Growing up in the South fifty and sixty years ago was a lot different than it is today. Though I grew up in the south, I didn’t consider myself a Southern girl, even if I sounded like one. My parents were Northwesterners. There were definite cultural differences that were evident in our household, including the food.
My dad was a preacher, mostly of small country churches. When we had church-wide meals, we ate outside if weather permitted. Some of the churches had tables set up in the church yard just for the meal. Others had concrete tables just waiting for an excuse to be used. Tall trees offered shade for the occasion.
Country church folks took every opportunity to get together. Homecoming and any other occasion warranted a church-wide or community gathering to eat. Ladies brought covered dishes filled with all kinds of food. I bypassed some dishes with no trouble. Turnip greens, collards, black eyed peas cooked in fat back, over-cooked vegetables with bacon grease, cornbread and grits were items that certainly did not tempt me in the least. Now, southern fried chicken and fresh baked pies were a different story! Neighbors and friends talked through the afternoon about their families, crops and jobs. Children ran and played. Laughter was caught up in the breeze.
Up until just a couple of weeks before Daddy died, he still talked about one of the first church gatherings they attended. It seems the ladies talked about what they brought to the meal. One lady said she brought a chocolate cake that “the preacher” just had to try. He went to the end of the table that held the desserts. Where was the chocolate cake? He soon learned what southern ladies considered to be a “chocolate cake.” It was a yellow or white cake with chocolate icing. There was no chocolate cake anywhere under that icing.
Occasionally at one of the churches, especially in the fall, a big pot was set up in the church yard with a fire under it. Parishioners brought ingredients for Brunswick Stew, dumped them in the pot and let the stew cook for hours as they took turns stirring. When it was ready, people got in line with their bowls. They walked away with stew slopping over the sides of their bowls and gathered up a handful of cornbread and had a feast. I never stood in either of those lines! Yes, I did taste it and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the texture and I sure didn’t like the way it looked. To me, it looked like a meal that had already been eaten once and it sure didn’t appeal to my senses.
Sometimes now when we’re driving down country roads, we might pass a little church with all the doors and windows boarded up. And sometimes off to the side in the church yard is a concrete table leaning unsteadily on broken or sunken legs, the top covered with moss, sticks and leaves. It brings thoughts of years gone by when gatherings under the shade trees were a central part of the community. For just a fleeting moment those memories are recaptured as I see neighbors sharing their lives with one another.
