My grandmother, Mary Elizabeth Pogue Thomas aka Ms. Mary (pronounced Mayree by my papaw) aka Mamaw, was known around the parish (in Louisiana y'all, we have parishes instead of counties like the rest of the country, don'tcha know) as one of the best cooks around. And she was. Mamaw could whip up enough food to feed a small army in the time it takes to brush your teeth. I was in awe watching this woman in action.
Every Sunday that rolled around we couldn't wait to get out of church, change clothes and head to Mamaw and Papaw Thomas' house to eat. Sometimes we'd even bring friends with us, especially if they found out she had made her yeast rolls, then they were practically begging to come eat. On any given Sunday there would be anywhere from 10-30 people set their feet under Ms. Mary's table. Some of us would help set the table, while others fixed glasses of her sweet tea or started carrying food to the table. When everything was ready, Mamaw would yell, "Guy, come eat." Guy was my Papaw Thomas. He was the patriarch of the family and sat at the head of the table directing everyone like a Four Star General. Mamaw always put food on his plate for him before helping hers.
A standard Sunday dinner would consist of cream corn, purple hull peas, homemade macaroni & cheese, cornbread, roast beef with gravy, mashed potatoes, yeast rolls (if you were lucky and it was a special occasion) and a couple of cakes or pies. Good nourishing, stick-to-your-ribs home cooking.
We planted, picked, shelled, shucked and canned the majority of our food. We raised ACRES of food to provide for the whole family, which consisted of my grandparents, my parents, my three aunts and their families. The pea patch was about a half acre itself. Dear Lord, I hated picking peas, but come dinner time I loved them.
We're country around here and farmed most of our lives, so we aren't real big on manners when it comes to eating... other than talking with your mouth full (no-no) or putting your elbows on the table (unless it's to prop your head because you've been hauling watermelons since daylight and you didn't have enough strength left to hold your head up straight so you wouldn't choke to death while eating), but other than that you're good.
The food was served directly from the boilers (Southern-ism) for pots and pans, with cooking ladles being the preferred method of transporting food directly from the boiler onto your plate. There were so many of us, if we'd used serving spoons... there would still be people waiting to eat until dark thirty.
I don't remember what happened or even when, but one day I heard my grandmother, oh, this was after I was married with children of my own, utter a curse word... or as close to one as my mamaw got. It was sh*t! or as she said "Shirt without the R!" Wait, what? It took me a moment to realize what she meant. My brain completely spazzed out and would not process the fact that Ms. Mary, wife of a church deacon and veritable saint had attempted to curse. Nay, I misunderstood, this simply could not be. I asked my aunt, who by this time was laughing so hard she was red in the face and gasping for air like a land-stranded fish, if I had heard correctly. She confirmed that yes, indeed I had.
The. World. Is. Ending. Or so I believed. The woman I thought was in line to be canonized into sainthood was just as human as me. Hmm, well, alrighty then.
From the time I can remember until the day she passed away, that was the one and ONLY time I ever heard my grandmother cuss. Shirt. Without. The. R.
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