Mama's Comfort Food

by Rhett DeVane

  “Only three of those children are mine and Thurston’s,” Lucille said as she placed a silver tray on a glass table. “That’s the blessing of being in the Lord’s service. Many, many children in our lives. Of course, now we get to enjoy their children.” She smiled. “No time to get lonely.”

  Karen accepted a tall glass of iced tea. “Must be a good feeling, that sense of community.”

  Lucille crossed her hands on her lap. “You said you needed to talk. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable speaking with the Reverend? He is the trained counselor, after all.” She raised one hand. “Not that I mind, understand.”

  Karen perched on the edge of a high-backed chair. “Somehow, it was you I was drawn toward.”

  Lucille’s white eyebrows arched. “Oh?”

  “If I can find a way to explain.” Karen sighed. “I’m already seeing a professional counselor, and she’s helping a great deal—with some things.” She stood and paced. “My grandmother, from what I can recall, was always so . . . content . . . about everything. She seemed to just rise above problems. Had such a grip on things—how she felt, what she believed.” She turned to face Lucille. “I don’t know you well, Mrs. Jackson—”

  “Please, call me Lucille.”

  “Lucille. You seem to possess the same quality Piddie did. A quiet spirituality. And I know you were her friend.”

  Lucille smiled. She absently tugged a stray sprig of white hair and secured it with a tortoise-shell comb. “Piddie Longman was one of the best people I have ever known.”

  Karen frowned. “I’m having a lot of trouble. Not just with the chemotherapy. It’s like . . . there’s a big hole inside of me. I feel so empty.”

  “You’re having what Thurston calls a spiritual crisis,” Lucille said. “Very stressful life situations can bring one on—make you doubt yourself, your choices.” She paused briefly. “I’ve been in your shoes, Karen.”

  “Cancer?”

  “No, no. I’ve been blessed with good health for the most part. Thurston, too. Other than a tinge of rheumatism when the weather’s bad, we do passingly well.”

  Karen sat down. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “It was such a long time ago.” Lucille gazed into space, remembering. “I was thirty-seven, pregnant with my fourth baby. Oh, I was so excited. I do so love children! There were a number of years between my third and that final pregnancy. Almost ten.”

  Lucille’s brown eyes watered. “I knew it was a girl. That was before all the tests they have now. I just felt her little spirit filling me up inside.” She fished a small handkerchief from her dress pocket and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Look at me. I’m sorry to well up over it. You’d think after all these years . . . ”

  Karen leaned over and rested her hand on Lucille’s wrinkled arm. “Please, don’t apologize. I cry at the drop of a hat these days.”

  “I was about two weeks out from delivering. Had her little bed all ready. Had sewed up a passel of little dresses.” She gave a short laugh. “Heaven knows what I’d of done if the baby had been a boy—and he lived.”

  The tip-tap of a walnut wall clock punctuated the silence.

  “What happened?”

  “She stopped moving. I wasn’t too worried at first. Babies quit shuffling around so much toward the last few days. Reckon it’s too crowded for them. But soon, I knew. Something terrible had happened. She left me. Went straight up to Heaven and back to God’s arms before I ever held her in mine.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Lucille’s gaze met hers. “That’s when I lost my faith, Karen. I was so mad at God for stealing my baby girl. Here I was, a preacher’s wife—expected to minister to the flock right along with my husband, care for the folks who looked to us for strength—and all I felt inside was a deep, abiding anger. I had a hole big as the universe in my soul.”

  Karen asked in a soft voice, “How did you—?”

  “Get past it? One second at a time. One foot in front of the other, day after day. I still had a family to take care of. Thank goodness for that. Your grandmother helped me a lot during that black time. She had a lot of hardship in her life, too. Lost two babies. She knew what hell I was fighting my way through. Piddie would listen to my ranting hour upon hour—holding my shaking hands, urging me to keep on.” Lucille nodded. “Your grandmother was one of the most deeply spiritual people I have ever known. My Thurston often says she had him beat, hands down, and that he’ll be lucky to clean the floors in her mansion when he gets to Heaven.”

  “I’ve never been one to go to church, much,” Karen said.

  Lucille shook her finger. “It’s not church that makes a person spiritual, Karen. Big difference between being religious and being spiritual. Lots of folks can thump the Bible and quote scriptures till they’re red in the face. Doesn’t amount to much.” She placed one hand over her heart. “True spirituality comes from here: in the way a person treats other folks, watches out for the weak—children, animals, the elderly, the afflicted. How he or she treats people on a daily basis, not just on Sundays.”

  Lucille spread her arms wide. “God’s house is the whole wide world—not a building with cushioned pews and fancy stained glass windows. He lives in every rock, plant, animal, sunrise and sunset. And there are many, many ways to Him—not just one.”

  Karen sat, mesmerized by the gentle words of the diminutive black woman with the compassionate countenance.

  Lucille smiled. “The trick is: not being too proud to ask Him for help.” She shook her head. “And that doesn’t mean polishing the front pew every time the church opens its doors.”

  “Piddie never measured anything. When I finally managed to write the recipe down, I had to stop her every time she added a handful of this or that, and figure out how much she’d put in. Still, mine never tastes quite the same. She added love to her cooking. Suppose that doesn’t come from a box.”

  Elvina Houston

  Piddie Longman’s Chicken ’n’ Dumplin’s

  1 (2 ½ to 3 pound) whole chicken

  4 cups water

  salt and pepper to taste

  2 cups all-purpose white flour

  3 Tablespoons shortening

  1 teaspoon salt

  ¼ cup water

  In a soup pot with a lid, place the chicken, salt, pepper and water. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to simmer. Cook until the meat is tender, about an hour.

  Let cooked chicken cool, then take the meat off the bones and cut up into bite-size chunks. Discard the skin and bones. Skim the excess fat off the broth. Return the chicken pieces to the pot. Simmer over low heat while you make the dumplings.

  In a medium mixing bowl, cut shortening into the flour and salt. Stir in ¼ cup water (more if needed) and mix well with your hands to form soft dough. Roll dough out on a floured surface. Dust the ball with flour to keep from sticking to your rolling pin. With the rolling pin, flatten dough until very thin. Using a knife, slice flattened dough into long strips, then cut crossways so that each dumpling is about three or four inches long. Drop the strips, one at a time, into the simmering broth. (Other than to create a spot for the next dumpling, Piddie told me it was important not to stir the mixture. This will make the dumplings fall apart, and you’ll end up with a lumpy mess.) Simmer for ten minutes with the lid off. Then, put the lid on and simmer for about ten minutes more. Serve warm. Sometimes, Piddie would hard-boil a couple of eggs and cut them up to add to the dumplings after they had simmered. Either way, it is the best of Southern cooking you will find!

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The small gray squirrel perched at the end of the Piddie Longman memorial bench, twitching.

  “Don’t shake your dang nervous self to death, now. I ain’t gonna do you no harm.” Elvina rolled a couple of shelled peanuts away from her. The squirrel nibbled cautiously, keeping a careful eye trained her way. “I’m sorry I don’t have any of the kind with shells. You like those best, I do believe. I’ll get you some at the Walmar
t tomorrow. Meantime, make yourself satisfied with these.” She rested her index finger against her chin. “Salt don’t hurt squirrels, does it? ’Cause these are lightly salted.”

  The squirrel stared at her, unblinking.

  “What would you know about salt, anyways? You better be glad you’re living here behind the day spa. If you were at my house, Buster would run you clean off the porch!”

  Elvina dumped a handful of peanuts on the bench. “Here, I ain’t got time to fool with you this morning. I haven’t even talked to my friend yet.”

  She folded her hands in her lap after she brushed away the papery peanut coatings and salt dust.

  “Morning, Piddie. I know I’m starting to come near to chicken-thirty every day, but the heat’s starting to build earlier and earlier. I just can’t tolerate it like I used to. Remember when we didn’t have air conditioning? Lawsy, I don’t know how we made it through the long, hot summers back then. Lots of fanning and iced lemonade, I reckon.

  “Angelina Palazzolo’s younguns have all piled in on her this week. All six with the grandyounguns to boot! Brings the total to sixteen. Law, how she keeps a sane head amidst it all, I’ll never know. All of them, nice as can be, though. She invited me over for lasagna dinner a couple of nights ago; I forgot to tell you. Had homemade garlic rolls, too. I ate till I near about popped. And they all talk at oncest, each one louder and louder trying to be heard over the rest. Eat and pass food, and the red wine was flowing freely. I learned real fast to get right in there and carry on with the best of them. Angelina fixed these little pastries for dessert—cannoli.” Elvina whistled. “G-double-O-D, good! I was full as a tick from dinner, but I managed to eat one with a cup of coffee.”

  She glanced heavenward. “Let’s see . . . Pinky and Wanda got back from Pennsylvania. Wanda is all a-buzz about visiting Hershey. Said it was a chocolate-lover’s paradise, and that even the street lamps were shaped like Kisses. They rode on up to Niagara Falls, it being their honeymoon and all. Stopped at vineyards along the way and tasted all kinds of wine. Brought us a few bottles back to try. Now, I’m not much to drink, except for the hard lemonade you and me used to have during football games, but I do like a little glass of wine on occasion. Hear it’s good for your heart.”

  Elvina smiled. “Wedding must’ve inspired Bull. That’s Mandy’s beau, remember? He gave Mandy an engagement ring a couple of days after, and she’s been a’shoving that little diamond-dust band in front of everybody’s face. Melody is hoping that J. T. will get bit by the bug, too.”

  She shook her head. “Your granddaughter is still battling through her chemo and radiation. Evelyn says Karen went to see Lucille and seems to be a little more contented since. Lucille has that way about her. Karen sent D. J. on back to Atlanta, but there’s still a flame to be fanned there. I hope it all works out.

  “That Simpy fella is keeping regular company with Stephanie whenever he’s in town. I didn’t take much to him at first—thought he was one of them rock ’n’ roll long-hair types. Into drugs and all. But oncest I got to know him a bit, I got past the ponytail. He’s okay, and funny as they come. He’s back up in Atlanta, too, for now. He comes and films for a few days, then goes home. Steph mopes around with her bottom lip hanging clean to her waist when he leaves. What will happen there?

  “Hattie’s giving a beginner’s class on how to do that Reiki stuff. I signed up. What the heck? If I can use it to help my arthritis aches and pains, I’m willing to give it a go.”

  Elvina scratched her head. “Reckon that’s about all the local news worth telling. I ain’t gonna report what goes on in the rest of the world. Too dang depressing. Besides, we got our own to worry over. And that’s a full-time job, I’ll tell you!”

  Karen stared at the canvas. The background sketch was complete, but she couldn’t call up an appropriate image for the focal point. “Great. The one thing I can do to calm my brain, and now I’m blocked.”

  She squared her shoulders, picked up a charcoal pencil, and allowed her hand to draw without consciously controlling the strokes. The silhouette of a woman appeared. “What the—?”

  She sat back and took a long sip of herbal tea. Two chickadees dipped and dove at the feeder by the patio, fighting for dominance.

  “Okay,” she said. “Show me.”

  She picked up the pencil. A mirror image of the first silhouette took form. The women stood nose to nose, one slightly thinner, but otherwise identical in features.

  Karen continued to sketch. The women’s hands were entwined. A slight smile played on the thinner twin’s mouth. The other’s eyes were downcast, looking at something held in their joined hands.

  Karen rolled her eyes and laughed. “An olive branch? How corny is that!”

  Radiant heat boiled from the asphalt in shimming waves. Except for a few temperature-tolerant workers, people scurried from one air-conditioned cubicle to the next. Angry motorists blasted horns and tempers flared with little provocation. Summer had arrived in the Deep South.

  D. J. maneuvered the NSX around a fender-bender cluster and accelerated sharply, anxious to escape downtown Atlanta. He drove toward Lake Lanier, a peaceful respite in the rolling hills north of the city. Just to get away. Stare at his navel, slack-jawed, for a few hours. Find peace.

  He felt the grip of two powerful emotions: intense, giddy, new love and profound guilt. Ridiculous, really, since both were tied to the same woman.

  As if an imaginary boundary existed between the urban heat and the countryside, the air temperature dropped noticeably as soon as he reached the lake. D. J. pulled the Acura into the shade of a thick stand of tulip poplars. A well-marked trail led to the edge of the water and a small grassy clearing with a wooden bench. He gathered a handful of smooth flat stones and skipped them one by one across the mirrored surface of the lake.

  To have such a bizarre problem—in love with two different women, yet only one in reality. The day before, as he tended the potted plants at his fiancée’s upscale townhouse, D. J. pondered the strange love triangle in which he had become entangled. He missed Mary Elizabeth Kensington—aloof, prim and proper, just shy of complete bitch status. But this new woman, Karen Fletcher, she had stolen his affections in ways his British fiancée never could.

  Would Mary E. spend endless hours talking about feelings, childhood dreams, and fears? No. Would she possess the gentle self-effacing Southern humor? Hardly. The free-spirited, piss-and-vinegar attitude? Not Mary Elizabeth’s style. Still, when he thought back on their relationship, Donald noted glimpses of Karen Fletcher beneath Mary Elizabeth’s frosty veneer. Kindness to animals, the elderly, the disenfranchised: gestures of empathy when she thought no one noticed. In truth, Karen Fletcher wasn’t a stranger.

  How did this happen to him? Love-sick, love-struck, slobbering devotion. Willing to crawl miles thorough any kind of crap just to be near her.

  “You just thought you were a hopeless idiot, D. J.,” he said. “There’s no telling what depths you’ll sink to.”

  So, where was the guilt coming from? He felt as if he was side-stepping out the back door under cover of darkness, the sleaze-bag boyfriend who would chase any skirt, any time.

  D. J. shook his head. “This is ridiculous!” He pitched a stone with such force, it skipped six times before landing with a loud plop. “Mary E.’s gone, and she’s not coming back.” He stared at the concentric circles of ripples radiating from the stone’s last hit. “And I love Karen Fletcher.”

  There. He had said it aloud. Sad thing, he would never be able to say goodbye to Mary Elizabeth. D. J. chuckled. “Karen, hon. What say you turn into Mary E. one last time so I can dump her properly, and you and I can live happily forever after?”

  He closed his eyes. The drama of the past few months read like a plot line from a daytime soap opera. No, in a soap opera, Karen would turn out to be his long-lost first cousin; no need to go that far.

  D. J. sat on the park bench and stared at the water until the first fingers of sunset air-b
rushed the horizon peach and orange. Inside, something important shifted. When he returned to his car, a skip returned to his step.

  A few houses down, he spotted a For Sale by Owner sign and slowed to a crawl. A farmhouse-style log home stood by the lake’s edge. He whipped a U-turn and pulled into the tree-lined gravel driveway.

  “My mama was an angel dropped down from Heaven. Really. Everything she cooked, she poured love into. Can’t think of one dish I could single out. All of her cooking gave me comfort. Just sitting in her little kitchen with all of us kids swarming around her feet, listening to her hum underneath her breath while she was stirring a pot of stew or soup—I can see it in my mind’s eye. A feeling of being held in her warm arms cloaks over me.”

  Jon “Shug” Presley

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Jon Presley wiped his sneakers on the Triple C’s back door mat. “Morning glory,” he called out to Wanda, “got the coffee on?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? Of course it’s on.”

  He scowled at the mud clinging to the sole of his shoes, removed them, and left them beside the door.

  Wanda smiled as she watched her fastidious friend tiptoe across the kitchen in his stocking feet. “Floor’s clean, Shug, Don’t think you’ll muss those white-beyond-belief socks.”

  Jon rolled his eyes and poured a cup of hot coffee. He topped it off with cream and a packet of artificial sweetener.

  “No java at your house this morning?”

  Jon shook his head. “Jake’s sleeping in. I didn’t want to wake him. He gets so little rest.” He smiled. “Besides, I haven’t seen you in forever, happily-married girl. I hoped you’d be here.”

  “I’m always here.”