Banana Pudding

Growing up in the South, making banana pudding from scratch is a rite of passage.  So is learning to make biscuits from scratch but we won't dwell on that.

On New Year's Day, 2014, my Momma made dinner.  She insisted.  My sister was angry because Mom didn't feel like eating after she prepared the meal but we were all together for the most part. That was all that mattered to my Mom.
She sent leftovers home to everyone.  In the days that followed, we would open the fridge and there would be the food she made.  Her banana pudding.  It is ridiculous to think that the sight of banana pudding could bring me to tears, but it did.  It is my Dad's favorite dessert.

My parents grew up poor.  Learning country cooking was the only way to cook. I must confess: I have NEVER cooked pinto beans from scratch.  I never will.  I will eat them but this is not something I set out to do on purpose.  As a child I would ask "Are we not having any meat?" on pinto bean/cole slaw/macaroni & cheese/french fry/cornbread night.  This meal occurred once a week.  Mom would either cook some fatback or fry up some weenies.  I put so many onions, ketchup & chow chow in my pinto beans, there would barely be any room for beans.  This was perfect.  Once every week we would have this conversation while I was growing up.  With Mom's passing, I told my sister that this meal was her duty.  I will never cook this combination. Never.

While cleaning out our Mom's kitchen, we revisited so many childhood memories.  So many parties that she had for us or for the community.  There was always something being made or planned.  If you were at our house at dinner time, you got fed.  The kind ladies of the church brought food after the funeral. It was nice.  Good friends came to partake in the meal with us. One of the ladies of the church had sent deviled eggs.  The eggs had been made with spicy mustard and other "things". Definitely not like my Mom's.  My friend said it was almost sacrilege having those eggs in my Momma's house.  Something I thought but never said.  Luckily our Momma shared her recipes with us before she passed.  Even though we have the recipes, things will never taste quite the same.

The utensils she used. The methods and manners.  There are so many nuances that go into making things "yours".  I will never be able to eat banana pudding again.  Someone said that I will and it will make me smile to remember her.  I reserve doubt.  My sister had a hard time throwing the last food out of the fridge.  It is ridiculous. As if we validate her existence on earth with the things she touched, did,  or loved.  I find old friends who we grew up with offering compassion because they have either lost their loved ones or they remember the parents we had in our youth.  These are the ties that make us who we are.  We live through memories.

On the day of my mother's funeral, it was bitter cold.  After all was said and done, the low temps broke a 130 year old record.  I had read an article earlier about blowing bubbles and watching them freeze.  So….on the day of my mother's funeral, at 7am in my jommers, I went out and blew bubbles.  No one was up in the house yet.  It was just me.  Crying on the porch, talking to God and blowing bubbles.    In a few minutes, the world would wake up.  I would have to face the reality that I would be leaving my Mother in a cold crypt in a cemetery.  I would have to get a whole house of people together to go to the funeral.  I stole those few minutes for myself.

If you are blessed to have children, you will understand my next line of thought.  As a small child, nap time was mandatory.  Before my sister was born, I would lay next to my Momma and bury myself up in the small of her back.  She sandwiched me between her and the edge of the bed.  I spent many afternoons in this position.  After my Momma passed away, we had to wait for Hospice to come get her.  I have been around dead people before.  I really don't have a fear. It is just something natural to me.  In the stillness of the room, I laid down beside my Momma one last time.  Her tiny, frail body.  It felt peaceful.  And it gave me a sense of closure I needed.  Like things had come full circle.
And I was very much alone.

There were so many beautiful gifts and things given and shown to me and my family during this very hard time.  Most of them given to me by my Momma. She knew how things would progress and how she wanted us to be able to handle ourselves.  She made certain we had no unfinished business or regrets.  She was larger than life itself.
Missing her is truly the hardest part.

The last picture of my Momma and me. 

Momma's garden angel 

3 a.m.

At 3am, 49 year old me was ironing my shirt for my Momma’s funeral. In my head, 12 year old me was listening to her tell me how to do it properly. 

Momma had a lady named Myrtle do her ironing when we were younger.  I once asked why Myrtle couldn’t just do my ironing too and she told me that I needed to learn how to do things for myself.  Typical.

Momma also had a house lady named Marva.  We were not rich.  Momma hired these nice ladies because she enjoyed their company and the places they filled in gave her more time with us.  Even with Marva and Myrtle in place, we never got out of chores or duties.  Never.  She was the ultimate teacher.

So as I am standing there crying and ironing, I realized how much I was going to find myself reliving so many things she taught me.  Every time I cook, she will be there looking over my shoulder.  She could throw some stuff in a pot and it would be the best casserole ever.  She could never duplicate it again but that is the way it is with things and people like that.  We are all made of the same ingredients but different.

She permeated every aspect of everything.  I described her as Martha Stewart on steroids.  She cleaned with straight bleach.  She could make anything. She could make anything grow.  “Not doing something” was not in her vocabulary.  Momma grew up the life of a gypsy.  Our grandfather moved from place to place.  At one point, they lived in the old Sample House which now has fame as Latta Plantation.  They ran a boarding house and with 8 kids in one house at one time-boarding house rules ran the table.  She was raised to be a survivor.

And today, the bitterest and coldest of days, we have to tell her goodbye. 

Momma fought hard to go.  Even in her elephant-drugged induced state, she tried to talk, to do….to tell US how to do things.  She was stubborn.

When we were younger, we had an uncle who argued and fought with one of our aunts.  In true redneck fashion (so the story goes) Momma and our aunt jumped him physically.  They had had enough….one on his back-one on his front and they beat the crap out of him.  When the police arrived, he begged them to haul him off so Momma and my aunt couldn’t get a’hold of him again.

Momma could go from being the most compassionate saint in the world to being the most spiteful.  She was human.  She wielded the latter like a warrior.  Anyone who crossed her was not immune from her wrath.  When times get hard to deal with, I feel like I have an ace card up my sleeve.  She is the cloth from which my sister and I are woven from.  As my friend Kimball so eloquently said “Never forget: you are a thread from that same cloth and your children and grand children are too.”. 

We have so many stories of her life and so many memories to provide some comfort in the days to come.
Thank you for letting me share just a small part of her.