Like Mama’s cookin’

I went on a men’s retreat to the mountains of western North Carolina over the weekend. Like many other areas of North Carolina, there are many older people around Hayesville who are struggling economically. Ironically, there are many wealthy people who have bought homes, many of those second homes, in the area as well. We were just above Lake Chatuge, and even early Sunday morning you could hear the hum of power boats and jet skis of the well-heeled skimming across the water.
This was a Christian retreat center we were using, Hinton Rural Life Center, and during much of this summer, youths will be staying in the bedrooms at night and by day doing work projects to help many of the needy families in the area.
The retreat center offers basic skills employment to make a little dent in the poverty in the area. They also utilize volunteers to help keep their own costs down.
Being a bit of an early morning person, I came downstairs to the kitchen and dining room in the wee hours searching for coffee and was surprised to find the cooks enjoying some coffee. It was a couple of hours before breakfast. I have worked cooking breakfast before at a coffee shop, and the prep cook didn’t come in until an hour or so before we opened. There was a reason they were here this early.
The long braided hair of one of the cooks caught my eye. I suspect her hair would stretch down to her waist. There was noticeable contrast between the cook and the helper, one a local and the other was probably a transplanted volunteer.
The coffee was good, as you would expect. What I didn’t expect was what we got a couple of hours later.
Where I worked more than a few years ago, we served the regular bacon, sausage, ham and eggs, and pancakes. Times have changed, and many places serve biscuits, usually stuffed with whatever, often served through the drive-thru. I have little doubt that the ladies were there that early to make biscuits.
That wasn’t what impressed me, though. As we went through the cafeteria line, almost every plate had a biscuit opened up with sausage gravy ladled over it.
While there wasn’t anyone there who I would label as fat, most of us had a little more hanging over our belt than we need and probably would admit more than we’d like to have. Still, the lure of sausage gravy was a temptation I would not resist.
My mind immediately jumped to Mama. Breakfast was one of those special meals around our house while I was growing up. Yes, I usually had cereal in the morning, but on special Saturdays and Sundays, Mama would fix bacon and eggs. Daddy particularly liked his eggs basted, with the bacon grease pushed over the top of the egg with a spatula until the white got almost lacy. Mama sometimes spoiled Daddy.
I don’t care much for mashed potatoes. As things have developed, while we have baked potatoes at home and when we go out, I rather like sweet potatoes, usually with the butter and cinnamon and sugar. I think we often start out with a pretty healthy eating and figure out a way to make it gum up the capillaries. We don’t have mashed potatoes at home. Boiling and mashing is too much work, and maybe we think we’re too good for instant potatoes. Besides, in my book, mashed potatoes without cream gravy is hardly worth it.
Mama’s chicken-fried steak was particularly worth it. It always meant mashed potatoes and it always meant cream gravy to ladle over the steak and potatoes.
One of the things that I learned early in marriage was not to dwell on how much better Mama’s cooking was when at the dinner table. Even thirty years ago, we recognized if Marilyn served what our mamas served, we would have to get bigger doors in our apartments.
Most of the fellows there were raised in the country. As I surveyed them, most acknowledged that their mamas would cook big country breakfasts with sausage gravy, but their wives didn’t. To savor the flavor of their youth, they put their good habits of cholesterol watching and calorie counting on holiday.
I suspect most are like me, as we get on the scales on Monday morning: asking for forgiveness for our sins, even as we thank God for a sweet taste of home.