I remember most those intoxicating scents wafting through the air. They assaulted my sense of smell the minute I opened the screen door and stepped into the small entry area next to the fresh water well.
Sunday afternoons during my childhood was spent at her house. She was an old woman, at least to my young eyes, her wrinkles and stooped over back paying tribute to years of hard work and effort to provide for her family.
She raised a son and two daughters who were equally devoted to her. Between them, she had four grandchildren, two boys and two girls. By the time I came along, she also had her first great-grandchild, that later grew to six. Although she's gone now, there are also six great-great grandchildren.
To me, she was fascinating, and she lived in a home that, forty years later, I would still move mountains to live in. Closing my eyes, I can still see every chair, every trinket sitting around on the mantle. I can hear the sound of the linoleum placed over the hardwood floors as you walked down the hall, past the parlor and across from the bedroom that seemed to hold some childhood mystery because her brother passed away in there.
The smells? Oh, now she was some kind of a cook! Every Sunday, there was a home cooked meal after church. The typical fare was her famous fried chicken. Every family thinks they have the best cook in the world, but they're wrong. I know they're wrong, because my great-grandmother was the best cook, hands down. That fried chicken wasn't just fried to a crispy golden brown, but the black cast iron frying pan was placed in the oven. Then a lid covered the pan, in essence, steaming the fried chicken. When it came out of the oven, it was Heaven on earth. It was crunchy. It was soft. It was deliciousness on a plate. I have never met anyone who cooked their fried chicken that way, but I promise that if I did, it would never taste as good as hers.
Sunday lunch always would include green beans that had been canned and "put up" for later use. My family will argue this with me, but I just know she used to put a bit of sugar in those beans, because they had a sweet taste to them.
There would be fried squash or fried okra, two of the greatest gifts of southern manna I've ever tasted. Some weeks, the squash was turned into another delectable concoction of casserole, filled with yummy cheese, crackers, milk, onions, salt and pepper. Oh mercy, but it was good.
There seemed to always be a tray of sliced tomato, cucumber and onion from her garden. Always, always there were dinner rolls, though not always homemade. Usually, if she knew I was going to be there, there would also be deviled eggs, because I just cannot fathom having a Sunday lunch without deviled eggs!
Then, there was my favorite thing: the house wine of the south, Bertie's sweet tea. The nectar of the gods of the south, and this little girl's introduction to the world of sweetness in a glass. I would get my favorite glass, an old jelly jar with the words to "Old Susannah" on it, and fill it with a few cubes of ice, because ice tea just wouldn't make sense without the ice! I'm sure I drank at least two glasses out of that old glass crystal tea pitcher of hers.
It never failed, of course, that dessert was to follow shortly. I could go on for ages about the delicacies of her apple pie. Oh, what I wouldn't give to have just one more piece of that with, the way the juicy inside was filled with its fork-tender apples covered in their cinnamony goodness. And the crust? Flaky, golden and delicious. Sometimes, if we were lucky, she'd serve it warm out of the oven and we'd get to put a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the plate. Apple pie a la mode never tasted so good.
Around the lunch table, there was lots of laughter, stories of how old man so and so and his wife were at the church picnic and did you see that dress she had on? There would be questions from the younger generations to the older about what happened back when this and that happened. Dishes would be hand washed and dryed and then put up. The dishes that held the food would be placed back in the oven to keep until dinner. The tea pitcher, if it had any goodness remaining, would go into the refrigerator. Desserts went into the pantry, unless they needed to be kept cold as well.
Soon after Sunday lunch was over, it was time for proper southern ladies to take a nap. So we'd go find a place for a rest. Typically, you would find sweet Bertie laid back in her recliner in her bedroom. I might be in one of the guest bedrooms with the windows raised so the cool breezes of spring and summer could sweep through.
Before long, 3 PM would come, and that meant the rest of the family came in for a visit. Grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles would descend on her home, and we'd sit around the front porch rocking and swinging in the swing just enjoying one another's company.
As a matter of fact, I remember a special treat one time........
