Ok, enough doom and gloom. Time to talk about something more fun. Time to talk about food.
Now, I know many people think their mom was a great cook. But my mom was a great cook, and no one who ever sat down at our table ever disputed that fact. Growing up, I would have friends over, and they would have their entire reality changed. They never knew food existed like that my mom served them.
The thing is, we were poor. And so everything that hit out table was home made. And because we were poor, my mom had to be inventive with ingredients. Was it they healthiest food ever served? Not by a very long shot. But was it tasty and filling? Oh yes indeed.
So here, in some semblance of a top ten order, were her best dishes.
Number one, with a bullet, chicken and dumplings. Holy mother of God, now that was a dish. Tender, home made dumplings, with a delicious sauce, and shredded chicken, back when chickens tasted like chicken.
In the summertime, I would head out to play sports, or work, and would say to my mom, “I will be back by dark, save me some dinner please!” If she said “we are having chicken and dumplings” my response became “I will be home by six!” First, no way I was passing up chicken and dumplings to play baseball, and second, the rest of my greedy family would eat every last bit and lick the bowls and pans if I did not get home on time. Chicken and dumplings were simply never going to be saved.
Number two – green beans. Now, that would seem an unusual choice. I mean, green beans are nothing ordinary. Unless my mom cooked them. Then they became a highlight to be remembered for an entire lifetime. The beans were cooked tender – and drenched in bacon grease and butter with onions and her special blend of spices. Just thinking about them makes me salivate, and my arteries harden. I told my wife about them, who scoffed and said no way can beans be such a memorable dish. Then my mom served them to us one night. My wife has spent the last 30 years trying to recreate that magic, but to no avail. Good she has managed, maybe even approaching great a couple of times. But never has she quite achieved total green bean nirvana, much to her disappointment, as we both long for that memory to be reawakened.
Number three – biscuits and gravy. With bacon and egg on the side. Oh yes, now that was a reason to get out of bed. Fluffy, home made biscuits, with a thick tasty white gravy, and bacon and egg as on the side. I am drooling all over the keyboard just thinking about those biscuits and gravy.
Number four – baked beans. We had these at major holidays. And a couple of other times a year. Baked beans cooked with molasses, and yes, bacon, and baked until the sauce was thick. Glory be, my wife can almost perfectly recreate that dish. If my mom had tried to omit that dish from a holiday meal, the peasants would have rioted.
Number five – liver and onions. I know that many cannot stand liver. Well, that is just because they did not grow up eating my mom’s liver and onions. Yummy.
Number six – fried oysters. Damn, I loved those. My dad would get a huge bag of unshucked oysters, and we we shuck them, and my mom would fry them up in a special batter. It was a rare but amazing family tradition.
Number seven – beans and corn bread. Cheap, filling, tasty. The beans were cooked with the ever present bacon. We had this about once or even twice a week. Because we were poor and it was cheap to make. We thought we were kings eating that well, of course.
Number eight – chilli. This was made hot – damn hot. Had to have hair on your chest to eat her chilli. Visitors were not generally able to bear the heat, so she made a special no hair on chest chilli side pot just for them.
Number nine – something she called salsa verde, but I doubt it was a real salsa verde. It was a chicken and chilli dish served over rice. You needed a chest covered in steel wool to eat that, it was made so hot. Only my dad and I could handle it. The rest of the family got something else. Their loss.
Number ten – everything else she cooked. Spanish rice. Potato salad to die for. An incredible fruit salad for holidays. Her mashed potatoes were the best I ever encountered. Stews of all kinds. Chicken fried steak. Fried chicken. Pork chops with a special salsa.
So there you have it – quick run down of my mom’s menu. She was the world’s best cook. These meals, and writing about them bring back a flood of memories. The smells of certain foods cooking always bring back memories of my mom, and those incredible dishes she served.
But I suspect many of you also had a mom who was the world’s best cook. How about a list of some of her dishes? What memories do you have? Time to forget the doom, and rejoice in something I suspect we all can relate to – moms and food.
Take care, everyone.
Oh sweet little baby Jesus. My favorite was bacon and jelly sandwiches and a big glass of ice cold local and delivered in glass bottles whole milk.
All the sugar, fat and salt a growing boy needed.
Shout out to Green Valley Dairy.
Once I got past the grill cheese and tomato soup, and the banana-honey sandwiches, I realized my mother is a horrible cook. Everything dry and overcooked, with little to no seasoning. Woman never heard of chopped garlic, much less thyme or rosemary or even paprika. Being a decades long meat cutter, I figured it out pretty good on my own. Mostly what I learned from her was how not to do it.
Damn, Glock, that sucks. Memories of my mom come flooding back whenever I eat or catch a whiff of so many different kinds of food. And I am always searching for food that recreates the magic my mom brought to the table. Necessity is the mother of invention.
It’s too bad you guys didn’t have her write a cookbook.
Vixen.
Back then I don’t think our mothers thought that because good comfort food was necessary to feed hard working families. Hardworking men have to be fed or they waste away and you are left a widow. Hired men refused to work for a man whose wife couldn’t cook.
Good point, Flea.
VV – I asked my Mom for her pancake recipe and she told me it was all done by sight and how the batter felt when she stirred it. I tried to write down what she was using, but had no idea of how much of each ingredient. One thing I know for sure, was she put bacon drippings in the batter.
TN.
I don’t over stir the batter. A few dry lumps are ok. Same with home made whipped cream. No sugar and only whip it till it slowly drips off the whisk. Otherwise it gets taseless and stiff or hard. It doesn’t hold up long so it’s not popular because you have to make it right before it’s used. 30 minutes max.
Flea, I definitely prefer the homemade variety. Homemade mayo also.
Oh, that sounds good with the bacon grease. Lots of people cook like your mom, by feel and using sight for measuring, et cetera. I’m not good at that sort of thing and have to use a recipe unless I’ve done a lot of times and know if by heart.
I am practicing measuring by sight. I put whatever ingredient in my hand, however many times needed, so I can see it and try to remember what a tablespoon, teaspoon, cup looks like. Unfortunately, you can’t really do that with a liquid so learning how much is in, say, a coffee cup is required.
Just a reminder, have your parents write down your favorite recipes now if you don’t already have them. My mom is in her late 80s and is starting to forget recipes, like how she makes the Thanksgiving giblet gravy. I never made it because she always did, and it was wonderful, but now it’s lost unless she happens to recall. And that’s a terrible lose to me.
Sounds like your mom had home cooking aced.
Glock are you one of my brothers? What she lacked in culinary skill she made up in volume. And she made good pies and Carmel rolls.
Haha…I don’t think so IW. We grew up poor, so the saving grace of her terrible cooking was there wasn’t much of it to eat.
Hamburger Helper _ Beef Noodle
Fucken Amazing!
Mom was terrible, still is, Dad was a master, thanks for trip. I think many are reevaluating the art these days.
My mother would get chicken thighs be cause they were cheap and she would roast them in a baking dish with thinly sliced onions and quartered potatoes with some salt and pepper. I can still see her assembling it at the kitchen counter and the smell when it filled the house… I cannot reproduce that simple dish no matter how many times I have tried but I will never forget what it tasted like, the gravy she made from the pan juices, the crispy skin on the chicken, the succulent and tender meat, the crunchy surface of the potatoes with the almost custard like sweet flesh inside.
I’d give anything to try that meal one more time.
Great thread, thanks.
Thing about chicken thighs – they are the tenderest and best. I hate breast. Thanks HSF. Sounds like your mom and mine had some things in common – no matter who my mom gave recipes and showed how to make the dishes, they just never could get it 100% the same. Close at times, but just never perfect. That is where the love comes in I expect.
Fluffy Belgian waffles with Hardscrabble’s maple syrup. Yum.
Thank you kind sir for the delicious syrup.
Llpoh..
Food was our hospitality when someone stopped by. Us poor and working poor only had food to offer. The chicken and dumplins were just like you said. We would cook an old leghorn hen all day and then shred it like with pulled pork and use the broth and chicken for the base. Back when chickens and potatoes tasted good.
Another favorite was Eastern(Irish) potatoes thin sliced and fried nice and crispy in bacon grease. Nobody cared what else was served with it.
Irish stew was out of this world with good potatoes. Meat was only for flavoring and gravy. These days few under the age of 50 have ever had a good eastern potatoe. Mom would baste them as they baked so they had a beautiful crispy skin. We scraped out the middle and then put butter in the skins and let it melt. Folded it closed and bit into it. Heavenly!!
Another one was Yankee Chile. Only slightly spicey but with whole Jersey tomatoes and sauce with hamburger that tasted like hamburger and lots of red beans in it.
Fresh peas and mashed potatoes mixed together with gravy or butter. We had a three teated gurnsey so butter was plentiful. Gurnsey’s and Jersey’s give such rich milk on pasture, you can skim it and still have 3 % milk for breakfast.
Butter on Jersey sweet corn in mid summer was another, with thin sliced pork chops with a nice ring of fat fried to a crisp.
Back then each animal tasted different. Not so today unless you got it off HSF.
I remember in Nam during those long luls while both sides recouped us eastern boys would fantasize out loud about getting home and having some real mashed potatoes with lumps in them. Why the lumps?? Because it meant they weren’t instant military mashed to a consistancy of loose cream of wheat, that’s why!
Damn, Flea, maybe we are related. We had many of the same dishes. I loved mashed taters with peas or corn mixed. Corn on the cob was a standard. One thing tho – no lumps in my moms mashed potatoes. She got them all out somehow. Thanks for the drive down memory lane!
Llpoh.
We might be. Dad was from Fannin county and the Hoopers married into quite a few Choctaw from the southern part of the nation. Irish and choctaw aren’t too picky about marrying each other it seems or the Choctaw have lousy taste.
Nice homage (in my lexicon the “h” be silent) to your mother.
My mother made one hell of a macaroni salad. Amazing dish.
She also made what she called Special K Loaf. Vegetarian dish made with special k cereal. Topped with turkey gravey on Thanksgiving…pure happiness. Better than the turkey. There was always turkey leftovers but never any special k Loaf left over.
My Mom made the very best fried potatoes I have ever eaten. They were cooked in bacon drippings and as they got soft, she would cut them with the spatula and fry them until they were little crunchy puffs of heaven. She also made a great chicken pie, no veggies, just shredded chicken, gravy and crust. Her Mom made the very best Pork roast with potatoes and carrots. The gravy was so rich, you would want to take a bath in it.
Thanks for the memories, Llpoh.
TN – sounds delicious. My mom’s fried potatoes were much the same.
TN, no fair bringing in grandmothers. They were the best cooks ever. Everything my grandmother cooked was wonderful, from her fried corn bread patties to her peach cobbler. But the one thing I remember and loved the best was her cream-style corn. She cut the corn off the cob with a knife until she had enough. After that, I have no idea what she did because I was young when watching her. But it was wonderful. My favorite food in the world. I’ve never found anything like it sense she passed away. Even my mother can’t duplicate it.
since, Editor..:~)
Thanks, nkit, but I don’t edit myself here.
By the way, this is my only day off so please give me a break. 🙂
I knew that..
You’re a sweetheart. It’s places like this website that help keep me sane.
Thank you, kind sir. Very nice song.
Don’t down vote nkit. He’s only teasing.
My wife has a wooden gadget with a blade to cut the corn off and little spikes to “milk” the ear. I think the “milk” is the secret to creamed corn. Our neighbor keeps us covered up in corn when it comes in, so we cream and put up a lot of it
You’re probably right about the “milk,” TN.
I love gadgets like that corn cutter, which help save time and make things so much easier. But my grandmother never worked outside of the home and considered she had the time (outside of being a full-time mother and wife) and would have never dreamed of spending her precious money on something when she could do it with something she already had, a knife. Even in the ’60s and ’70s. She was extremely frugal and I really mean extremely! She’d rather spend the time than the money. In a case like this, I’d rather spend the money than the time.
My mom was a great cook. She kept my sister, brother, and me well fed even though there wasn’t much money. The special time was from Thanksgiving week to New Years Day. That was when she made all kinds of sweet delicacies, ranging from pies, cakes, fudges, cookies, and her specialty, pulled cream candy. She paid for many a Christmas selling that cream candy.
Mom’s getting up in age, but she still makes that cream candy when the weather gets cold enough to keep those candy marbles cold.
Pumpkin pie. Cherry pie. Chocolate pie. Sweet taters with marshmallow topping. Oh my.
Now you’re really bringing about the sweet memories. And don’t forget the homemade lemon meringue pie.
Mom’s sugar cookies were out of this world. She made fruitcakes that were actually fit to eat. She would wrap them in cheesecloth that had whiskey put on them. After they aged a year, you could slice off a piece and it was almost transparent to light. The pecan and old-time lemon pies were my favorite. Then there was the Christmas cake, full of candied fruit and coconut, nicely covered with a glaze. She made chocolate and peanut butter fudge from a recipe pap got off a can of Kero Syrup before 1920. She still does. The big dog in her kitchen was the making of Kentucky cream candy from a recipe her mom invented right before the War. The weather had to drop into the 20’s before you could make it, and there were days in the teens when she made batch after batch. It paid for Christmas. She made it in peppermint, wintergreen, vanilla, chocolate, and peanut butter flavors. She would make the Brown Recipe, which called for condensed milk, and it was straight through caramelized. She still makes the cream candy and my job is to help pull it. She’s the boss of the whole thing.
That’s part of the cooking I was exposed to as a child. I haven’t talked about the home-made breads and rolls; the buttermilk and Riz biscuits, the cinnamon rolls, and cornbread.
Moms and cooking just go together with those wonderful memories of childhood. Your mom sounds like a jewel.
Cook is one of the highest callings of a woman. Mother is another. I can’t say how good a cook she was but it is pretty obvious that she was a success at mothering. You were a blessed man ,Llpoh.
Thank you, Over.
My mom was good in the kitchen alright but no one beat my dad on the grill outdoors, he made his own barbecue sauce that is still unmatched in stores today from anything I’ve tried.
Lipoh
You’ve made me ravenously hungry for every dish on your menu. Not the thing to read before dinner. Great article.
I just ate and I’m hungry again.
Ah, where to begin? My mother was German, born and bred, she learned to cook from my Oma who was a superlative cook. Our dishes were rouladen and goulash and spatzle and kartoffel salat made with hot bacon fat and onions and red vinegar and bits of bacon. Like most folk commenting here, we were poor, Dad was a soldier and that pay wasn’t much. We didn’t know what store bought was, everything was homemade, apfel struedel, pound cake (with the pound of butter, eggs etc.) and let us not forget the german sausages, gutes schwartzbrodt und brotchen.
That was the German side, then there was the southern/Texas side. My mother learned to cook southern from my Granny and Aunt Rhea. That was the beans and cornbread and fried chicken and pork chops and cream gravy. When I was nine my mother informed me that it was time I learned to cook, and she taught me well. I can make a flakey pie crust, biscuits, whip up a roux for any and all sauces and she taught me how to season properly and….I forgot to mention a TDY in France, in the country where the REAL cooking happened. EVERYTHING fresh, from the garden(s) dairy, animals and fruit trees, (real fresh cherries) Learned that too, and, long story short, my mother and I along with the rest of the family opened two restaurants, one near San Antonio and one in Taos. NM. Continental cuisine, we shut them several years later when my mother’s health began to fail.
I love to cook and I especially love it when I watch the faces of the folks who eat what I make, light up.
Sounds like recipe to live by.
Anyone else remember going out in the woods with every kitchen pot you and the other kids could carry to fill them with wild blackberries??
Ha! Sure do. And would hustle home so mom could turn them into a blackberry cobbler.
my dad made the best fresh blackberry cobbler i have ever eaten.
I remember when we helped pick blackberries mom always warned about the copperheads. They made it worth getting scratched by the stickers.
Heck , I STILL do that!!
Mom’s angel food cake. Her fried chicken. Her stuffed cabbages. Her chicken noodle soup.
Food is the universal tie that binds everyone. Thanks, Llpoh.
AOC.
With homemade noodles. Out of this world.
Normal foods…fried bologna…kishka (blood sausage)…spam…potato pancakes…hamburgers on sliced bread…no buns. Of course, bacon and eggs or sausage and eggs, eggs cooked in bacon grease.
The worst temptation was the components of the Easter meal that was taken to Catholic church to be blessed on Holy Saturday, a Polish tradition.
From ham, fresh and smoked kielbasa, golabki, pierogi, kiska, potatoes, sauerkraut, salads, sweet potatoes, red and white horseradish, it was all prepared…None of it could be eaten until Easter Sunday, but on Holy Saturday the temptation from all of the great smells was so great…almost forgot the “butter lamb” that was part of the meal.
Damn, I’m hungry…
Glad we were not Polish. No way my mom’s food would have made it all the way to church! At best a few crumbs would have gotten blessed.
Sounds good, An.
Thank you, nice article…brings back good memories.
So, this is why I respect you. My mother fed us in the same manner – food you can never forget – food that I still follow her recipes today – and I know that my Pappy fed me the same tough lessons about life and how to get by, but better yet, how to succeed as your pappy taught you. Like cooking, that’s learned.. Thanks. A great tasting post.. And that ain’t no biscuit, you old Boerboel.
Thanks Nkit. Very high praise indeed.
Thanks for that uplifting article. And bacon makes everything better.
Except spaghetti. All of my friends said my mom made the best they had tasted. We used to gather at my house after school to eat the leftovers from the night before. About five years ago, I ran into a former next-door neighbor I had not seen in at least 20 years. One of the first things she said was : I remember your mom’s spaghetti. It’s still the best I ever had.
My mom still makes it and I still love it.
My grandmother’s meatballs of all things have never had any competition, were the size of your fist.
I used to want meatballs in my mom’s spaghetti because that’s what you saw on TV. She simply cooked ground beef, broke it into small pieces while it cooked, drained it, and added it to her sauce, making a meat sauce. So when I cooked spaghetti for suppers, I made meatballs sometimes and made it the way my mother did sometimes. My son actually liked the “meat sauce” better than the meatballs, but I liked the meatballs better. Go figure.
My ex is Italian. When his mother cooked spaghetti, the sauce had meatballs and sausage. That was the first time I ever had sausage in spaghetti sauce. It was different but it was really good.
What I didn’t mention in the comment above, and what I find funny, is my ex’s mother was full Irish, while his father was full Italian. She learned to cook the Italian dishes he liked. She really could make some mean Italian food to not be born to it, so to speak. I have no idea how she learned it though, whether through recipes or someone showing her how.
Lloph we were poor growing up also but mom was a master chef her fried chicken , smothered burritos.ham and beans,potato soup, and Sunday roast beef with mashed potato were the greatest meals I ever ate, I had three brothers and if you weren’t at the table for dinner you probaly were top ramen for dinner when you got home
Dang. Made me hungry, too.
I also remember when chickens tasted like chicken. Those were good days.
Enjoyed that. Thanks Llpoh
My favorite was pork roast and great northern beans. She cooked it like no other. All cooked together with some onions and garlic and that magic touch that is impossible to replicate. Man it was something.
This reminds me of an old TV skit – family sitting around the table staring at the last pork chop. The lights go out in the house, followed by a scream. Lights come back on – one hand grabbing the chop with five forks stuck in the back of it. Kinda like at my house.
My old man ruled with an iron fist. Except when it came to food on the table. There it was every man for himself. And no amount of his bullying or threats to get the last spoonful of dumplings or anything else would work – from a young age it was the quick or the hungry, not that there was ever a shortage. It was just that it was so good, it was worth fighting over.
I have a question. Did anyone here grow up not poor?
I grew up poor and, based on these comments, it seems the majority of us did. I mean money poor, not poor when it comes to love and the togetherness and fun within the family. (I think many of us are better because of the hard knocks growing up and dealing with the real world.)
So did anyone here grow up rich or well to do?
In first grade I had to wear my sisters snow boots she grew out of. One of them had a hole in it. My father was a lumberjack in Michigan. We lived off a dirt road. The memories are good ones though.
You had a dirt road? Damn, you were rich. We could not afford dirt. Rich kids lived on dirt roads. We had to make due with a goat track.
Good point. Though I think that was sarcasm, rich is different for different people.
There is lower middle class, poor, and real poor. We were real poor. We had enough to eat, but anything else was a luxury. If you wanted clothes, better get a job and buy some, or keep wearing what you got. Etc.
When my mother and father divorced, my mother had to go on food stamps for a couple of years. When we went to the grocery store and we wanted everything advertised, my mother’s answer was always, “We can’t afford it right now.” Eventually, you stop asking.
After she got off of food stamps and years beyond, you knew it had to be something important in order to ask for something that you couldn’t afford by working odd jobs. Funny those moments didn’t pop up that much.
label in, label out.
We were lucky enough to have one of these…
Wow. I would have killed for one of those. Just kidding, of course. That is nice.
I, too, had to wear hand-me-downs, from my brothers (play wear), and from my older female cousins for school dresses (when girls wore dresses to school).
Donkey, I think you hit the key there. These family memories while growing up show us what’s important in life. And it’s not material things.
Did you ever have hand-made clothes? Several of my brothers and I got handmade (mom-made) polyester shirts one Christmas. They were all from the same material, so we looked like the Von Trapp family.
My mother sewed when we were younger, but after she had to go back to work after the divorce, she really didn’t have time. She also had to help her mother who was getting up in years.
I do remember when my oldest brother was in the high school marching band, they came up with new uniforms and she had to make his. Looked really good. The uniforms looked like the outfit Zorro wore, without the cape. And the colors where black and gold. Really cool.
Zorro. Check out the top pic and imagine a black vest with bold trim rather than the cape. That was the band uniform. So, so cool.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zorro
By the way, who is the Von Trapp family?
Vixen
Sound of Music, Julie andrews.
OK, thanks. I’ve never actually watched that movie, believe it or not.
Blessed to have a Mom who put a hot meal in front of her 3 kids everyday, even if it was bland and often boiled. But where her talents as a baker and the Christmas cookies, all from scratch, and many of the recipes from her Mom’s older version of the Red and White bound version of Better Homes and Garden Cook book.
A bit of luck allowed My Mom’s and her Mom’s copy to come to me, when Mom passed. She thumbed through her copy so often, she wore the tabs off the different chapters. Reading the penciled notes, taking care not to lose the small recipe books often for only the cost of postage. A tour of memories that for the most part can be brought to life, if the love is there. Does anyone remember their kin using a larding needle to poke and pull through fat to add flavor to what was mostly the cheap cuts of meat?
Further blessings came from having grandparents from the old Country. In the house my Nona ruled the kitchen , and she brought and taught me how to take foods that at the time, the yuppies hadn’t found and using garlic, onions and fresh spices from the garden, put food in front of her family that only love and the time it took to make. Sadly by the time I came along the zoning nazis forbid them from keeping chickens and rabbits.
Other than the few who farm or are serious growers of food would know what twenty minute corn is. Twenty minute sweet corn is when my Grandma would send Grandpa and me to the 3-4 rows of corn he raised in the biggest truck garden you can imagine. In the time it took it took for him to find 4-5 ears where the tassels told him, we would rough shuck them, add that to the compost box and walk upstairs to have Grandma make sure all the strings were peeled away, and into a pot of roiling boil they would go. A mere formality just to get the ears hot enough to melt real butter allowing the salt and pepper to stick. I’ve only found one farm stand that come close to the sweetness in my Grandfathers corn and all the food he raised.
He was allowed to make and bottle 200 gallons of wine during prohibition, His burgundy made him popular in the neighborhood. He taught me using just salt how to put up Italian hams, bacon, and other cold cuts that today if you can find an old school Deli, would still cost a pretty penny. Not just cold cuts either, his provolone, dipped in wax and allowed to cure in the basement, mozzarella hours old, and my grandparents grated real Parmasean on their pasta using a grater my father made in shop class , and yes I have it to this day.
As a young kid full of himself, he would show me how to prune all the different fruit trees he raised, along with how to graft different types of fruit on the same rootstock, and me thinking where in my life will these skills be needed and how will they look on my resume. Like I say more than a bit conceited, those skills today are priceless and when I think of what use to be important versus the smiles that showing up with some ripe Meyers lemons and a pound of honey brings to peoples faces.
bkpr
Wonderful story. Thank you. Post often, please.
Great narration of a family’s life.
Good Lord, I remember that book. She’d sit it on a stand while cooking X, Y, Z.
This post needs it’s own fully detailed post IMHO. I’d love to learn some of the techniques you refer to here!!
Old cookbooks are a great resource. The older the better.
I requested and got my Mom’s BH&G cookbook copyright 1947. It is well worn and stained throughout.
TN, if the cookbook isn’t stained, it means it wasn’t used. Just saying.
That’s what separates the wheat from the gold diggers. If her cookbooks are in new condition, run!
Mom made up dress up for church on Sunday and I always had a hand-me-down suit or sports coat from one of my cousins. I got my first new suit when I was a Sophomore in HS.
From what I’ve read in the comments both here and elsewheres in this blog, I get the feeling that most of us have had so many hard knocks we’re permanently lumpy:)
I think I fall into the lumpy category. But I’ve ironed out over the years, not monetarily, but accepting the world the way it is.
When I was young I used to love lumpy (in all the right places) women.
My dad, between bites of a piece of cherry pie said “Son, to hell with good looking (munch munch) women. You gotta find one who can cook. (Smacking of lips.) Because good looking women get old and ugly, but good cooks just cook better and better. You figure it out (munch munch).”
He was pretty smart my old man.
Actually, he was right.
Edit: Of course, there is love as well. In my opinion, looks have nothing to do with that.
“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”.
“The way to a woman’s heart is through his wallet”.
Am I too cynical?
Yes!
The way to a woman’s heart is through romance. And keep it going until one of you dies. (Unless she’s a gold digger. Ask your women friends and they’re set you straight. They can see it a mile away.)
I’ve said this before, when if comes to lovemaking, women focus mentally and men are visual Satisfy your woman’s desires mentally and you’ll have your own sanctification in return.
Follow Llpoh’s advise by marrying a good cook so the man’s “stomach” is satisfied and so is the heart. OK, I’m old fashioned. But if a man likes my cooking and expresses his approval frequently, then I’d be happy. (But we’re living in an upside-down me-too world now.) Second piece of advice, don’t date or marry a liberal.
Anyway, romance for women is the key. Men, romance them and your desires will be fulfilled.
They were what we called country big. They worked like dogs got big. All my 7 aunts were big but boy could they turn on the honey in their voices. When the came for the holidays if one of them said in that sweet voice “Frankie honey will you go get me some eggs” I’d drag the whole chicken coop back to the house.
Admit it, Flea, you’re just a sweet guy.
Though you’ve shown you can whoop some ass.
Vixen.
Sweet is a luxury.
Spoken like a true ass whooper.
I bet you could romance though.
Vixen.
I abused it a lot. Think of deep blue eyes while the Ritcheous Brothers sing unchained melody. Not any more.
I, too, had those deep blue eyes. I was told it was my best feature (besides my ass.) But it didn’t automatically get you past go. And at that time, we were listening to the Beatles.
The beatles songs are romantic or a turn on? Chicks think they are hot but their songs? What am I missing?
Righteous. Although now I want to retch.
Fleabags – if a good cook wants me to fetch her something for cooking, I bust my ass getting it. Good food is worth hustling for. And most of the good cooks I know had a sweet disposition – as I mentioned somewhere herein, the reason most folks seem to be unable to reproduce really good food is that the key ingredient always seems to be love, and you simply cannot buy that off a shelf.
I never realized your great sense of humor before.
I do it to amuse myself! Someone has to. But thank you very much.
🙂
The hard knocks build character.
I know Vic said she had to work today. Maybe she will see this later. Based on most everyone else in this thread (assuming ya’all ain’t exzaturatin just a bit) compared to you I guess I was rich. A two bedroom one bath house my parents built themselves after WWII was what I grew up in. Since my parents literally raised me and my brother one child at a time, we were virtually only children as we grew up. When I was born, my parents kept me in their room until my brother joined the Navy when I was two. Then I got his bedroom.
We lived in the suburbs with paved streets and kids everywhere. I never thought I was poor but my mom did. Her sister was married to an engineer who had his own firm so they were very well off and my mom was a bit jealous. My dad was a railroader who snagged a job as a switchman on the RR in ’39. It was extra-board so he was making $25 a week, had a pregnant wife and money was very tight. Mom had to go to work when my brother was 3. The war had started. My brother and I had very different lifestyles growing up. By the time he hit his teens, he was expected to have all the prep work done for dinner when my parents got home or he was in big trouble.
I was a post-war baby born 17 years after my brother. By then my dad was a yardmaster and making decent money but not enough to get a bigger house than the 2 bedroom house they built. My mom quit her job when she got pregnant with me. So they lost her income.
My mom couldn’t boil water when my parents got married. She was raised by her grandparents from the age of 8 and great-grandma didn’t have the patience to teach her and my aunt how to cook. My dad, however was the oldest of 12 and helped my grandma in the kitchen. She was a great cook . Her fried chicken was to die for. My dad taught my mom how to cook and she eventually became a decent cook. She made heavenly potato salad and meatloaf. I duplicated the meatloaf but was never able to duplicate the potato salad.
Mary..
At the risk of starting a top this contest, here is what poor meant to me. We weren’t poor, the kids down the road were poor. Their parents were drunks and they were dirty and would wear the same cloths for a week at a time until the Principle would send a letter home for their parents to clean the kids clothes. That was poor.
I grew up in a tarpaper shack that always leaked somewhere with 1 electric cord coming in that supplied a light hanging from a wire in the kitchen and living room(Sarc). It had one of those screw in thingy’s that you could plug an iron or radio into but not at the same time. The well was 20 feet outside the kitchen door which was also the living room door(More Sarc) and you had to pour a glass full of hot water down it to thaw it out before pumping water. The outhouse was a good 200′ from the house and I never saw toilet paper outside of the schoolhouse till I went to visit my Aunt. Sears and Monkey Wards catalogs were toilet paper. The ladies lingerie section was our poor mans playboy.
Our clothes were spotless but patched and repatched and Christmas meant new shoes three sizes too big so you could wear them 3 years. We carried water for over 1,00 chickens about 400′ back from that same well. Had a real Ice Box. One block or two was the Icemans call from the truck. Baseballs were black back then because there was only one in the neighborhood and it was taped and retaped with black electricians tape. The same tape that held the bats together.
We cut ten cords of wood by hand for heat and cooking with two man saws. As a toddler I would sit on the log in the sawhorse while my older sisters would saw the oak and maple logs. Then I graduated to gathering kindling and so on until at 9 I was splitting every stick of wood we burned after it was hauled to the house. There was a large back workroom attached to the house to size and candle each egg that had to be kept warm to keep that days eggs from freezing by a pot bellied stove with another one in the living room(Sarc) to keep us from freezing in that uninsulated shack. Big logs were split with wedges and a sledge and if I buried them before the log split I had to split a wedge off another log and use that to get my wedges out.
All this was perfectly normal in my area. Nobody resented the wealthy as far as I know and the wealthy didn’t look down on us either. There were lots of ethnic quarrels but never any class envy growing up except for the .1%. Rockerfellers were universally resented.
Oh. I forgot something. If we were playing back in the swamps and fell through the ice we had to start a fire and dry out before going home or our moms would beat us with a house while screaming about getting put in the poorhouse over doctor bills from getting “Amonia”.
Lol! I can top that ! Mom didn’t have any mentors close to help her learn how to be a mom. Try being a Dr Spock baby cuz that was her child raising manual.
Spock was an evil man who robbed us of the natural mothers instinct that kicked in when you had a baby. Mothers believed his baloney rather than seeking out the help of older seasoned mothers.
OK, now I understand. My mother-in-law raised her kids on Dr. Spock. She had nothing but praise for him. It’s all clear now.
Wow. And you your life sounds like my dad’s who lived on a small “farm” with chickens and a couple of pigs. (No offense, he was born in the ’30s but lived the same way.) When he was about 12, they lost the “farm” and had to live in his aunt’s turkey coop in the backyard because there was no room for them in the house.
Life was hard and everybody worked in some way, whether splitting logs or children picking blueberries or blackberries. You had to work if you wanted to eat. Like you said, that’s just how life was. And now people complain about not having the newest Smartphone.
When I was growing up, I don’t remember people complaining constantly or being envious like they are now but I think the media and politicians have a lot to do with that.
Vixen.
We weren’t the Waltons by any stretch. We fought like all siblings and our parents didn’t see us as little darlings to be pampered thank goodness. We had two choices growing up. Do what they said or die, there was no negotiating.
You had a shack? Man, you was rich! I lived for my first 10 years in a 18 foot trailer (that you had to jump into because the step was electrified by a short my dad could not find) along with mom, dad and my three siblings. No kidding.
One day we graduated to a shack, where the floor was rotten and open in places to the various rodents.
But in all the bad times, only once did we not have enough to eat. That was because of motherfucking cops. My old man had to work in the next state over – only job he could find. Sent money every week. On the way home, it was an overnight drive, he pulled over to sleep for a few hours.
Fucking motherfucker cops grabbed him up, took all the family money, dragged him before the judge on the spot, who convicted him of vagrancy and fined him all his money and tossed him into jail for a week. For sleeping in his car and trying to get home to his family. Motherfuckers.
We damn near starved that time. We were eating margarine by itself until my dad could scrape up a few bucks.
I fucking hate cops. Fucking hate the bastards.
Llpoh.
One winter 61/62 we ate my pet banties. I didn’t need to be asked either. I just told my mom they’re going to starve if we don’t. We had long since gotten rid of the chicken farm. Commercial big agra farms did us all in. Dad just had a bad habbit of walking off a job on the spur of the moment. By rights we should not have been poor. He was a Union Mechanic Carpenter who was well know for his craft as a Cabinet maker. He rarely drank either. He quit beating me out of the clear blue with never a reason offered after that. Still never talked to me but the whippings stopped. He died before I could kill him. I forgave him 20 years later.
My old man was a terrible sinner and a wonderful saint. Just never knew which one you were going to get. I general got the sinner. I admire him in many ways – but by God he was horribly flawed.
I have never managed the forgiving part, because a couple things were unforgivable. And he has been dead awhile.
He stopped beating on me when I slapped him out of a chair one time. He told me never to touch him again – but he never laid hands on me again from that point. I had had enough.
We could be brothers, for sure. I of course would be the good looking smart one.
You might be the better lookin one but my intense cobalt eyeballs are real panty droppers.
I was so pissed when he died suddenly and cheated me out of the chance to kill him I took it out on the rest of the world or so I thought. I didn’t need to go to Nam to go crazy, I just went crazier than usual. In spite of that, him and mom never once were smart asses to us or anyone else and I grew up that way. They were always polite and hated rudeness and smart mouths. Give me problems on the net where I can’t hold smart asses accountable. You know my Mom went to her grave having never pulled a tag off a pillow or mattress.
Oh, my goodness, you and my father are more rhyme than reason. My dad’s father was an alcoholic and mean. If my dad didn’t race home from school to feed the pigs at the time his dad thought he should be there, he got a beating. My aunt (his sister) actually told me about this years after he died. And he could get a beating just depending on my grandfather’s mood. My aunt was the youngest of the seven kids. She said, at the time, my dad was the only son left at home. My dad eventually left home to live with his uncle in another state at age 15.
Edit, by the way, my mother told me my grandfather’s family actually came from money but he squandered the money he received. This is the man that ended up with his family living in a turkey coop. Sad. I’m so glad my dad got out of that situation as soon as he could.
Vixen.
I could never get my aunts to tell me what it was about but his dad was a useless drunk also. Mom was in denial to her death because she was madly in love and he with her. It was just me he seemed to hate out of the 7. As early a first grade he would just raise welts with his belt from my ankles to my lower back. I remember at night a week later the welts would be throbbing while wondering what I had done.
I accept the blame for my part after I was 19 or 20 in refusing to forgive but I refuse to accept any blame for being a tiny kid plotting his death. I ended up just as violent but far more evil from the time he died at 13 till I finally sobered up at 34. Parents are responsible to raise kids at least somewhat fairly. In spite of that I’m grateful my parents never allowed any outsiders to harm us and they certainly never molested us like is happening today.
Flea, I feel for you as I feel for my father. I’m just sad there are people in the world that do things like this to their children, now or in the past.
I wonder if perhaps your father perceived you as rebellious or a threat, even at a young age. Or am I just suggesting something that wasn’t true? Masculinity can be a threat to the weak.
I only ask because an authoritarian figure can feel someone or something is a threat to their authority and lash out. Of course, I’m not a psychologist so I could be way off base here.
But it also makes me wonder if something terrible happened to them in their lives that caused this. Was it just drinking? Or was it the reason for drinking in the first place?
It’s a mystery as far as my family is concerned because the kids are all gone now and I can’t ask them.
But it’s worth pondering, though it makes it no easier to deal with.
Flea, I praise God that you found him.
It was the alcohol, Flea. You were living with a man under the influence of alcohol.
Alcohol doth make cowards of us all. – Old Pangloss
EC
Did you read the part where I said Dad rarely drank?
Horrible oversight! I must’ve been thinking of my dad.
LL,
Mom and dad had 5 kids. We lived in a 2 bed 1 bath trailer for 2 years. My mother made my father move us from a nice 4 bed 2 bath home in the outskirts of DC because she was sure the end times were right around the corner. Any day, the 4 horsemen were going to descend upon us. The worst financial decision my father ever made imo. I did so love the wilderness though. I was barefoot skinny dip’n country. 1 neighbor was a saw mill and on the other side of us was a gravel pit. We had a pet raccoon and a pet fox. No, they don’t make good pets. Btw, raccoons can untie baggie ties. Good times, good times.
Donk – I know how these things go. One of the reasons I am such a judgmental opinionated hardass is that if I can do it, and Flea can do it, and you can do it – anyone can do it. Or at least do well enough to rise up above the worst of the shit.
It is a conscious decision, a matter of will, and of awakening, and refusing to buy into the guilt, regret, and woe is me scenarios. I do not have trouble with hard working family oriented poor folk. It is the ones that make endless bad decisions that piss me off.
Thanks for posting that.
Man, I don’t blame you for hating cops. I can’t stand a thief.
You guys would have done well to get a stray cat. They can live on what they catch.
Just having a quick look at new comments. It’s amazing how many men could and can cook though it’s considered women’s work. But you either learned to cook or you had to eat at a cafe, restaurant, dirty spoon, etc, which makes a dent in the budget. There was no or very little cheap fastfood, at least when I grew up. I was born in ’62 and fastfood was just starting in our area. So was welfare.
Don’t take this the wrong way, but your life sounds sort of like my mom’s. She’s way older than you, born in the ’30s. But she was the youngest of nine kids and, when she was born, half of her siblings were already married and out of the house. In high school, she was the only one left at home. But they were still poor even then. Her oldest brother had to help them out and she had to work to help pay bills.
Did you ever move one night by putting the furniture into a dump truck? I have that childhood memory.
You had furniture? Man, you were rich.
We had to walk to school 5 miles uphill both ways.
We moved lots of times, always at night after my dad got out of work. I have no idea how he moved everything we had in his old Plymouth station wagon. Beds, mattresses, stove, fridge, chests, table, chairs…When we unloaded, every kid had something to carry – lamps, iron, box, etc.
After my father was gone, my mom hired a professional mover, Altura Transfer, actually, he was an old drunk with an old moving truck. He came over with 3 men, fellow winos. My mom told him she couldn’t pay much and he said for $35 he’d be back if my friend and I would help.
My mom (‘ama – the habit of northern Mexico is to drop the first letter while southern Mexicans go for the syrupy sounding, mami or mama’ or mamacita.) finally bought a house in ’90. My sister’s friend was a real estate agent and she found an old place for $35K where the seller lent her the down payment. Sweet.
Sweet! Nice story, EC.
I love you Mom
Marco Antonio Solis
This is for you
just a small gift
in appreciation
Of the greater gift you gave me
Life
Spring of love
Sea of comfort
Piece of heaven in my self
You’ve been, dear Mom
Your blessed being
For the chid I’m still for you
What I can say Mom
Will always be too small
Yet I’m part of your sincerity
That’s in my soul today, Mother
Now I want to tell you
You’ve made the best of my life
I love, I love your happiness
I love your loving look
Your tenderness and generosity
I love your tired walk
And those lines upon your face
Born of so much love
I love you Mom
I love, I love your happiness
I love your loving look
Your tenderness and generosity
I love your tired walk
And those lines upon your face
Born of so much love
I love you Mom
I love, I love your happiness
I love your loving look
Your tenderness and generosity
I love your tired walk
And those lines upon your face
Born of so much love
I love you Mom
A dump truck in the middle of the night. Was rent due?
I think some of the memories of childhood are the things our parents hoped we’d forget.
I remember when my parents were going through their divorce, my dad came over. My 2 older brothers and I had to go to bed because it was a school night. But we all woke up because we heard them arguing. We sneaked into the hall to watch what was happening. And for the first time in my life, I saw my father strike my mother. My oldest brother was 10 and he ran towards my father shouting, “Don’t you hit my mama. I’ll kill you!” My father started to go after my brother but my mom stopped him. My dad soon left. I was never prouder of my brother in my whole life. I have always admired him for that. And from that time on, my oldest brother called my father “that man.” They didn’t reconcile until a few months before my father died.
I loved my mom’s cooking. She is 88 now and too old to cook like she used to. Us kids got their favorite meal on their birthday and mine was rouladen , the thin sliced beef rolled up with pickle, onion, bacon and mustard. Flour dredged and cooked in the oven with potatoes. The gravy produced was excellent. I make it now for her. I joked with my wife years ago that a woman only needed to know ten recipes and she showed me a cover of a woman’s magazine with the exact article heading. Men must never compare their wife’s cooking to their mom’s if they know what’s best for them. When first married my wife asked me if I wanted a baked potato with dinner and she got in the car and went to Wendy’s to get it. She has come far since then.
In the old days, we were told, for marriage, women looked for men like their dads, and men looked women like their moms. My, have things changed.
Now, men look for men like their mother.
Not arguing but I don’t think things have changed that much; I’ve seen lots of well-adjusted people in the last twenty years “try” to follow that and find contentment (if not happiness), and some not-so-well-adjusted be doomed to do the same.
Is a blessing OR a curse, that adage.
llpoh,
good article except 4 your confusion about whose mom was the best cook–lots of good comments also–
now a question 4 you women on the site,why are women so sensitive & resentful when guys ask them to make the dishes their moms made?
I think my wife might have been resentful and sensitive except for one thing – she tasted the dishes above. And in that instant her eyes were opened to something wondrous – food better than she ever had. Yes, she comments fondly about her grandma’s cookies, etc.
But mention my mom’s food, and her eyes glaze over. We both try to re-create those dishes, with some, but not complete success. My wife is wise, and she recognized a master at work, and rather than being resentful she decided cooking good food was a better option than resentment.
BTW – I was not confused. Some great cooks out there, but still haven’t met her match. But willing to keep sampling until I do!
I think your wife handled it the right way, trying to learn how your mother cooked.
Tampa, I’m wouldn’t feel resentful. Nothing wrong with learning something different or new.
But, in my case, if my ex wanted something cooked the way his mother did it, he cooked it and showed me how.
She taught all of her kids how to cook enough to at least get by. (Though their father couldn’t even boil water, which is probably why she did it.) Two of the four boys thrived at it while the other two didn’t. The lone (youngest of all) sister was actually the worst cook in the family in my opinion.
Of course, like with Llpoh’s mom, you may not be able to do it the way she did, so maybe they feel intimidated, especially if they had been criticized before after an attempt. Some women consider mother-in-laws as steep competition.
We were poor growing up. – Anonymous Boomer
Who wasn’t?
Many of my friends were rich. A good friend lived in a house that was so big there were rooms he had never entered. Really. For some reason they did not care that I was poor. Maybe had a little to do with the fact that they were safe from bullies and the gangs with me around.
That’s interesting, Llpoh. Did you ever get invited to dinner at their house? If so, what did they have?
I did, many times. They had a cook. Nothing special.
Aw. I was all ready for comparisons. Cook: It’s just a job.
Can I ask where this was, state or country-wise?
We were in Oregon at that time. The family was pretty rich – the dad owned a successful biz, was a Harvard Biz School grad, and the entire family was successful. Really great family. Still stay in touch with them. They treated me great.
Isn’t it funny that the MSM would have you believe the rich or well to do only live in New York or California? I’m glad i got away from that crap news a long time ago.
A reminder, those who work their asses off and made money aren’t always the bad guys.
I think the majority of America was poor or considered lower-middle class when we all grew up. Rich or well-to-do was an exclusive club. That’s why I wondered if anyone here grew up rich or well-to-do because it has to encompass a different story, not only on food but life in general.
My ex, a Connecticut Yankee (Italian), actually grew up well-to-do outside of New York due to his father’s hard work but they lost all their money (which I won’t go into but it was due to one family member). A family friend living in the south talked them into moving here. And that’s when I met him.
Vixen.
Right. Even what passed for middle class didn’t have money to spare. We didn’t need toy guns or anything else. We would pick up a stick and pretend it was a rifle and pistols were our fingers.
Flea – well, there is a point of difference. We were poor, but instead of a stick, I always had a gun, from the time just after I was able to walk. Bbs, pellets, 22s, shotguns, rim fire, hand gun in that order. Birds and small game were terrified of us. And we were safe as could be with each other.
Meant center fire above.
Llpoh.
I wasn’t allowed to play cops and robbers with my .22. Me and my brother shared a double barrel shotgun. I would jump on the brush pile and he would shoot the rabbit when it ran out.
Agree, Flea. I think imagination was better than the actual toys, and we definitely had to use our imagination when I was growing up.
I think the best way to get by is to live “under”your means and try to be prepared for whatever happens, as in the case we’re experiencing now. And I predict things are going to get ugly. from here.
I don’t know why, but I’ve always feared not having enough food. I make sure I always have enough food to get by in an extended emergency. And I was like this before the prepper movement, Y2K, etc, came about. If I don’t have a stocked cupboard and freezer, I feel insecure.
I don’t know if this stems from my poor childhood or the history I read. (I’m thinking it’s the history I read because history can teach you a lot about what can happen at the drop of a hat.)
I think it’s because anyone who knows what it’s like to be poor never wants to return to it. Hard times build good character but there’s only so much good character you want.
Mae West: “I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor and rich is better.”
Sometimes poor doesn’t build character, it just makes you a character.
That’s definitely true, E.C.
After the comment about the ex and the above post . . . if you live in Hattiesburg, I know you!
I live in S.C.
Just to bookend this, my ex’s oldest brother was on the FBI’s most-wanted list at one time. And to this day, my ex hates his brother with a passion! He also believes he joined the mafia. I’ll leave it at that.
Greatest cook ever? My grandmother on my Mom’s side. It’s that depression-era southern cooking. Best dish? What else. Chicken and dumplings. It takes a genius cook to make that as special as it is. You’re really eating flour. Southern cooking is about taking the world’s cheapest but most filling ingredients and flavoring them with salt and pepper, bacon grease and chicken stock. Along with a healthy dose of high heat. My grandmother could cook all that stuff. Black eyed peas, candied sweet potatos, fried okra, cornbread from an iron skillet. my mom never got the hang of it, too light on the flavor stuff along with an aversion to cooking on high heat. I can actually pull it off, but I hate to cook. But Grandmother was the undisputed champ.
Great memories Llpoh!
My mom was a fair cook and cooked most all the food at home, she was an RN working second shift, and with five kids and a husband she didn’t have a lot of time to prepare, but it was always good food and filling.
They were a great cooking team camping and fishing in Canada. Homemade Pasties, stew where they would prepare all the ingredients, put them in a cast iron dutch oven, dig a hole and it would simmer all afternoon while we fished. Served with homemade biscuits.
Or chicken and dumplings made the same way, cast iron dutch oven, homemade dumplings. Sit around the fire, eat, watch the Aurora, listen to the wolves if we were lucky.
Hunting we would always save the heart and liver, dad made the best venison heart and liver and onions. Venison ribs braised then grilled with his homemade sauce. It was a tradition that is now lost.
My grandma was part Native American and would always take us kids out foraging. Grandpa and grandma would spend months in Canada or Alaska camping and fishing but would meet us at Wintering Lake in Ontario for our two week vacation.
She would take all the kids out foraging for berries, plants, crawdads, make fish traps, and show us how to make meals out of what we found. And she would use every part of the fish we caught. Cheek meat, Pike liver, the fins she would bake with salt and we ate them like potato chips.
I remember my first whiskey on the shore of Wintering Lake my grandpa poured for me when I was 16, he was a tough old badass from Detroit, but boy did he love the outdoors and his grandkids. He chewed and would always pull out his tin and ask if we wanted any candy. You only fall for that trick once, but he would laugh and laugh at the looks we would give him the millionth time he tried it.
Grandma died when I was 22, I thought I had forever to learn from her, grandpa died a year later, mom two years ago and dad three weeks ago.
You really stirred up some great memories, thanks!
Sorry for your recent loss, card. My condolences.
My mother was also a worlds class cook. She was not only a world class cook, but mother, homemaker and wife too. My sisters are world class cooks too. But that’s where it ends. The young women of the family can’t boil water, but their good at drama, social justice and wearing the pants in the family . They’re the new men. It truly has become a bitches world.
Well it’s good they can’t boil water. They’re about to get a bigass pot of cold water reality dumped on ’em when the pendulum unfortunately swings too far in the opposite direction.
Flash, I can’t wait until the pendulum swings back.
Hand made gnocchi in gorgonzola sauce. Side order of broccoli rabe fried in garlic and EVOO. Taste extravaganza that’s worth the heart disease.
Miss you Ma.
Mom’s lasagna with meatballs and sausage…….home made bread and home made cheesecake for desert.
I’ve got two words for you:
Hasty pudding.
2 for 2. It seems when VV is co-hosting a thread, it’s going to be great. My daughter’s MIL is in SC, she is a wonderful lady also. But this thread isn’t about wonderful Southern ladies is it?
Only if she can cook.
Thank you, E.C. but I didn’t mean to take over even as a co-host. I just found that Llpoh introduced an extremely interesting topic and the comments made me want to hear more stories about the upbringing from others on the site.
One thing that comes out of all of this is that hard times bring out character and it’s usually good, strong character with a strong work ethic, though we all know of exceptions. We’re no different than our ancestors who lived through hard times. Of course, I love history and I find tying things like that together fascinating.
By the way, what part of S.C. does your MIL live in? I could actually know her.
V – You are always welcome to take over. I am not the begrudging type. Thanks for carrying the load.
Summerville, right outside of Charleston.
By the way, I think Flea commented as much as I did. And he does have a story to tell.
Flea, please write a book.
Too stressful to write a book of my life. I rarely comment like this. Just felt comfortable saying all that. Too many people willing to call us liars as in “oh really, are you sure it really happened”. Dredging up and rehashing all those memories at once is too hard on the system. Took me three months to get “My War” out of my system after thinking about all that stuff all over again.
I haven’t been cheated in life. Iv’e done everthing I wanted to do including riding the rails for 4 years.
I’m so glad you felt comfortable enough to comment about your life here. And I understand it’s not easy for you.
But your narrative is important. You are important! And I think others will think so, too. Just think about the idea. That’s all I ask.
I decided long ago that TBP is the best publisher we could ask for; quick, accessible and affordable.
Stringy Beef – It was a roast that was slow cooked till it was tender enough to be separated with a fork (a very cheap cut of beef). A homemade sweet BBQ sauce was added and cooked for another few hours. Melt in your mouth tender.
Fried chicken – Mom learned from her mother. Both Mom and Granny could make awesome fried chicken.
Tuna Tarts – It wasn’t Tuna but it was always some saltwater fish Dad had caught. It was slow cooked on a smoker till it was flaky. Then it was put into a dumpling and deep fried until the dough was crisp. A cheese sauce was drizzled over it. I have never had anything like it anywhere else.
My old man occasionally brought in a mess of fish. He did not exactly fish, though.
He had some kind of old crank generator. He knew a spot with a deep hole in the river where the fish would settle. He would drop the cables to the generator into the water near the fish, and crank like mad. He electrocuted the buggers. He was not fishing for fun, but was after food.
He was enormously inventive at times.
Poaching was a birthright when I was a kid. More deer fell to a .22 and a flashlight than any other rifle in the world.
Wow. I’m writing that technique down.
Pretty sure I heard you can also use an old hand crank phone to stun the fish.
He even got hold of some dynamite once off a site where he worked, totally legal of course, wink wink, and blasted up a whole mess of fish. I think that was a bit risky, even for him, so I think that only happened once.
Llpoh.
We used to drop grenades over the side of our boats periodically to kill swimmers trying to plant explosives on our hulls. Never got any swimmers but boy did we kill a lot of carp.
Risky? I can see why. But the other part is extremely intrigueing Any little tidbit is worth knowing about.
Here is a link to how to catch them with a crank telephone:
https://www.techwalla.com/articles/how-to-make-a-fish-shocker
Great ink. Thank you.
When we didn’t have time to make our own baked beans I could trust my favorite store bought
brand to always have a chunk of pork in the glass jar they came in. They stopped doing that years ago it seems.
I’ll just chalk it up to them trying to be more inclusive & diverse to today’s blended society or something. As far as other dishes, I knew I had arrived when my Mom told me my spaghetti sauce was better than hers and trust me, hers was world class stuff.
I’ve been coming to TBP for a long time now and I can’t remember a thread resulting in such a wide view into people’s past. Some real sad stuff.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, I hope.
You sure got that right, Donkey. Sad, poor but happy good ones too. It must have been all that White Privilege we were issued at birth. Great convo starter Llpoh. I understand your assholdness now, it’s levied at the deserving. Signed, Recovering Asshole, Tree Mike.
You know why nobody remembers the 50’s? Cause they were happy days. They just go by like summer. It’s the travails we remember, Donkey. Don’t you recall your Vonnegut – a good story is a quest. There is no quest in a summer day at the park with ice cream running down your fingers.
Nice article,
Mom is not a great cook. “Pops” did a lot of the cooking, doesn’t matter. I do awesome eggs and sometimes but not always I will heat the contents of a can as it tastes better that way. My wife is a great cook and easy on the eyes,I win.
200
never stop winning
That is low and underhanded. Noobs are not allowed to claim the 200 spot. I hope your cookie breaks off into your coffee one day.
love me a green bean sammich with mustard..
When I was 12 years old, I made my Little league All-Star team..It was an honor, and well-deserved I might say..Unfortunately, the week of the All-Star games was the week my family was planning to drive from Georgia to North Carolina to visit my Dad’s Mom. A week long vacation, if you will.
Well, there was no way I was going. Fortunately, a little lefty pitcher on our team made the All-Star team, and he and his parents said that I could spend the week with them. My parents went along with the plan.
The first night at their house my friend’s mom fried some chicken. She asked me what piece I wanted and I told her: I want the back…The Parson’s Nose.. She and her husband were a bit bewildered. They didn’t know what the Parson’s Nose was or they didn’t want to admit that they did. She told me: “We throw that away. We don’t eat that.” I’m thinking : What? That’s my favorite piece..Lott’sa skin and some nuggets to be mined..You throw that away? I knew then that I had made a bad mistake. Heck, in my family we ate the back, the neck, the gizzard, the liver and the heart. Chicken…It’s what’s for dinner…Kids, what are you gonna do?