by Paula Deen
And Corrie said, “Well, you don’t know that.”
And then I said, “Well, don’t tell anybody that I’ve said that wish because I don’t want people to even dream that I am thinkin’ that way.”
But I was. This is the way it was with me. Although we were so happy living together, I seem to have just needed Michael to propose and let me know that his intentions were honorable. It almost didn’t matter if we got married. I deeply wanted him just to ask, so that I knew he was in there for the long haul, so that I knew he was committed. I needed that like I needed to breathe.
So, on Christmas Eve I noticed at the back of that overflowing tree of gifts there was a new gift and it was a big box shaped like a house with a white tag on it. The tag said “Paula” in real big letters.
That gift has just come into this house, but I’m going to pretend like I don’t see it, I thought.
The next morning, all the family shows up. Michael and his children have spent the night there with me, so we’re already there. Then my children come piling in as well as Bubba and Corrie. Nick, Michael’s brother, and his children come in. I was talking and laughing and seeing if anybody wanted something to eat, and finally Michelle, Michael’s daughter, came over and said, “Listen, you’ve got to start opening your gifts. I’ve got to get to Momma’s.”
I said, “Me open my gifts? You start opening your gifts. I’m not worried about my gifts.” But I thought, Well, that was real strange.
Before I knew it, they’d sat me down in a chair; they knew I’d be the last one to open gifts because I’m always seeing to everybody else. The room got quiet. I thought, Why is everybody looking at me? Christmas is for children.
Well, I wanted everyone else to open their gifts first as was the custom in my family, especially because I’d bought Michael a magnificent Rolex watch and I couldn’t wait to see his face when he unwrapped it. “No one has ever given me a thing in my life,” he’d once told me, “maybe not even bought me a meal.” So, I was focusing on him and his present and I could barely contain myself.
But Michelle would have none of that. Although each person had a few gifts waiting, she ignored the others with my name on them, went to get the intriguing house-shaped box, and set it down before me.
“There,” she said. “We’re waiting for you, Paula.”
I looked over to where Michael was propped on the frame of the wet bar. Ernest Hemingway was just standing there grinning.
Well, I opened this box that said Paula, and in it was another box surrounded by all my favorite candy that I could just eat by the pound: Hershey’s Kisses, Snickers—stuff like that. And in a third box, it was the same thing.
Corrie said, “Paula, there’s a message in each box. Read it.”
So, I went back to the first box, and it said, “Paula.” The next box had a message that said “I.” The next box said “love.” The next box said “you.” I opened the next box, and it said “Will.”
When that durned box said “Will,” I said, “No! I mean yes!” I knew what was coming, and so the entire message—it took nine boxes—said, “Paula, I love you. Will you be my wife?”
That last, ninth box held a diamond ring. I’d found a man who gave diamonds? I couldn’t believe the ring … it was simply magnificent. How could this rugged river man have such an eye for jewelry? Oh, that ring. I haven’t taken it off since.
It was the most wonderful proposal, so romantic and so like Michael. He devised this extraordinary way to do this thing in front of all the people we love, and he never had to open his mouth. He never had to open his mouth. They were all in on it, by the way. Corrie had even seen the ring.
It was a blessed Christmas.
From that point on, we really fell into a comfortable relationship. I was happy as a clam. You couldn’t slap the smile off my face because this man whom I had grown to love so deeply had made a commitment, and I was fine with that. It didn’t matter to me if we never got married, although people started asking me about a marriage plan. So, we settled in, not making any moves to set a date and pick a place for the weddin’. I didn’t know when, didn’t care. It didn’t matter. He’d committed.
In a century, in five centuries, I would never have guessed what would happen next—that thousands of people I didn’t even know would come to our weddin’ when it finally happened.
Shaggy Man Split Pea Soup
So when Mr. Shaggy Man came to my house for the first time, I made him those microwaveable pork rinds, which didn’t impress him none. If only I’d known that his favorite soup in the whole world was a great split pea, I’d have had a pot of the stuff simmering away. On a rainy night—which actually happens here in Savannah more than you’d think—this is what Michael craves. Serve this with corn bread.
½ stick butter
½ pound thick slab bacon, diced
1 large onion, chopped
2 celery stalks, very finely diced
2 carrots, peeled and grated
3 quarts chicken stock
2 tablespoons House Seasoning (see page 96)
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
½ pound Smithfield pork sausage
One 1-pound package dried split peas, soaked and drained
Instant mashed potatoes (optional)
In a large pot or Dutch oven, melt the butter over medium high heat. Sauté the bacon, onion, celery, and carrots together. Add the chicken stock, House Seasoning, salt, pepper, sausage, and peas. Bring to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer for approximately 2 hours, covered. If the soup is too thin, add a handful of instant mashed potatoes to thicken.
Serves 4 to 6
Chapter 12
HOW I GOT MY OWN TELEVISION SHOW, AND IT WASN’T NO DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES
They wanted me to wear an apron on television. It made me look fat, well, fatter than usual. I told them I was going to drop that apron crap.
Now I had it all: a fiancé, a popular restaurant, cookbooks, workin’ kids, money in my pocket, and three dogs. At least, I thought I had it all. I’d had a run of bad luck and it was one for the records, but, been there, done that. Now I was finally in a run of great luck, and it wasn’t over yet. This gray-haired over-fifty lady with an ample and over-fifty bod, this formerly agoraphobic, algebra-flunking cheerleader from Albany High School, was about to become a television star. God works in mysterious ways.
Carol Perkins was a Victoria’s Secret model in her day. She lived in New York, and she traveled in business circles—circles that never crossed my path. After a certain age where no perky-breasted Victoria’s Secret model ever tread, she moved to Savannah to make a new home and start a designer-dog-accessories business she called Harry Barkers. She’d often come into The Lady & Sons to get her balanced meal without the hassle of cookin’ it.
Naturally, anyone who’d been a Victoria’s Secret model and ended up with dogs was a woman after my own heart, and when she’d come in, I’d go over, sit at her table, and we’d talk and laugh. One day in 1999, she said, “Paula, do you know Gordon Elliott?”
I knew of Gordon Elliott: he was that Australian television star and I remembered seeing him on different American shows, like A Current Affair, To Tell the Truth, and a crazy breakfast show called Good Day New York in which, on live television, Gordon barged into New York homes before the sleeping occupants had opened their eyes to the light of day. I remember seeing the one in which he surprised Bill Cosby with what I later learned were the 101 voices of the New York Choral Society singing the Hallelujah Chorus. He made me laugh big-time, that Gordon Elliott, and now Carol tells me he’s her dear friend and is coming to Charleston to shoot an episode of the Food Network’s Door Knock Dinners.
“I’ve told Gordon that there’s a woman here in Savannah that he really needs to meet,” said my friend. “Would it be all right if I asked him to come over for lunch so you two can chat?”
I told her I’d adore it, thinking it was the last I’d hear of Gordon Elliott.
In a
week, Carol comes in and says, “Gordon is going to be here tomorrow. Are we on for lunch?”
Were we! I’m game for anything fun! Well, my Aunt Peggy and Bubba were here visiting and I got a table up in the corner for us all to sit at. Of course, lunchtime was so busy I couldn’t sit, but I’d keep going back and forth to the table because the moment that Gordon walked in, he and I looked at each other and we laughed and clicked. Turned out we’ve both got the same sense of sick humor. I’d work the room and then come back over and talk to him for a minute. I knew my Aunt Peggy had him in her scope, so it really wasn’t necessary for me to be there; she would be able to figure out everything. So, when I finally got a chance to come back and sit at the table, he looked up at me with those big old eyes and that big old grin, and he said, “Would you do a guest shot on Door Knock Dinners?”
Now, look here: I didn’t have time to watch much TV, but I knew that show so I asked Gordon, “Is that the show where you go knocking on people’s doors, and you have to cook whatever they’ve got in the refrigerator? You can’t go to the store. You have to make a meal out of whatever you can find.”
“Yes, darling,” he said.
“Is that the truth? No cheating?” I asked.
“No cheating,” he said.
“Well, I’ll tell you right now, Gordon,” I said, “I’m as green as a Granny Smith apple when it comes to talking in front of a TV camera, and I’ll be scared to death, but I will do it. You got to know, though, I can’t come without my boys.”
So, Jamie, Bobby, and I flew out to Las Vegas—my first visit ever. I’d told the boys to bring only casual clothes because they didn’t have to do anything; I just wanted them to be there with me, and to watch what was going on.
I don’t have to tell you how happy I was to go to Las Vegas. I luuuuuuv the gambling life—for a couple of days, anyway. Gordon showed us the most wonderful time: I will never forget Gordon and me screaming and laughing at the craps table till five o’clock in the morning.
The first night we were there, Gordon took us all to dinner. Bear in mind that I had been to New York only twice, first when I was eighteen, and then again when my cookbook came out, to do a spot on Good Morning America. That was the extent of my city sophistication. Gordon wanted to take us to Le Cirque at the Bellagio hotel, the fanciest restaurant in town. His people make his reservations, so the restaurant owner knew that the big shot Gordon Elliott was coming.
My people—well, one has on a button-up shirt and khakis, and the other one has on a golf shirt with nice jeans. We walk in, and the first person we speak to is this maître d’, and his head is all bent to the side and he’s talking in a fake fancy French accent, and he says, “A jacket and tie is required.” Gordon turns around and looks at the boys. Gordon doesn’t have on a jacket either. The maître d’ says in his prissy French accent, “I have jackets and ties for those in need of them.”
Well, Bobby Deen gets so mad that he can’t see straight because there he is wearing a golf shirt and he’s definitely in need of the Frenchman’s jacket. I’m getting tickled, and he’s getting madder by the minute. Bobby was twenty-eight and inside he really cared about how he looked to other people. They take him back to the little wardrobe room, put a tie around his neck and over his golf shirt, then put him in an ill-fitting jacket. By that time I could see the muscles dancing in his jaw, he was so humiliated.
Lord, I prayed, please let my son keep it under control long enough for us to have this damn dinner without embarrassing me. Jamie had on a button-up shirt, so he put on the jacket and tie without a problem. Gordon also had to put on the restaurant clothes.
And there they were, the three guys, all in black restaurant ties and black jackets. So, we get to the table, and I look over at Bobby in his golf shirt with that silly tie, and I just start laughing my head off. The more I laugh, the madder I can see him getting. Well, Gordon just says to the waiter, “Feed us whatever is good. We’re not going to order anything.”
So, they bring the first course, and I’ll never forget it—a tall slender glass that climbed into a tulip shape, and it was filled with blue ice. One oyster on the half-shell sat on top of that ice, and on the oyster was a spoon of heavenly sauce. We each picked up our oyster and put it in our mouths. I looked over at Bobby. His eyes had rolled back in his head, and he was smacking his lips. At that moment, he didn’t give a damn what he was wearing as long as he knew he was going to get the rest of the courses, which so far tasted pretty good.
Jamie and I still laugh about it to this day.
The next day we started knocking on doors. Our goal was to find a family who was willin’ to let a bunch of strangers come into their house and cook a meal that would be shown on television. We had knocked on about three doors and had them all shut in our faces. I was getting pissed. Gordon will tell you that he’s never before had a chef take over his show, but I’m used to taking charge and I said to myself that Vegas had pretty good restaurants, but Gordon is getting nowhere quick on the door knocks. We all loaded back up in this big old van and started hunting the neighborhood for the next door to knock on. It turned out to belong to a young housewife with two little boys.
“No,” she told Gordon, she didn’t think she wanted us to cook no meals in front of no cameras in her house.
This time, I kind of squirm up in front of him, and I get to talking to her. I said, “I’m the cook and I promise you it will be so much fun—we’ll just have a good time.” Her little boys ran to the front door to see who was there and I said, “Oh, my goodness, y’all are so cute! You remind me of my two little boys, but look how big they are now.”
I was workin’ that door-knock lady.
“But my hair and my face,” she said. “I look so bad.”
“We’ll put some makeup on you. You’ll be just fine,” I assured her.
I had no idea what that woman had in her refrigerator, but, with little children, I was banking on her having food in there—something I couldn’t do if a bachelor had opened the door. I really wanted to get into this woman’s house even though she was not thrilled to see us and didn’t appear to be real outgoing.
I got in, and Gordon and the cameras followed, and there was plenty of food.
Now, I was fast getting into my actressy mode. The only experience I’d ever had on TV besides Good Morning America and QVC was when I was fifteen. I was the chalk-it-up scorekeeper of a local game show at WLB-TV, kind of the Vanna White of my day. They’d put me in my high school dance costume, which was seductive, with fishnet hose and real spiked high-heel shoes. I had never done anything of the Gordon Elliott magnitude before.
But, oh, you know it, we had a wonderful time with this lady. With a few Paula flourishes and pronouncements of “Yummy!” I saw that she had chicken, ground beef, and tomato sauce, and I could make a wonderful spaghetti casserole. I found stuff to make a salad, and there was some apple-pie filling in her pantry and some canned biscuits in the refrigerator. I made my grandma’s fried apple pies. She had vanilla ice cream. I served those hot pies with the ice cream.
Looking at the tape later, I couldn’t believe how crazy I looked—like a butch Aunt Bea from Mayberry, if you remember that show. I had just let the color grow out of my hair, and it was so damn short, it made my neck and chins just appear to go on forever.
When I saw the tape, I said, “How would anybody in America like a cook that looked like that?”
But it worked. The ratings for the show were high. Gordon was very pleased and he called me back to ask if I would do another Door Knock Dinner.
I told you I was game for anything and just asked, “Where are we goin’ this time?”
“Rutgers University up in New Jersey,” said Gordon. “This time you’re going to be in a sorority house.”
That sounded safe to me. I knew about those prissy sorority girls who like pretty stuff and good food to eat. This time, I took Aunt Peggy with me. We get in the van, and we go to Rutgers and come to find out there’s going t
o be another chef, a guy. They have decided to change the plan and give me the fraternity house and give this guy the sorority house; they thought that would be clever.
I was so mad I could puke fire! I did not want to be with the frat boys. The guy chef should have drawn those guys. I should be with the girls. I raised boys. I know what they do: they eat crap.
So, first we went to the sorority house, and we all went in. I could not believe it—they had a kitchen with more food in it than my restaurant. They had one double-wide reach-in cooler just for cheese. Just for cheese. There was every kind of cheese you could ever hope to have in that big old cooler. I’m seeing all this food and getting more ticked off by the minute.
So we get the guy chef situated, then load back up in the van, and we set out to find a frat house. Well, the first frat house we go to that we’re hoping we can film had a party in it the night before. It had been one of those soap parties where they fill the house up with soap, and they walk around up to their middles in bubbles. You could see the bubble stains everywhere. I would not have let my dog spend a night in that house. No one was in this frat house now, it was beyond belief, a shack that you would think needed to be torn down immediately for unsafeness. So, we’re riding all around the campus, and we see another big two-story frat house, which doesn’t look too bad from the outside. We knock on the door, someone opens it, and there are beer and liquor bottles everywhere, also from a party the night before. Here, we apparently are waking up the occupants. They’re coming down scratching their crotches, those class acts, totally hungover. Not one fraternity brother had better than green beans or English peas for brains.
So, I say, “Take me to your kitchen,” and—what a surprise—it was horrible. There was a big old silver disposable pan filled with an unidentifiable dish from Friday, when the frat house cook was there. The whole place was nauseatingly unkitchenlike. I walk over to this piece-of-crap refrigerator. I open the freezer. There’s one smushed-up frozen pot pie. In the refrigerator, nothing. So, I turn to these boys who are still looking dazed, and I say, “Where is your food?”