Taste and See

“How can you eat with those things?” I asked.

“What things?” he queried.

“Those hands; they are nasty. Why don’t you go give them a wash before you sit down to eat dinner? There are ladies present.”

Granny laughed at that; but technically she was a lady and grand one at that and sitting alongside Granny was Joan, my Native American kin. I could never figure out the relation, but I know there was one because everybody told me there was.

Joan had the definite air of a lady about her; early forties, proud and reserved and beautiful to boot. She was part of the trio from the old green house across the street, John, Joan and Jenny respectively. Jenny was a step or two younger than me, Joan was her Momma and John Deal was her Daddy.

It was forty some odd years ago, and I was sitting in Granny’s old kitchen staring at John over a plate of fried chicken, field peas and hoe cake. His hands were all black lines and dirty fingernails and standing out in relief against the glass of iced tea he held, they looked a little dangerous to me. So being the spontaneous teenager I was, I blurted out my objection.

John laughed, “Son I have been washing these hands for over forty years, and this is as clean as they get. When you work in grease, it becomes part of you.”

And it surely had. On closer inspection his hands had a gray look to them, and the little lines running hither and thither looked like a map of one of the black water river systems in Florida’s panhandle. I can’t even begin to describe the fingernails, but he was right. All evidence to the contrary, they were clean. At least nothing had rubbed off on the hoecake he was eating.

John grinned at me and held out his hands, palms up. With the dark lines running every which-a-way they looked for all the world like a road map. The road map of a blue collar life.

As it turns out John was right about the cleanliness. He died a few years ago of a heart attack, not the ptomaine poisoning I figured would get him.

Those old marked up hands of John’s came to mind the other day when Mary and I stepped into a dilapidated old building painted like a carnival ride to eat lunch. We were down in Charleston, and Mary had read of Martha Lou’s Kitchen, and we decided to give it a try.

There is a mystical moment experienced twice a day on the waterways of the coast. It rests in between the tides. For a twinkling all is calm. The waters are still for an instant, the world is at rest, and then the relentless pull of the moon heaves the water in another direction. The magic spell is broken, and movement begins once again.

Martha Lou’s stands on that mystical spot in Charleston. On one side the tourists, the hustle and bustle and the noise of commerce and on the other side the everyday lives of the locals. In between stands Martha Lou’s, caring for both with equal care, genuine friendliness and old timey eating.

As we settled down into our mismatched chairs, the cool feel of the aged Formica table top was somehow comforting. I gazed around at what had to have been an old porch at one time in its life, but now it was closed in and filled with six or seven tables, chairs of all shapes and sizes and table cloths from different eras, if my guess is right. The walls were covered with family photos, many faded with age and spotted with who knows what. The atmosphere was filled with the aroma of what can only be described as Granny’s old kitchen.

There was hint, almost a mist of Crisco[i] in the air. Not the oil, but the white kind from the can. Floating within the mist rested the afterglow of chicken and fish and some wonderfully mysterious something that had lain for brief moment in the fryer. Cabbage and collards finished the symphony. Oh, there were other instruments, other aromas scattered about, but they all played second fiddle to the fryer, the cabbage and the collards.

I don’t know about you, but for me some foods taste better in a place that has been around long enough to have some grease up under its fingernails. I like to eat in a place that has seen something, not just heard about it. Martha Lou’s has seen some things.

As Mary’s hair danced in the box fan’s stream, I gazed down at an old galvanized pipe running along the wall beside our table. It had to be galvanized because it had enough layers of paint on it to go back to the years before pvc. I followed it as it traced its path, turning this way and that into the kitchen. It reminded me of the lines on John’s palm, and I got to wishing that that old pipe could talk.

There was a young couple there. They looked like newlyweds. At least they were friendly enough to be newlyweds; and for some reason, impetuous youth I suppose, they had stopped in to this little run down place for a bite. I bet they left with a memory.

When our food arrived, I was taken back to my Granny’s kitchen, and the memories flowed through my mind like a gentle stream. I felt comforted somehow. That old feeling of being safely wrapped in the family fold tugged at me.

I hated leaving that place. It made me feel good.

I figure there is a lesson in there somewhere. Perhaps it is as simple as remembering that for one person the past brings comfort, and for another the past brings discovery. For one person the old ways resurrect memories of the past, and for another revisiting the old ways produces memories for the future.   

It seems that as of late many within the Church of Jesus Christ have decided that the past is of no use and only the future has value. Some have decided that the truths of our forefathers, the traditions of the family, the old ways are simply stains that must be scrubbed away with new thought and new theology.

What many fail to understand is that the old ways, the old traditions and truths are maps that trace the way from the Cross of Jesus Christ to where we find ourselves today. To ignore them, to discount them, to offhandedly declare them relics of little use is to display imprudence at the very least. To cast them aside is to lose one’s compass and direction.

The old and the new are not necessarily mutually exclusive. They can sit side by side and enjoy the same meal, one for comfort and rest and one for discovery and zest. The key is to sit down together and enjoy the meal.

Ps 34:8
8 Taste and see that the LORD is good; blessed is the man who takes refuge in him.
NIV
 


[i] The sign said peanut oil, but it smelled like Crisco to me.

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