MRS. COPPER'S 100TH

                   Mrs. Copper, our upstairs sitting room, June 17, 2023, back from her new home for our final celebration together on her 97th.  One daughter taught ESL for several years in I believe Dubai, and the necklace spells her name in Arabic.  

Today would be the Hundredth birthday of my dearest friend and neighbor, a sweet and humble lady born in Germany and married to a handsome young G.I. in the late Forties.   She came to a strange land, raised four wonderful, successful daughters, and lived a simple life of home and family.   Our small houses in this 1959 subdivision are little Ranches, both with a big finished basement---ours with two bedrooms, a BIG party/dining/TV room, another kitchen, and bath.

Hers was divided into dormitory-type rooms, with SIX twin beds, for his two daughters lived with them part of the time.   Eventually they took in his Mother, then brought hers over from Germany for her last years.    I cannot fathom the mornings in that little house, with six off to school, and the three older ladies settling in for the day.   That kind, gentle man lived with NINE females for about five years there, and all sorts of numbers from time to time.   He DID work nights---a long career at the daily newspaper, and they had their dinner before 5 p.m. so Dad could eat one meal with the girls.  

And Mrs. Copper---so named because our first Granddaughter called her after their magnificent Chocolate Lab, Copper---the noblest, most companionable dog I've ever met.   Mrs. Copper worked with a "survey company," driving all over the city and county to stores and banks and corporations to stand in the door or outside with a clipboard, asking folks to rate the business, or what ice cream flavors, or clothes colors, or which insurance.   

Way back in the 00s, I longed to have a LAWN TEA---named this blog for that kind of event---I planned a party every year, jotting tablecloths and punchbowls and all sorts of trivial bits, and something would always hinder, always delay.   So twenty years ago, I gave Mrs. Copper a Strawberry Breakfast on our patio for her 80th birthday,  with just the house of us. She had mentioned several times that during WWII she and her mother had a little pear tree in the backyard, and that was the only sweet they would have some years, and she longed for just one strawberry.  She rose at 5:30 every day of her life, and so we made it a BREAKFAST party, and we'd meet and celebrate in the early June sunshine.

This one is ca. 2012, and most of the goodies were delivered at dawn by Leah, coming home from  the Bakery she managed for twenty years.   The donut holes and raspberry filled holes, and the neat round ball of Irish soda bread with its delightful crisp sugar coating to crunch between your teeth---those were her contributions, fresh from her oven, and she selected and brought the three cheeses on the bread plate.    See the little red candle in the top of the snowballs?   That's the birthday candle in Hannelore's favorite treat.

That went on, every June, and after she moved away two years ago, she came for one last celebration with us.   I MISS my friend, my over-the-fence pal, our history-teller and sweet confidante.   She, the eighty-foot hackberry tree and the second kitchen were what decided us on buying this house back in 1997.   

And NOW---fate and prayers and CENTURY 21 have brought me a new little companion, a quicksilver little sprite turning SEVEN tomorrow, so I've just Amazoned a tiny sun-dress, some unspillable glitter nail polish, a set of Unicorn Academy books, and some strawberry-strewn paper plates, for our celebration at eight on Sunday morning.   Time goes on, and brings the loveliest things down that long stream of friendship.

Happy Birthday, Hannelore!   Happy Birthday, Rebekah!  And 93 more.

DRAW AGAIN, PLEASE

 

Yesterday was a FUN DAY---Sweetpea's Graduation Party, with a whole crowd of friendly folks at a local Masonic lodge ours for the afternoon and festooned by her Mom in absolutely perfect mementos, colors, hundreds of pictures of her life-so-far, her awards, her travels with the band to ten countries at their invitation to play concerts, family and friends and pets and other such loving miscellania of Life.

It was just a perfect afternoon, with a good number of her classmates there for the whole afternoon, up at the big balloon-festooned photo corner, at the big buffet of ordered-in fried chicken and lots of family dishes set down at the most perfectly-decorated tables and counters I've ever seen for a graduation.   I walked in to be ushered straight back to a table of her classmates, who welcomed me as warmly as another teenager, and asked, "Do you like SCRABBLE?   I brought a board."    And indeed I do.   

Much moire non about the party itself, but Leah insisted I post about the game, for it was too funny to waste.   I'm not a one to use naughty words in any inappropriate setting, but I've met with most of those now-grown graduates quite a few times---in our home for tea or dinner, taking a group to brunch, etc., and I know them pretty well---especially their humor.

So begins the Scrabble game:  the passing around of the tile-trays, then the the little black velvet bag from which we drew our letters.  I know that Sweetpea had warned them that I was a pretty good player, and they were sharp for the match---watching every motion of my hands as I hid the tiles as they went onto the tray.    And I must have had a weird expression on my face, for the first three spelled a word already.   And the next two spelled another, littler word, which combined with the first----well I'd never actually put down such a daring word before, ever.   And I had fleeting thoughts that they had RIGGED the bag, for a joke on me.

Sweetpea, not in the game because of her hostessing and hugging and introducing and such, came over to our table and walked around behind each of us.   At mine, she fell out hold-your-sides laughing, causing everybody to jump up and come see.   Wait til you're the cause of such levity it calls half the guests to flock toward the fun---six teenagers, each smart as a whip and with wits like a ninja knife--and all enjoying Grandma's laughing at herself to the fullest.

Of course, I had to put all my tiles back and re-draw, since everyone had seen my "hand."   It was a fabulous game of Scrabble, with lots of doubles and triples and add-ons to victorious yells.   And you know, you've never had such a compliment as your own GRAND gloating that you won the game (never adding on "at your age," just the facts, ma'am).    I heard her telling it to folks all over the hall, over and over, "ganjin WON the Game!"

(And as for the first draw I exchanged:   I would have settled for     S-P-I-N-E.)

SUMMER IN A SPOON, REDUX

A comment from Jeanie on the last Caffay post spurred a longing to post again the wonderful moment we discovered a magical little diner between here and Cincinnati on a Sunday afternoon outing.  I think we were meant to be there, that day, that moment that they opened the oven and brought forth that fabulous delicacy known to not as many as it should be---that scrumptious, sumptuous bowl of golden crust and almost fruit dumplings afloat in an undescribably luscious blackberry sauce, buttery and sweet and perfect.  

Blackberries are a Summer thought, of course, almost forgotten in the rarity here in the Heartland of a Blackberry Bramble, awaiting the wary souls with small buckets to hold the delicate fruit, a big hat to keep off the sun, and long sleeves to fend off the thorns protecting the tender prizes sitting on the limbs like fat, delicious purple gems.  It's odd to taste blackberries except for a spoonful from that preciously-hoarded pint of blackberry preserves from last year’s crop grown by friends Lil and Ben, and brought to us on their travels.   The very thought conjures steamy mornings, both outside braving the brambles for those elusive globules of colour and sweet, and inside over the canning kettles as the blub and simmer turn the fruit into such a lively, lovely mass of remembered moments: fresh-opened biscuits with butter melting within, or a piece of slumpy-toast with a smear of purple sweetness cuddled into the warmth.

A church supper with Aunt Bessie setting down her perfectly-latticed 9x13 of Blackberry Cobbler was a moment in time that I’d love to recapture.

  And Auntie Bingham made the most wonderfully-memorable cobblers with “Sankers” in them---a crust laid into the bottom of the big blue-and-white roaster-pan, a great sluice of sugared berries and juice poured in, then a smaller top crust laid on atop the filling.  As the cobbler baked, the top crust cooked for a while, then was pushed down into the berries, with more of the filling poured in, then another larger crust sealed on top and baked til golden. 

When you cut down through those differing layers with that big old spoon, you got layers of crisp top and firm bottom crust, with a great cascade of the filling and melty middle crust, which had simmered into the most delightful soft bits like the fruitiest dumplings swirled in.

 And I never fail to think of a memorable dish that we stumbled upon on the way to Cincinnati several years ago.  On a back-road meander through a little town, we found a little country diner---a rustic, comfy one of the Kafe'-with-a-K sort, and the walls covered with the proprietor's paintings of birdhouses and barns, each with a little Post-It pennant announcing the price.

We partook of unimportant hamburgers, and asked what kind of pie. That's what you DO in a diner. Even though CAKE is our favorite, and there WAS a pretty white one sitting under the flat-topped dome on the counter, there's just something about a DINER that says "Pie." And sometimes you order some of every kind, just to be friendly.   Haven’t you always wanted to order “two slices of every kind of pie you’ve got” for the table, like in the MICHAEL movie?  

This time the choices were apple and pecan, neither of which appealed at the moment. We were about to pass on dessert, when the hostess (and owner) tilted her head slightly toward the kitchen-cutout and said, "Let me see if that Blackberry Cobbler has come out of the oven yet." (I remember her face and demeanor as much like the lady who recommended the Dutch Apple Pie to Starman in the diner---his first taste of Earthfood, and I loved the waitress' pleasure at the total enjoyment on his cream-smeared face). 

Our server hostess returned with a shallow bowl the size of a dinnerplate, two long iced-tea spoons---the better to share it with, My Dear---and a quite visible trail of fragrant steam. She set it down with a little flourish, and stepped back a step as we admired.   In the bowl was a BIG river of beautiful purple, little rivulets of lavender and mauve spreading as it melted the two huge scoops of vanilla atop the sugar-crusted lattice. 

It was too hot to eat at first, but we were determined to dig in before it melted the ice cream into liquid, so we did. Spoon after spoon, it was the essence and life and vitality and round dark sweetness of every blackberry that ever swelled on the bramble. It was the most delicious cobbler I've ever tasted, big ole whole blackberries with their shapes altered just enough to let free all those pent-up Summer juices. I hope we can find that little out-of-the-way place again.

Blackberry Cobbler, in all its forms and fashions---whether crusted, latticed, Sankered, with biscuits or crescent rolls baked on, or with that CuppaCuppaCuppa thing stirred up in the bottom, to magically rise into a cloud of crisp doughy sweetness like floating teacakes---it conjures other times, other climes, in the way no other fruit pie can.

CAFFAYS WHERE I COME FROM

 

Part of the South's reputation for good cooking has been built upon the delicious offerings in the restaurants, cafes, buffets, eating places, holes-in-the-wall, fish shacks and barbecue joints which populate the area like lightpoles. Places that promise little and deliver grandly are not hard to find, and the elite cuisinical Meccas of such as Keller and Dufresne and Ripert and Boulud have not so fervent a following of dedicated patrons and admirers as do the small, known-mostly-to-locals places dotted all over the South.

Doe's Eat Place in Greenville is one well worth mentioning, a shabby old building with black skillets turning out heavenly steaks and takeout tamales delivered in coffeecans and tables close enough to the stove to get singed. The steaks there ARE world-famous, with Zagat and Michelin and the Sterns pointing the hordes to the door. Quite a few others come to mind, of lifelong popularity and a steady, loyal clientele who make Friday night at the Hollywood (fried dill pickles!) or lunch at Stitt's or a special celebration at Mary Mac's traditions in their areas.

But there are also very small places, principally patronized by locals, and word-of-mouth is their only advertising. They're also well worth a word, and a visit. There are small formica-tabled diner types, with divided crockery plates and plastic menus needing a good wipe from a wet rag. Hamburgers and meatloaf and liver-and-onions abound, with fried chicken and catfish prominent in the bill of fare, and you see the why of the diked plates when the overflowing chicken-fried steak and gravy and mashed potatoes are set before you.

And the Meat 'n' Threes!!! Lines go around the block, even at the shacky ones with creaky floors, mismatched furniture, and oilcloth from the Seventies on the tables.

Dishes required for all self-respecting Southern Meat'n'Threes (rotating basis, Meatloaf Tuesday, etc., quite acceptable):

Fried Chicken,
Chicken Livers
Chicken and Dumplins
Meatloaf
Country Fried Steak
A big ole pink ham for Sunday Dinner, cloves optional
Whole Turkey Breast, sliced into the gravy
Mashed Potatoes
Mac N Cheese
Butterbeans
Fried Okra
Snap Beans w or w/o Baby Potatoes
Sweet potatoes, usually canned, with sugar and butter simmered with the juices to almost caramel

Kidney Bean Salad with boiled eggs and celery and a good clop of Blue Plate or Duke's

Pea Salad, ditto, with the addition of sweet pickles
Devilled Eggs
Three Bean
Five Cup
Jello

Combination Salad (Iceberg, tomato chunks, cucumber, bell pepper) with choice of 1000 or Ranch, or sometimes already tossed and wilting into the bowl, with just mayo and salt

Congealed Salad--Any flavor, with crushed pineapple and KoolWhip stirred in before jelling

Cornbread; any version, including jalapeno; sticks, wedges, squares or muffins, but they'd better not APPROACH it with the sugar bowl unless they're north of the Tennessee/Kentucky line

Rolls
Light Bread
Biscuits
Coconut Cake---creamcheese icing is good, Seven Minute is perfection
Chocolate Cake
Chess Pie--the addition of a tablespoon of cornmeal gives it the perfect texture

Chocolate Pie

Lemon Icebox, made with Eagle Brand, egg yolks and fresh-squeezed lemons, and the orphaned whites whipped into a downy cushion, swirled atop, and just barely kissed into golden peaks by the oven

Karo Pecan---everybody's Mama's recipe
Peach Cobbler (No cinnamon---just butter, sugar, vanilla---pure and perfect)
Nanna Pudding

Nobody would expect all of the above every day, but the assortment and variety and good cooking is astounding.

And our good fortune: though we live in what Chris calls the "Northernmost Southern State," we have at least three places very close by which serve exactly the above menu, done in exactly the way you'd find it in Natchez or Clarksdale or Greenwood.

Here, you’d have to specify: Sweet Tea. Down there, they just bring it.

And moire non re: Hollywood, Round Tables, and Miss Flossie's Caffay

MEMORIAL WEEKEND, 2026

It's not quite holiday weather here today, with the warmth of the sun and bright skies and the snap of flags in the sunshine, the smoke of a thousand backyard grills raising delicious scents into the Spring air. There were no sunbeams to wake to, but the damp skies will not dim the services and celebrations of this long Spring weekend.

But weather hasn't much to do with the feelings that surround this special day, this day of remembrance and honoring and taking stock of our nation's blessings. The placing of wreaths, the little flags stuck into the earth of countless graves, the floral tributes, the handful of limp posies clutch-wilted in a child's hand, the tears of remembrance---those will quietly and reverently go on even as the scent of charcoal drifts up and the promised rain comes down.

I have a deep-imprinted vignette in my memory-collection, of sitting there in a hot scratchy dress several years ago, to see my Mother-in-Law receive the folded flag "With the thanks of a Grateful Nation." And so we remember GrandDaddy, in all his twenty-something years of service. 

I still have a secret, heartfelt gleam of pride for my own Sailor/Soldier whose twenty six years of service was oddly commemorated with the presentation of the folded flag in our back garden during that strange, closed-in time when the World changed in 2020.  We had just rung the big plantation bell seventy-three times to honor the years of Chris' life, in a small moment rather improvised as his Marine Colonel brother presented me the flag after we all took a turn of ringing the bell. That upright, stiff-chinned Marine had bought, ironed, and perfect-folded the flag himself to bring the thirteen hours to our house for the small, important ceremony unwitnessed by anyone save us beneath the trees and our family members on a Face-Time call all over the country.  

 We'll always be grateful to all the other servicemen and women, and those we'll never know of as we sleep safely on their watch.     And just looking at the flowers in the picture above, the two tall, stalwart reds and the smaller, just-as-strong pink, I think of all our sisters and daughters in uniform, especially the one determined young woman who left for training the day after graduation nine years ago with the tiny tremolo of our long-ago bedtime “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” echoing in my heart.   I gratefully salute the strong, brave women who step up to the mark, who serve standing proud beside the men whose strength and bravery have stood true for centuries.

We feel a surge of gratitude, of pride, of thankful praise for all the ones who take our well-being and our freedom so seriously that they live and die for it, and us.

And so I say "Thank you," to each and every one, and give a prayer of thanks for all of our service-people, past and present---those standing proud in uniform today, those who have served, no matter what the term, those who have retired from their service, but remain ever soldiers, those lying beneath the brave small flags, and those in unsung graves around the world, known only to the angels and remembered in the hearts of those who loved them.

124 years with two still serving.