Food, Family and Memory

My Mimi told me something quite hysterically funny and dramatically morbid a few years ago…”If I die before your grandfather, he will have to eat something. I’ve taught him how to make cornbread. That should sustain him in between the three months I die and he remarries.”

Tears immediately streamed down my face at the humor and sadness that thought evoked. That is, however, a bit of my family’s humor in a nutshell… delightful and somewhat macabre running hand in hand. What has happened though is a rivalry between Mimi and Granddaddy as to who makes the better batch of cornbread. They both use the exact same ingredients, same iron skillet, and same kitchen and oven for baking, but there are slight differences I would like to address: first the title.

Since Granddaddy makes it himself, it is dubbed “Granddaddy’s World Famous Cornbread.” Mimi’s boasts simply as “Mimi’s Cornbread,” which I guess is the passive aggressive way of saying hers is best. Since everything she makes is wonderful, permitting Granddaddy to title his dish as such is totally apropos. Plus, that is Granddaddy’s personality – everything he or his children do, but especially anything his grandchildren take on, mind you, is the best, exceptional, or “world famous.” The feeling is completely mutual and reciprocating.

I’m proud of my grandparents and there’s never been a doubt they are of me or the rest of the brood. I think their only flaw is that they gave me deep roots and short wings, considering I live two doors down. The cycle continues. I digress.

My Mother Vina circa 1957

Instead of turkey, mashed potatoes, etc., stuffed grape leaves (along with shish-kabob and pilaf) is the traditional centerpiece of our Christmas dinner.

Disclaimer:  Every script I’ve ever written is overly descriptive and too long, so no doubt this recipe will be, too.  Apologies in advance. 

In the thirty years I lived in Los Angeles, I experienced a wide array of social gatherings including a séance, a cocktail party in a cancer ward and an evening of Pictionary at the home of the late Don Knotts. But, I never went to a pot-luck dinner.     

That all changed when my wife and I moved to Vermont.  As another transplanted Californian put it, pot-lucks are, “the coin of the realm,” here in the Green Mountain State.  Drive through any village around dusk and you’re bound to see people crossing lawns with casseroles in hand as they head for gatherings of book groups, political clubs and contra dancing societies.     

When I would visit my friend Lisa in London in the early 80’s, I would sometimes see my bi-country friend Allan.  He lived here in L.A. and also London where he was a television producer.  His flat was in the Holland Park/Notting Hill area, but I love the name Ladbroke Grove so much that I want to say he lived there.  I love all the names of the streets and villages in Great Britain.

On occasion, he took me along for a Sunday lunch he had been invited to.  Allan would say, “This bloke wants me to come round, would you fancy joining us?”  Once there, I was in awe of the carefree, unkempt, unfazed style of the host, hostess and everyone really. 

When I entertain, I’m stressed out, dressed up, have too much food and am just generally overwhelmed by it all.   Whereas, these folks looked like they stayed up too late (not a touch of makeup on the women) and hardly gave a thought to the guests they were now entertaining in their home. This was the antithesis of the Martha Stewart entertaining regime. 

The houses weren’t straightened up, nor the tables set.   Drinks went around first.  Drinks seemed much more important than food.  Then slowly (sometimes hours had passed), and oh-so casually, the women would find their way to the kitchen and start hunting for leftovers.  WHAT?  They invited people over without even the forethought of what food they might serve.  It was baffling.