies, "That's how Gram did it".
That's how it went the day in Seattle when we were already approaching 70 degrees before ten-o'clock, a heat wave by our standards. Our heat peaks in late afternoon or early evening so most folks leave their houses open all day and then wonder why it's so hot. I felt absolutely in harmony with Frances as I shut windows, pulled down shades, drew the curtains...oh what a connection to her in those moments. The Farmer teased me later about the new window dressings (cardboard in windows with the most sun exposure, I AM my grandmother's other daughter). By the time the kiddos arrived, I was ready to say "Close the door, you're letting the heat in!"
And letting the aroma out....the aroma of the chicken I had roasted (I believe that's where we left off, a few bites back with Cara) Frances taught me well. Fix dinner early in the day and get that oven turned off before it gets too hot. Or have a dinner from the garden of fresh tomatoes, corn on the cob, and green beans. How good my grandmother was at never letting on that we had those dinners because we were frugal gourmets.
Summer brings me back into time and place with Frances and creates a wellspring of gratitude in me for the bounty of gifts she left at my disposal. As is always the case with mothers and ritual and memory,
more will be revealed...
This summer surprised us a bit by coming three days earlier than usual. In this neck of the woods that means that everyone ran out and purchased every available fan they could find, and that by nightfall there were none left in any store. While this might be a slight stretch, it is closer to the truth. Because of our moderate temperatures, less than 10% of the homes in Seattle have air conditioning. Most people are so elated to see the sun that they don't know how to keep their houses cool. Dear ones, growing up in West Virginia, in a house built by your great-grandfather, without air conditioning, teaches you a few things about staying cool.
So it was that I found myself prepping our home early one July morning waiting for our trio of children to return home. On such a day, I find myself slipping into an archetyped, ritual behavior that brings me into sync with my grandmother, Frances. My grandmother raised me and I watched her daily routine closely like any daughter watches a mother. My own mother was so heavily medicated in those days that she would sleep very late, so it was my grandmother who made my breakfast and got my day going. You could set your watch by her morning schedule. I grew up with this informal education, my grandmother's customs inform my own domestic engineering today.
Frances would "close the house" around 10:00, pulling all the shades, closing all the doors and turning fans on every room to circulate the remaining cool air through the house. God help the child (me) who left the door open too long in either the summer or the winter. "Close the door you're letting the heat in!" or "Close the door, you're letting all the heat out!"
My great-grandfather, when he built our home, went out to the surrounding woods and brought back a variety of flowers and foliage to surround the house. It was grand in its day. By the time I was living there, his agricultural efforts had truly taken root. The yard was encircled by beautiful, old Maples, Black Walnut, and Elm trees. In the peak of the day, the front of the house was sheltered and shaded by these stately guardians, making the downstairs "front room" a place of respite on humid, unbearable afternoons. This room was literally an extra room, so cold in the winter that my frugal grandmother chose not to heat it. As a result, it became very well organized storage for all the things my grandmother could not part with but that were too threadbare to be in the rest of the house. A huge red chair that was unbearably scratchy, an old radio that I played with as a child and transplanted to Huntington when I left, and the old cookbooks belonging to both my grandmother and my great-grandmother. The same ones I poured over that eventually led me to this blog. (a food writer is born) This room in the summer, was a haven, a highly coveted spot. I'd often find my grandmother napping there and have to find other relief. I felt so successful when I commandeered it for myself!
My grandmother's quirks and routines so etched in memory, I often do things, wonder to Self "How did I know how to do that" and Self in her knowing replies, "That's how Gram did it".
That's how it went the day in Seattle when we were already approaching 70 degrees before ten-o'clock, a heat wave by our standards. Our heat peaks in late afternoon or early evening so most folks leave their houses open all day and then wonder why it's so hot. I felt absolutely in harmony with Frances as I shut windows, pulled down shades, drew the curtains...oh what a connection to her in those moments. The Farmer teased me later about the new window dressings (cardboard in windows with the most sun exposure, I AM my grandmother's other daughter). By the time the kiddos arrived, I was ready to say "Close the door, you're letting the heat in!"
And letting the aroma out....the aroma of the chicken I had roasted (I believe that's where we left off, a few bites back with Cara) Frances taught me well. Fix dinner early in the day and get that oven turned off before it gets too hot. Or have a dinner from the garden of fresh tomatoes, corn on the cob, and green beans. How good my grandmother was at never letting on that we had those dinners because we were frugal gourmets.
Summer brings me back into time and place with Frances and creates a wellspring of gratitude in me for the bounty of gifts she left at my disposal. As is always the case with mothers and ritual and memory,
more will be revealed...
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