When I was growing up, my mother’s side of the family always said I was just like my Grannymamma.
I, of course, assumed this was a compliment.
I was probably fifteen the first time she took it as an insult. (“They say you take after me but I would never have sassed my grandmother the way you’re sassing me!” was the mildest thing said between us in our one and only fight — a fight for the ages that left the family split for a year.)
But still. I’m slow.
I was a couple of years older before I figured out that maybe the look in people’s eyes was warning rather than admiring when they compared the two of us.
Oh, she was a spitfire, an independent thinker, a woman with a temper.
When she was in high school in Mississippi, she once threatened to toss the teacher out the second-story window if the teacher didn’t leave my great-uncle alone. (My great-uncle was a pistol, too, and even though he was only 9 years old at the time, I’m thinking the teacher probably had more reason to be on my uncle’s ass than my grandmother had to toss her out the window. You notice I say “probably.” I mean, there’s a chance there’s justification for a high school student to threaten to toss a teacher out a window, right?)
She once managed to talk her way through red tape to wake up the Governor of Louisiana in the middle of the night. By the time she got through with him, he was more than willing to sing “You are my sunshine” over the telephone to a young GI’s wife who was beside herself with fear.
She also was the ringleader of a group of young GI’s wives who stole Reddy-Kilowatt from the front of the electric company in Baton Rouge and hid him in her bedroom until the end of the war. (The MPs talked a lot about the brazeness of that burglary at the USO and she just listened and nodded sympathetically.)
She once was walking across a restaurant to find her seat when her full-volume petticoat came undone and pooled around her legs. She kicked it up with one pointy-toed high-heeled foot, caught it, tossed it across her arm like a stole and kept walking.
She could set a beautiful table right down to the silver tea service when the bishop was visiting (did I mention she was a preacher’s wife?) and if he’d wanted it, could have served him her own homemade hogs head cheese. (That link is to a recipe. If you want pictures, you’ll have to do your own damn google search. I still remember opening the ice chest thinking I was going to grab a coke and instead seeing a hog’s head. I will always remember that.)
You never knew quite which “Carol” you would get, but it was never dull.
Anyway, this is the time of year I remember my grandmother, mother and aunt sitting around slicing peaches by the bushel to freeze. Freezing yellow squash straight out of my Igdaddy’s garden, or possibly from of Mr. Pizzalotta’s farm. (I have no idea who he spelled his name but it was pronounced “pizz-uh-lahttuh” in Louisiana.)
Zucchini and onions and all sorts of peas, watermelon, I don’t even remember it all. Oh of course, corn. Can’t forget that corn.
Summer was when all those peaches and vegetables that we ate all winter filled the freezer .
I steered clear of the kitchen.
So all I wanted was a good audiobook and I downloaded Animal, Vegetable, Miracle
Freezing.
I bought a peck of tomatoes at farmer’s market and after giving lots away, still ended up with 9 pounds frozen in my freezer, waiting in their jewel-like glory to be defrosted and used.
I cut a small X into the ends, dropped them in boiling water for a minute or so, then into ice water to cool them. Then I peeled them, chopped them, and tossed them into bags, some with fresh onions, garlic and basil, too. The only reason I stopped is because I used up all the ice in the freezer.
I also bought a box of peaches to freeze but a funny thing happened on the way to the freezer.
We ate them.
I still think being just like Grannymamma is a compliment.
, by Mary Ann Shaffer
, by Marion Chesney
, by Marion Chesney
, by Ariana Franklin
by Margiad Evans
by Jo Beverley
by Jo Beverley
by Jo Beverley
planet pooks 