Sunday, Southern Sunday

By Matthew Welden

 My left hand fiddles with the button that rolls down the window; the sweet, warm air laden with honeysuckle dances in my hair as the 1980 Sedan DeVille sombers down Georgia Highway 16. I am getting that sticky feeling on the back of my legs as the sun glares down on the oxblood leather seats. This pecan pie  is down right warm, and I can see a bit of the crust peeking out of the carefully folded tin foil package in my lap. Do you think she’d notice if I snuck a taste?

 Right then, I am jolted back into reality as I hear that sorghum syrup voice from the front seat. I look up to meet her gaze in the rear view mirror noticing that not a piece of her hair is moving despite my window being half way down. I guess Ms. Judith McKnight really does do the best wash and set in Senoia; bigger is better around here. 

“Matthew, now you be careful back there swee-dart. If your foot goes into one of those pies, there’s ‘liable to be an uprisin’. Everybody in this town knows I make the best pecan and French coconut pies around, and I don’t plan on stoppin’ today. Cousin Virginia uses my mama’s coconut cake recipe and says it’s hers, but we all know it came from the Tinsleys and not the Whites. Somebody’s gotta stand up around here. We have a reputation you know!” 
I shift the pie in my lap, pressing the tin foil back over the exposed edge.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Now remember…this is very important. When we walk through that line after church, you stand right up next to me, and I’ll tell you what’s good to eat. I don’t want any fussin’ or complaining. I can’t have your mama and daddy getting mad at me because you ate somethin’ bad and are sick as tarnation for the rest of the day.”
“Yes ma’am”

……

 Church is over; everyone begins filing out of the sanctuary and into the church yard.   The chatter begins; everyone must say hello to the preacher and give their two cents on this morning’s sermon. It’s somewhat akin to the lining up of the floats in the Rose Bowl Parade. Countless floral shift dresses stretched tightly over rumps and bosoms hoisted by no less than steel girders to rest just below pearls, fuchsia or melon lipstick, and straw hats that would come closer to feeding a horse than being seen at the Derby.

 Grandmother relaxes the fingers in her right hand subtly indicating that she wants me to hold her hand. “Now, Reverend Jones, you remember my grandson, Matthew? He takes after his mother’s side, but he sure is acting like his daddy more every day.”  I look up to meet eyes with the portly figure in the black robe who reminds me of a garbage sack hanging over a pair of shoes.  
“Nice to see you, Reverend Jones…” 

“Good to see you too, son. You know your grandfather was a mighty man, and you have big shoes to fill. You ever think about being a preacher?”

I break a sweat, smile politely, say a prayer that I will never become preacher and make my way out the door. I see that the picnic table has already been set up even if it is just sheets of plywood over saw horses and covered in red-checked table cloths. It looks like it could go on for miles. 

“Now, Matthew…go run get those pies out of Grandmama’s car. Remember I parked across the street under that shade tree to keep it cool. I’ll wait for you in line.” 

“Yes, ma’am” 

I run over to one of the five white Cadillacs parked on the street knowing that hers was the one with the small scratch on the side mirror from the time my daddy was filling it up with gas and got too close to the pump. I carry the pies one by one and place them at the end of the gingham smorgasbord. My grandmother nods approvingly, extends the fingers on her left hand while lifting it slightly from her side.  I run back and assume my position, resting my small hand in hers. She continues her conversation with Flo Smith about the ailments of cousin Mary Frances without missing a beat. As we get closer to the table, my excitement builds. I wonder if they have those cool plates with the separate spots for each thing so my Jello won’t have to touch my green beans. 

“Now remember Matthew, never pick up a piece of fried chicken that looks soggy on the bottom. That means that is was either made last night and put in Tupperware or it came from the Chick and Dawg and has been in a cardboard box all morning. If you won’t get up early on Sunday to fry chicken for the Lord, who will you do it for? Here…just take this one; cousin Virginia made it- I’d know that Cape Cod platter anywhere.” 

I take my drumstick, put it on my compartmentalized plate and reach up toward a pink depression glass plate with a scalloped edge.
“Matthew!…”, she growls in a hushed tone. “Don’t even think about eating that deviled egg! Do you see how red that thing is? That Martha Johnson is so cheap! She served those same eggs on Thursday when she hosted Garden Club, and they weren’t any good then! Now, she just put more paprika on them to make’ em look fresh. I bet she even uses dark meat in her chicken salad… some people! hmpph! Eat this one; Joyce made it just this morning… I know… I could still smell the mustard on her hands as she passed the offering plate.”

 The line slowly moves ahead. I can see we are getting closer to the fun stuff! Jello and congealed salads! Barely able to see over the edge of the table, I spy this large bowl filled with fluffy pink wonderment. My mouth begins to water. Grandmother, knowing me well, cuts me off!  “Here sweetie! You don’t want that. Shirley Bates never was right after her son died in the War. You know she took to taking in stray cats after that saying that they carried messages from the poor boy? She’s got like 20 or so of them now. It just isn’t fittin! Bless her soul! Have this tomato aspic that Kitty Owen made. It’s the same recipe as the Greenbriar.”

“But I don’t like asp…ugh! …Yes, ma’am” 

Her hand clenches mine. There is no blood circulation at all. The aspic is on my plate. She smiles, nods and we move on. 

“I think you’re safe from here on down”, she says.  “Just remember, don’t try casseroles with too many crushed crackers on top. Who knows what’s hiding in there? Most importantly, don’t eat macaroni or potato salad that is sitting in the sun. You’d be plumb dead by time I got you home to your parents. Only the help eats red velvet cake, and you better have a piece of my pie or folks might think you’re afflicted… hurry on now. Half of Senoia is waiting behind you!” 

“Yes ma’am” 

…..

My left hand fiddles with my fork. I sip my sweet tea. Her arm moves across the white linen cloth of our table for two. Her fingers extend. I know the sign.  I clasp her feeble hand. She tastes the pie I made for her, smiles, and puts down her fork. 

“So, I guess you were listening all those years.”  

My grip tightens slightly. 

“Yes ma’am” 

About the author: A true southern boy, Matthew Welden walks the fine line between finger bowls and pot likker. His life revolves around family and friends, especially his wife and two children. He enjoys the cool side of the pillow, the sound of crickets in the kudzu, and a well-maintained boxwood hedge. A biting wit and love of laughter make him fairly easy to find in a crowd. Matthew lives to eat but runs to stay alive and can often be found having somersault races with the kids on the front lawn of his Buckhead home; Founders Society Member