Food and mothers and home

Food links us to our past and provides context in our present. Tonight I cooked corn, grown by my mother on land that has belonged to my father's family for over 60 or so years. My uncle plowed the land, my mother planted the seed and hoed the rows and watered the corn (not to mention the other vegetables she grows) and when it was time she picked it, shucked it and cut it off the cob, to be placed in the freezer until I retrieved it, brought it the 200 miles or so from Abbeville to North Charleston and cooked it in a cast iron frying pan, the way she has done for these 50 some odd years. In another pan, a birthday gift from my father thirty some years ago, I browned hamburger for tacos, a food never served in my childhood home. I sliced and diced tomatoes, grown in that same garden and picked by me two days ago. And I ate the tacos, with the tomatoes on top, and the corn in a plate that once held food prepared by my father's mother, my granny, grown on that same land. This was an obvious link to the past.
Just now, I finished squeezing the pulp from a big bowl of muscadines, picked by me, my mother and my aunt from vines in her pasture, two days ago. I put the hulls in freezer bags, ready for pie, and the pulp in another, ready for cooking into juice for jelly. They wait now in my freezer, linking the future to the past and to today. None of this is important, of course. It's just food, after all.
But here's the thing. I know where the corn and the muscadines and the tomatoes grew. I know who tended the plants, who watered and hoed and cared for them. And more than that, those are the foods of my childhood. My grandparents, my mother's parents, had a farm too, although it has passed out of family hands now. There were muscadines and scuppurnongs and figs and pears and apples in late spring and early fall. Green beans, corn, butterbeans, crowder peas, okra, squash, all grew there. In the spring there were strawberries. And in summer, tomatoes, glorious red full-flavored tomatoes, like nothing you buy in the store, and with apologies to all those Johns Islanders, like nothing I ever got from there. My mother still grows those things, and she has introduced fruits to my father's farm that weren't there before, the apples and plums and figs. Her pear tree this year is full of green pears, which are crisp and sweet and juicy in your hand as you take big, crunchy bites of them, fresh from the tree. And the pecan trees are loaded with green hulled pecans, waiting for the colder weather to turn brown and drop from the tree, ready for pies and cakes and toppings for the sweet potatoes she is now digging from the garden. I can eat home grown food every day of my life. I know when certain foods are in season and when their growing time has passed and it is time to eat from the freezer or the jars.
I don't really have a point here, I guess, unless it is that we are too accustomed to food in packages and cans, in neat little bins in the produce section. We forget whether they grow in the ground or on a vine, on a bush or a tree. We don't know what pesticides or herbicides are used to facilitate their growth, and how that leaches into the groundwater. I don't shop at Whole Foods, I shop from my mother's garden, and I am wealthier for it. My father used to talk about how much it cost to grow all this stuff, but he never stopped growing it. My mother keeps doing it. And one day I hope to grow food in that same earth. Meantime, I love that I can eat it.

Fried Bologna

So tonight for supper I was frying bologna. Mundane, but my son and I both love it. We had it with some canned sweet potatoes and with green beans my mother grew, picked, broke and canned. Good stuff.

And why am I writing about bologna? Because I never eat it without thinking of my father. When I was young, I forget how old, maybe 11 or 12, we went on vacation to Florida. We almost never stayed in motels, and at that point we didn't camp either. We would pull over when Daddy got sleepy and sleep in the car. On this trip we had gone to Isle of Palms for a day, then driven down through Florida. We stopped at Silver Springs, in Ocala, went on the glass bottom boat and the jungle cruise. The picture of us on the jungle cruise boat is still around somewhere. Anyway, we got to Cocoa Beach and Cape Canaveral and before we got a chance to sightsee at all it started pouring down rain. Daddy parked at a store and went inside, bought bread, cheese and unsliced bologna (first time I had seen that) and we ate sandwiches in the car, watching the rain.

We didn't spend a lot of money on these vacations, because I guess we didn't have a lot of extra money. By not staying in motels, we had money for the glass bottom boat. We had a camp stove, and we would stop at picnic areas and cook our meals, so we didn't spend money eating out.

When Matthew and Tracey were younger, and the grocery money had stretched as far as it would go, I would open a jar of tomatoes (grown by my father and canned by my mother), pour them in a pot and add rice and a little chili powder, and then open a jar of green beans (same source) and heat them, and feed my little family. They enjoyed it and didn't think it had anything to do with the empty cabinets in our house. And I knew, as long as my father and mother were alive and able, my children would never be hungry, no matter what happened to me.

My point with all this, which I really had a grasp on as I was frying that bologna tonight, is that money didn't matter then to the family relationships we had. Another thing--as long as my father was awake and driving the car, I slept peacefully in the back. But when he stopped to sleep, I woke up and couldn't sleep as long as we were still. Maybe I was keeping watch, I don't know. But I miss him every minute of every day, and wish I had him back, driving the car.