BlueMontana

The first time I ever remember eating corn bread was at Aunt Irene’s house. I probably had it before, but for some reason I remember hers. Aunt Irene is my grandmothers sister, and I remember visiting her wonderful home with my sister, mom, grandma, and grandpa at a very young age. I’m sure the trips there have blended together in my mind, but I remember them being wonderful times. She would pull out the sofa bed, and my sister and I would sleep on it. I would listen to Uncle M.T.’s stories as he sat on the porch, and I would watch all my great aunts, grandma and Mom sit and knit; Knit one Purl two. It was great fun. 

Grandma and all her sisters were wonderful cooks, so when they all got together in one kitchen, you could be sure to have a real down home southern meal to die for. The one that I have on the mind, I can still taste every bite.  Black eyed pea’s, cornbread, greens, and fried chicken. I remember sitting around her little table with Uncle M.T. asking if I wanted a big slice of cornbread, and me committing an almost unforgivable sin; actually saying I didn’t like cornbread. (I think I even heard a gasp) He explained that If I didnt care for cornbread, then I must not have had Aunt Irene’s cornbread before in my life, and with that he put a nice sized piece on my plate.

I ate that chicken, oh so good, and even the greens and black eyed pea’s, but when it came to the cornbread, I just pushed it around for a bit. I caught him looking at me, and wisely popped a little bit in my mouth. Much to my delight, it was the best thing on the table, so moist and delicious, the top spread with butter. I had never tasted anything so good. I quickly finished and asked for another piece. I don’t remember if I apologized for offending my aunt Irene or not; but every time I stood in her house after that day, and was blessed with one of her home cooked meals, I asked her to make cornbread, so I think she probably forgave me.

So here I sit, thousands of miles from her home, and many years besides, with a craving for a meal that was bred into my DNA; fortunately I have a wonderful wife that would at the drop of a hat prepare it, just the way I wanted; and she would do my memory justice, no offense to aunt Irene intended; she is just a wonderful cook as well. But she is busy in the garden, working away, and maybe, just maybe, I can re create a masterpiece on my own, so I set out to do it.

Tonight, I pressure cooked the black eyed peas (you just cant get fresh ones up here, and I didn’t soak them); I put them over a bed of white rice (darn it, out of brown, I’m sure aunt Irene had mashed potatoes with gravy but with my diet, the gravy and chicken are forever banished) I did have fresh greens from the garden (thank you Nina for washing and cooking them) but most of all, I made my first cornbread ever. I don’t know if it can compare, but I found it delightfully satisfying both to my tongue, and my heart. It was a good memory.