Granny Opal always got Rocky’s mother to help her pick out her own gift. “Promise me, though, that between now and Christmas, you’ll forget what it is,” she would say with a wink.
“I promise.” Rocky’s mother always kept her word.
In her seventy-third year, Granny Opal’s legs got bad, and she found it difficult to get around. She continued to go to church once a week, but that was about all. Rocky’s mother brought her groceries. His dad took her to the doctor when she needed to go.
Soon after Thanksgiving that year, Granny Opal began to fret about how she was going to manage Christmas.
“Let’s not worry about it,” Rocky’s mother said. “There is no need for you to be getting any of us gifts this year. Being together is all the gift that we need.”
But Granny Opal would hear none of that. Nothing would do but that she make out a list and that Rocky’s mother go and get what was on the list. “I’m going to make it easy on you, hon,” she said after giving the list some thought. “I want you to buy chocolate-covered cherries—one box for each of the neighbors and two for the preacher. And for you girls, good white slips.” Granny believed that no decent woman ever left her house without a slip; some dresses might even require two. “And since I’ve been studying on it, I think all the boys would enjoy some Old Spice.”
Rocky’s mother told Granny Opal that her ideas were excellent.
So that year on Christmas morning, in front of Granny Opal’s pleased face, the entire family, including sixteen-year-old Rocky, opened up their gifts.
“Thanks, Granny! I needed a new slip.”
“Thank you, Granny, for the Old Spice.”
The gifts went over so well that next year, Granny had Rocky’s mother buy everyone the same thing.
“Thank you, Granny!”
“Thanks, Granny!”
And so it went the next year and the next. After the fourth year of Old Spice and new slips, Rocky’s mother came up with a plan. Since none of the guys actually wore the Old Spice, and since a woman can really only use so many slips, she decided that this year everyone should put their gifts in a big box. She would then store the gifts and when Granny Opal told her to go shopping the next year, she would simply take them out of storage and wrap them up again. Granny didn’t need to know. She would still get the pleasure of seeing them open up their gifts, but there would be less waste.
What a great idea! Everyone agreed.
Everyone except for nineteen-year-old Rocky. He loved Granny Opal, and it just didn’t seem right to fool her like that. No one meant any disrespect to Granny, but he did not see it that way. No, he didn’t wear Old Spice. But no, he wasn’t going to give it back. Granny had given it to him, and he wanted to keep it.
And so he did.
“MELISSA, WHEN I SAW that Rocky had almost half a dozen bottles of Old Spice in his bathroom cabinet, and when he told me about how his Granny Opal gave them to him every year and all of the rest, well, I fell in love. My Rocky is a sweet, sweet man.”
“You’re right. He is a good man,” Melissa said. “Is Granny Opal still alive?”
“Nope. She passed away the January after he and I got married. But you know, every year under the tree at our house, Rocky still finds a bottle of—”
“Old Spice?”
“Yep. I take one of those bottles down out of the cabinet, wrap it up, and tell him it’s from Granny Opal. He always says it’s his favorite gift.”
A SWEET MAN WITH A STOCKPILE OF STUFF to make him smell even sweeter. What more could a gal ask for in a man? Nothing—not one thing—if his wife, Rochelle, is at all to be believed.
Personally, I think she is.
16
ALL THE RIGHT INGREDIENTS
IT WAS ALFRED TINKER who came up with the idea of holding the first annual Ella Louise Gumbo Cook-off. Since his wife, Tiny, whose opinion he valued, thought the idea a good one, he brought it up to the Saturday morning coffee drinkers gathered at the Wild Flour Café.
Crow Buxley scratched his head. “Mayor, we’ve already got the May Okra Fest. Lots of cooking goes on then. You wanting to add something to that?”
“No, no. I’m talking about a separate event altogether. Not connected to the Okra Fest.”
“When you thinking about having it?” asked Rocky Shartle.
“First weekend in November. It’ll be cold enough so we won’t have to worry about any of the fixings going bad, but early enough so bad weather shouldn’t be much of a concern,” said the mayor. “I’m thinking we’d hold it at the park. Have everybody do their cooking over campfires. Maybe invite some of those Cajun boys up from Louisiana to play us some tunes.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Doyle Strickland.
“Everybody ’round here likes gumbo. Something like that ought to draw a good crowd,” said Rocky.
“I say we need some kind of community event in the fall,” said Doyle. “Not much going on once high school football’s over.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” said the mayor. “The event could be a moneymaker too. Once the judging’s been done, we could sell the gumbo by the bowl or by the quart for folks who want to take some home. I figure we’d charge enough to cover our costs plus a little. Whatever extra we make, we can donate to the city council college scholarship fund.”
“You planning on giving out prizes?” asked Rocky.
“To get folks to enter, I imagine we’ll need to. First place, second place, third, and honorable mention. Trophies, probably. Maybe some cash or a gift certificate. Which do you think?”
Trophies. Crow and Rocky and the rest of the boys agreed.
“Whole thing’d be more festive if you asked folks to decorate their campsite,” said Chief Johnson.
“You could give a prize for the best one,” said Rocky.
The mayor stood to go. “Thanks, men. You’ve been a big help. I believe come Monday, Faye Beth and I will start putting the thing together.”
Faye Beth agreed that the cook-off idea was a good one. “How about a dessert contest too? That and a craft show would be fun. And say, a square dance that night, wouldn’t that be festive? Maybe a petting zoo for the kids?” Her eyes shone as she got excited.
Elected in part because of his diplomacy, Mayor Tinker gently disagreed. “Faye Beth, those are fine ideas, but we don’t want to take away from the Okra Fest. And, you know, I’m not crazy about the idea of having a petting zoo anywhere near where there’s food being cooked. Kids these days don’t wash their hands like they should. I say we just stick with gumbo and a little music. See how it goes. We can always add to the event next year.”
“Of course. You’re right. I just get carried away,” agreed Faye Beth. “But Mayor, folks are going to expect some dessert. You think a bake sale would be too much?”
“Why, no,” he conceded. “I think a sale without a contest would be fine. You want to let all the church ladies know?”
She would.
By the end of the day, a date for the first annual Ella Louise Gumbo Cook-off had been set—the first Saturday in November. By the end of the week, Mayor Tinker had recruited a panel of judges, the identities of whom Faye Beth thought should be kept anonymous until the day of the contest.
Mayor Tinker agreed.
At the suggestion of the judges, cook-off rules were drafted. Advised by the home economist at the county Farm Extension Office, and after much discussion, Faye Beth and Mayor Tinker narrowed the list down to five rules.
Only in-date, store-bought, USDA-inspected meat, seafood, or poultry products may be used. No squirrel, opossum, or dove meat allowed. No Exceptions!!!
There is no official gumbo recipe. However, in keeping with Ella Louise’s status as the self-proclaimed okra capital of Texas, contestants should be advised that the official judges will look closely at the okra content of each recipe when determining the winner.
No tobacco use within three feet of the cooking pots. (Yes, this includes snuff and chewi
ng tobacco.)
Cooks are required to wear aprons and hats.
All gumbo is to be prepared in cast-iron pots provided by the city of Ella Louise. Pots and cooking stands will be delivered to each campsite by 6:00 A.M. on the morning of the cook-off.
With the procurement of borrowed pots and stands from the nearby town of Pearly, which held a chili cook-off every year, and with a funeral-home awning to shield the baked goods from the weather, Faye Beth believed they had all the bases covered.
Within a week of announcing the cook-off, via posters placed at Tawny’s Quick Tan, the library, the grocery store, Lindell’s Clean-It-Quick Car Wash, and the Wild Flour Café, Mayor Tinker had received and Faye Beth had validated twelve gumbo-cooking teams, six from Ella Louise and six from out of town.
Of the thirty-dollar registration checks received, only Crow Buxley’s bounced.
“You want me to call him?” asked Faye Beth.
“No. Don’t embarrass the man,” said the mayor. “Crow never has been very good at math. He probably got mixed up as to what day the government deposits his check. What’s today? The second? Send it back through. It should clear if it hits the bank today.”
He was right. Crow’s check cleared just fine the second time around.
Folks all over town were excited. The ladies of the various Ella Louise churches planned to sell pies and cakes by the slice. Chief Johnson decided to cook some of his Indian fry bread and give it away for free.
“It being the same month as Thanksgiving, I thought it only fitting. Besides, fry bread will be good with gumbo. Mayor, what are you doing about rice?”
Mayor Tinker hadn’t thought of that. There had to be rice. He scratched his head. Who could he talk into cooking up a pot? He phoned Bessie Bishop, this year’s president of the Gentle Thimble Quilting Club.
Sure. The Gentle Thimbles would be happy to be in charge of rice. She would drive over to Sam’s Club and pick up a big bag. She needed to go anyway. Would fifty pounds be enough?
“Lands, yes,” said the mayor. “More than. You ladies don’t know how much I appreciate it. And yes, of course the club may set up a card table to raffle off a quilt.”
“Mayor,” asked Faye Beth two days before the big day, “have you called the portable toilet people?”
“Shoot. I knew I forgot something. Can you get ’em on the phone? Faye Beth, how many do you think we’ll need?”
Details, details. Mayor Tinker hoped he had remembered everything.
MEANWHILE, THE ELLA LOUISE FOLKS who were planning on entering the contest began their preparations in earnest.
Ten days before the cook-off, members of the Family Medical Clinic staff team, made up of Dr. Sarah Strickland, nurse Janet Evans, and receptionist Esther Vaughn, shared a sack of microwave popcorn during their midmorning break and discussed their proposed entry into the contest. Only problem was that halfway through the bag of popcorn they found themselves in a heated disagreement as to how best prepare their gumbo’s roux—the cooked mixture of flour and fat essential to the making of all gumbos.
“My granny never used anything but bacon grease, and she was born and raised in Louisiana,” Janet said.
“No, Crisco works best,” said Esther. “Makes a smoother, more consistent roux. Browns up better and there’s less worry about scorching.”
Sarah pulled rank. “Uh-uh. Bacon grease and Crisco are both saturated fats—bad for the heart. We need to set a healthy example by using liquid corn oil. Nothing else. There’s enough heart disease in this county. I’m not going to be accused of adding to my business by clogging up folks’ arteries more than they already are. And as for the flour—”
“Not whole wheat,” pleaded Janet.
“Please?” said Esther.
“Nothing but,” said Sarah.
Esther and Janet’s heads both dropped. Their chances of winning had just sunk to nil.
Todd and Patricia Scutter, who since the adoption of their darling Honduran daughter had been fascinated by anything remotely related to Latin America, planned to prepare their gumbo with a south-of-the-border flair. Chopped chilies, fresh cilantro, and copious amounts of ground cumin were what they planned to use in seasoning their pot.
Patricia looked forward to her and the baby wearing the fancy embroidered dresses she had bought on the adoption trip she and Todd had made to Honduras. Todd, though slightly less enthused, agreed to don a serape for the day. To set a festive scene, they decided to decorate their cooking site with multicolored lights and piñatas hung from the trees.
When contestant Tim Hartford, who had been living with Rocky and Rochelle Shartle for the past few months, told everyone at the Wild Flour about his plan to cook up a vegetarian gumbo, folks coughed, shuffled their feet, and avoided his gaze. No one wanted to be rude. By all accounts, Tim seemed to be as nice a young man as could be. Of course, being from New Jersey, he couldn’t be expected to know that any gumbo fit to be consumed by true-blue, God-fearing Americans would contain at least three, possibly four or even five varieties of animal products.
As for Tim’s plan to decorate his cooking site with a Hawaiian theme—palm trees, crepe-paper leis, and tiki torches—well, folks around Ella Louise had never heard of such a thing.
Bessie Bishop, because of her tasty contributions to several church potlucks, had established herself as a good cook. However, when turning in her entry form, she let it slip that she had never in her life made gumbo. Folks in the know immediately counted her out. One did not come to gumbo-cooking overnight.
Bessie didn’t see how cooking gumbo could be that hard, especially considering the fact that she was once a finalist in the Pillsbury regional bake-off. She searched the Internet for the perfect recipes. She firmly believed that the key to preparing a winning dish—whether it be apple pie or fig preserves, or gumbo, for that matter—was to use the freshest ingredients possible. Before moving to Ella Louise, Bessie had lived in Houston, and she had a few secret seafood-supplier tricks up her sleeve. Not only that, in the little greenhouse behind her home, Bessie was growing tomatoes, okra, green onions, and four different kinds of peppers. Those just-plucked veggies would be her ticket to first prize. She was sure of it.
Truth was, Polly Ann and Molly Jan Pierce were looked upon by most everyone in Ella Louise as the team most likely to take first prize. And no wonder. The sisters had an outstanding culinary reputation. Every year, the two of them dominated at least three out of seven categories of the cooking contest held during Ella Louise’s annual Okra Festival.
The ladies had a way with food.
Rumor had it that their entry would be concocted from an old family recipe, a secret one handed down from their great-great-granddaddy on their mother’s side, who was known to be an outstanding river-barge cook. Unlike many of their peers, Polly and Molly believed in the exact measuring of every ingredient. If their great-great-granddaddy’s gumbo was good, well, it was assumed that the sisters’ would be exactly the same.
Because he didn’t get page two of the rules, contestant Crow Buxley did not know that cooking pots would be provided for cook-off contestants. He thought that he had to provide his own. So a big part of his preparation for the cook-off was to make a trip to the nearest hardware store, located in Pearly, a good thirty-minute drive from Ella Louise.
The price of the pot and rack gave him a start. Sure sounded high. Then he thought better of it. The pot would be something good to have on hand. He could use it for stew, chili, even for minestrone soup, should he care to cook for a big outside crowd some time. Why, next time there was a family reunion, he could take his pot and feed the whole clan something good.
“You do know, Mr. Buxley, that you’ll need to season your pot before you use it the first time,” said the woman when he hefted the thing up onto the counter to check out.
“No. Don’t reckon I do,” said Crow.
“If you don’t, everything you cook in it will stick and burn.”
Sticking? Burning?
That wouldn’t do.
“It’s easy. All you do is rub oil all over it. Take the racks out of your oven at home and then put that pot, lid and all, inside. Turn on your oven to about four hundred degrees. Leave it in there a good hour or so. Once the pot cools down, it wouldn’t hurt to repeat the process another couple of times. You can’t season a pot like this too much. The more you do it, the better it’ll cook. Will this be all for you today?”
Crow thought a minute. Seemed like there was something else.
“Bug spray. Wasp and hornet. A whole mess of wasps are bent on building their nests under the eaves of my house.”
“How many cans you need?” she asked.
“Two ought to be enough,” said Crow. “Thank you. Honey, there’s no need to put ’em in a sack.” He lifted the lid of the pot. “Just set ’em in here. Yes. That’ll be fine. Now, how much is it that I owe you?”
Crow waited until the Friday evening before the Saturday contest to season his pot. He figured that way the pot would be fresh. Everything else was all in order. Crow’s gumbo recipe called for shrimp, crab, crawfish, sausage, and chicken, and he had all of them already cleaned and prepared. Crow also had his tomatoes and celery and onions all chopped up and secured into individual twist-tie-closed bread bags. His seasonings were measured out, but in case he hadn’t figured right, he planned to take the individual containers with him as well. Most important of all, Crow had his flour and grease in coffee cans so as to be ready to make up his roux.
Now. To season the pot. Wonder why they called it seasoning? Didn’t the woman say all you had to do was rub oil on it and heat it up real hot? Crow hoisted the pot onto the counter in his kitchen. He turned on the oven, then remembered that he needed to take the racks out for the pot to fit. By now the racks were hot. Not wanting to burn his countertop or the floor, Crow put the racks on the back porch.
Watermelon Days and Firefly Nights: Heartwarming Scenes from Small Town Life Page 16