Yesterday, I had on hand a bunch of Swiss chard and as well as some fresh spinach that needed to be cooked. I began to saute them in my usual manner - that is will lots of olive oil, salt, pepper, and some granulated garlic and thyme. There was some leftover canned tomato in the fridge so I added that, along with the last squirt from the tube of tomato paste. I thought that this would surely go well with some polenta. Of course, I had no polenta and I was not about to dash off to Safeway in search of some. I did have some good quality cornmeal, but it was not coarse ground. I thought, "Well, corn meal mush it is." I checked Marion Cunningham's The Fannie Farmer Cookbook as I often do when pondering a traditional dish such as corn meal mush. I wanted to make certain that the water to corn meal ratio was the same. It is, although she recommended pouring one cup of the water over the meal to keep it from clumping. I gave it a go, and added the last tablespoon of sour cream at the end of cooking. Quite delicious. A different texture, certainly, but very good.
I cannot remember my mother ever making corn meal mush, although she would periodically make hush puppies, a food I have never understood. I don't think she ever even made tamale pie. I also don't remember her ever cooking grits (which if I had had some of those on hand, I certainly would have cooked them), but her corn bread recipe was very precise. She loved tacos but most of the time she would not bother with taco shells or tortillas. When she would cook what she called, "tacca meat", it would be served over Fritos or Doritos. No mush needed. She would top our bowl of taccas with iceberg lettuce (which I still have a fondness for) and with a cheese that we lovingly called rat cheese, a good all purpose cheddar that would actually be cut from a wheel. This we we would buy at the Kent Mercantile, a small store about nine miles from our house. That was where the post office was, as well as a gas station. I actually started school in Kent, under the guidance of Mrs. Parks. Yes, a one room school house.
Tyler ate the last of the chard and spinach with eggs this morning. When I lifted the lid to the pot, there was still some flavorful oil left there. I laughed; Tyler knows me all too well, and he always hesitates to wash a pot or pan too soon. I am now sauteing some potatoes and onions in that pot. That famous teacher who goes by the name of Hindsight tells me I should have sliced the potatoes thinly, or parboiled them, but with the addition of some lemon juice, I think they should be tasty for our supper tonight.
The story of our kitchen refrigerator continues. Finally, the warranty company was able to send a second repair team to take a look. They plugged it in and heard the unnatural sound it makes. They quickly unplugged it, and then opened the door and smelled the same smell I have been trying to describe to the warranty customer service staff. They immediately shut the door and said, "Don't open this." Getting this far has not been easy in this time of a pandemic, but we are making some progress. Who knows, maybe by summer we will have a new refrigerator. The garage fridge, for now, while limited in space, seems to be working just fine. Ice cubes, however, are a distant memory, a luxury from a another age.
Tyler and I still refer to tacca meat and rat cheese when discussing shopping or cooking dinner, and when we do, we know exactly what the other is talking about. That is the legacy of a mother who was a good cook. I wish I could say she loved cooking, but I don't think she did. However, she took that role seriously, and I am grateful.
Photographs are from a driveway down the street, taken today. They make me smile.
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