Lacy - Sunday Dinner: A Savor the South cookbook

FOOD AS LOVE

My earliest food memories are of sitting on my grandfathers lap, cutting my teeth on bacon at my grandparents home in Lynchburg, Virginia. I was his first grandchild, and he called me his sugar girl. I named him Papa. James Russell Moore Jr. was one of the best cooks I have ever known. He knew how to prepare what he called a good something to eat, especially on the Sabbath.

He grew lots of fruits and vegetables. His cantaloupes were so sweet, they tasted like he had poured sugar in the ground. He bought his flour for making yeast rolls and cakes from a bakery. His pantry was organized with canned goods clearly labeled and cooking gadgets and utensils neatly stacked in their boxes. On Saturday and Sunday afternoons, there was a flurry of activity in the kitchen. And I had a seat at the table.

Preparing the Sunday meal was a family affair at my grandparents home. I learned to peel potatoes, snap the ends off string beans, and rinse tomatoes, squash, and other produce from Papas backyard garden. My mother chopped celery, sliced onions, or washed dishes. Grandma shaped the yeast rolls and fried the chicken. Aunt Barbara Anne set the dining room table for the big meal.

As a young girl, on warm summer days, I experienced Sunday dinner sitting down with my grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, siblings, and cousins to a meal of fried chicken, potato salad, green beans, and yeast rolls. On cold winter afternoons, Sunday dinner meant generous portions of perfectly seasoned pot roast with mashed potatoes and carrots. The meals were always made with the freshest seasonal produceoften from Papas garden or a farmers marketalong with the nicer cuts of meats and homemade desserts, including coconut pies and what Papa called his Nilla Wafer Brown Pound Cake.

Unlike weekdays, Sunday was a time when everyone was expected to gather around the table at the same time. Visiting relatives such as Papas sister, my great-aunt Ernestine, who lived in New York, and close friends were invited to share a seat at the table on Sundays more than any other day. Or maybe my mothers brother, Uncle Moco, who lived a few houses up the street, and his family, would be at the table. Sometimes my grandmothers sister, Aunt Mary Pullen, and her husband, Uncle Weldon, would join us.

The meal was never rushed, and all lingered at the table for second helpings. There was a lot of please and thank you heard around the table, as well as yes, sir and no, maam.

After dinner, while some of us cleared the table, others retreated to the living room or the front or back porch, depending on the weather.

Sunday dinner was the artistic expression of my grandfathers love for his family, and it was a masterpiece. He worked at the foundry molding pipe during the week, but on the weekends, those hands produced the most delicate pies, cakes, and hearty entres.

My grandfather came from a large family of ten children. He was born in 1918 to James and Ernestine Moore. His family owned a fifty-five-acre farm in Madison Heights, Virginia, with a chicken coop, a hog pen, and a shelter for a milking cow, surrounded by rows of corn, tomatoes, squash, and green beans for the dinner table.

Papa met my grandmother when she taught his siblings in a one-room schoolhouse. Marie Moorman stood 5-feet-10-inches tall, recited poetry beautifully, and exhibited an air of sophistication. On occasion, his family invited her to dinner. Papa courted grandma by playing Aint She Sweet on his ukulele as they walked along the bank of the James River. Grandma often recalled that she liked him in part because he wasnt stingy. Another suitor, she said, bought her a soda, only to drink half before she took the first sip. I cherished the telling of that story during those luxurious hours on Sunday afternoons.

To have the privilege of putting your feet under Papas square dining room table was downright spiritual.

For some, Sunday dinner represents a snapshot of that wonderful time and place where families gathered and recharged, and for others, it may be the start of a ritual theyve only heard about through older family members. For all, it will be a reminder to carve out that sacred space in life to cherish family and friends and celebrate the big and small moments. Sunday dinner helped shape me as a person. It was during those meals that I expressed my dream of becoming a writer. It was during those meals that I bonded with country cousins, eccentric aunts and uncles, and cherished grandparents. It was during those meals that I learned the rich history of my proud family. We laughed, loved, and ate. We left the table with our hearts and bellies full.

Sunday still commands a certain type of reverence. Many southerners still feel the need to get in the kitchen and deliver a feast for those closest to them. It often starts with carefully selecting fresh produce from the farmers market on Saturday, then rising early on Sunday morning to marinate and season meats or shape yeast rolls needing to rise by dinnertime.