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It
was eight months since Momma had prepared fried
chicken and collard greens. I distinctly remember
standing beside her as she cracked some eggs, added
Carnation milk, sprinkled her secret seasonings, beat
the mixture and then carefully dipped a piece of
chicken for a full coating. This precision seemed
wasted as she dropped each piece in a brown grocery
store bag filled with flour. Once all the pieces were
in, the shakedown began until the entire chicken skin
was covered in flour. I'll never figure how each piece
got so evenly coated, but when the shaking was over,
the chicken was entirely white.
The
finale was placing each piece in a skillet of hot
grease. The crackle and sizzle meant we'd be "grubbing
down" soon and always drew my four brothers.
"Do I smell chicken and collard greens?" one would ask
warmly.
And
they would be correct. Boiling next to the chicken was
always a big pot of collard greens - handpicked from
our garden and cleaned by the women in the house
(including any kinfolk who might have dropped by).
The
preparation was as much a part of dinner as the
cooking. We would gather in a circle around a table -
as if we were going to play cards - with greens spread
atop. Then the real pickin' began as we inspected one
leaf at a time, examining it for worms or unfamiliars.
We also picked over topics of discussion, usually
ranging from boys to men. However, as "young 'uns" my
three sisters and I dared not talk too much for fear
of getting a "pop in the mouth" for being "fast."
This ritual was known as Soul Food Sunday by some, but
we just called it Dinner at Momma's, until I renamed
it The Last Supper when Momma died.
It
was mid-November when she left us. My siblings and I,
fully grown, were planning our usual visit home for
Thanksgiving. I believe Momma timed her passing so
we'd be together without an added trip home. We
arrived during Thanksgiving just to become eight
motherless children. There was nothing to be thankful
for that year.
My
oldest sister insisted we still have Thanksgiving
dinner and so we womenfolk gathered in the kitchen
while the men pretended to help but really watched
football. It was just like all the other Thanksgivings
- except Momma wasn't there.
"You should fry the chicken and do the collard
greens," my youngest sister said. I was stunned and
angry. "You watched Momma all the time, and you cook
the most like her," she finished.
Although intended as a compliment, I knew she was
really saying, "Momma's gone so you help us move on."
I refused.
"There will be no fried chicken or collard greens," I
stated.
My
sisters glared at me, and my brothers seemed to gain
bionic hearing, darting into the kitchen as if it were
on fire. "What's dinner without fried chicken and
collard greens?" they all sang out in unison.
"It's the same as dinner without Momma," I shouted
back - hitting a nerve in every one of their bodies.
The
rest of Thanksgiving passed solemnly as we ate turkey,
string beans, mashed potatoes and desserts. Nothing
tasted quite right, and by the end of the meal, we
agreed we'd never eat collard greens and chicken as
good as Momma's ever again; therefore, we'd never have
them again. Sadly, we surrendered the two foods we
remembered Momma for most.
Six
months later the family gathered for a grand
celebration of Momma's first (and favored)
grandchild's graduation. After the graduation, my
friend invited us to her family reunion cookout later
in the day.
When we arrived, Mrs. Spark, the family matriarch,
grabbed my sisters and I, leading us to the kitchen
while jabbering about "needing more hands to work." My
brothers settled in front of the living room's big
screen television and ball game.
I
stopped dead in my tracks when I saw card table
set-ups. On each were vegetables - snap peas, green
beans and yes, collard greens.
"Y'all know how to pick greens and all?" Mrs. Spark
asked shortly.
"Yes, ma'am," we stuttered uneasily.
She
chuckled and said, "Well, pull up a chair. What you
standin' there for? Hmmph, young folk act like they
ain't never seen fresh greens and such."
The
other women started in chiding about the state of the
world and how bagged greens were an abomination to how
God intended us to cook.
We
took our seats and began the familiar process of
cleaning greens. My sisters jumped into the
conversation and the laughter, but I was still dazed.
Then, as if reading my mind, Mrs. Spark tapped me on
the shoulder and asked me to join her at the stove.
"I'm gonna teach you my secret fried chicken recipe,"
she whispered. "Now pay attention."
I
couldn't believe as I watched Mrs. Spark mix eggs with
Carnation milk, sprinkle her secret seasoning, beat
the mixture, precisely dip each piece and drop it in a
bag - filled with flour.
"There ain't nothing to soothe the soul like fried
chicken and collard greens," she chuckled.
"You try."
With each piece I felt a weight lift from my hands, to
my arms and all the way through my body. As I
finished, I looked at my brothers howling about game
scores, and my sisters laughing like schoolgirls with
strangers around a table.
I
suddenly realized the truth in Mrs. Spark's words, and
my heart felt lighter.
Our
souls were healing from our loss. The balm was simple
and well-loved: fried chicken and collard greens.
Reprinted by permission of Thyonne Gordon (c) 2003
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