“For christsakes, Lila, it’s got wine in it,” my father said one night after my mother had prepared coq au vin. “You don’t pour wine over chicken. You pour it down your throat.”
“This is just an experiment, Henry. I don’t know whether I should submit a whole bunch of recipes or just one. How does it taste?”
“It tastes like a drunk chicken,” he answered.
“It tastes great, Mama,” Luke said, and the battle lines were drawn.
For several heady months my mother pored over her limp, butter-softened copies of Gourmet magazine, taking assiduous notes in her sensual handwriting and using the evening meal for improvisation and experiment. She studied her own vast recipe collection and began making subtle emendations and improvements, borrowing ingredients from one recipe to empower the body or consistency of another. She arrived slowly at the idea that she would devise her own recipe, something arresting and original that issued out of her own imagination and her acute, if limited, knowledge of food and its properties. The four burners of the stove worked overtime and the kitchen sweltered as the blue flames simmered the brown and white stocks, which she then transformed into bright velvety sauces that clung to knives like oil-based paint. All April and May, the stock-pots exuded the fragrance of the crushed bones and marrow of cattle and fowl, seasoned with the crispate herbs and vegetables from her own luxuriant garden. The smells coalesced into a dark perfume that felt like a layer of silk on the tongue. My nose grew kingly at the approach of my home. There would be the redolent brown stocks the color of tanned leather, the light and chipper white stocks, and the fish stocks brimming with the poached heads of trout smelling like an edible serving of marsh.
In June we would return home from a day on the shrimp boat exhausted, sunburnt, and famished. As we left the truck, the smell of my mother’s labors would assault my nostrils, and my mouth, dry and salty, would come alive like the birth of a stream; the path to my home was a concourse of smells for which there was no adequate glossary. In the kitchen, my mother would be lathered in her own sweat, singing a mountain song, happy in the vainglory of her art. I have never eaten so well before or since. I would grow three inches that summer and put on ten pounds of hard boyflesh. I owed it all to the melancholy fact that my mother was not a member of the Colleton League.
It was in late June that my mother had labored mightily on what she called “her big surprise of the summer.” She had worked out an arrangement with the butcher at the Piggly-Wiggly and he had begun to save her the cuts and organs he normally discarded as unfit for human consumption. The Wingo family became the first citizens of Colleton ever to eat sweetbreads prepared from a recipe in Gourmet magazine.
Dad seated himself at the head of the table. Luke and I showered, changed clothes, and joined him. Savannah brought the sweetbreads from the kitchen and with a huge grin on her face began spooning them onto Dad’s plate. Dad stared morosely and began jabbing at them with his fork. My mother entered the room and took her place at the other end of the table. By the look on his face, my father appeared to be trying to derive secrets from the entrails of a sacrificial beast. Mom was radiant and there were fresh roses on the table.
“What in the hell are these things, Lila?” my father asked.
“These are sweetbreads cooked in cream and white wine,” she answered proudly. “It’s a very special Sauce Français Wingo.”
“It looks like Calcutta pussy to me,” my father said.
“How dare you speak like that in front of my children at the dinner table,” she said, and her voice was hurt. “This is not a shrimp boat and I’ll not have language like that used at my table. Besides, you haven’t even tried the sweetbreads, so you don’t know if you like them or not.”
“This isn’t bread, Lila. I don’t care what your little Frog cookbook tells you. I been eating bread my whole life and this ain’t even close. It ain’t corn bread or spoon bread or loaf bread or biscuits.”
“Simpleton! I married a dyed-in-the-wool simpleton,” my mother said angrily. “These are the thymus glands of a cow, dear.”
“Honey,” he said, “I don’t want to be eating cow nuts when I could be eating T-bone. That’s not too much to ask. I’ve been eating this kind of crap for three months now and I’m getting sick of it.”
“These are cow balls, Mama?” Luke asked, turning a sweetbread over in his plate.
“Of course not, and you watch your language too, Luke Wingo. The thymus lies elsewhere in the cow.”
“Where?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” my mother said. “But far, far away from the animal’s genitalia. Of that, I am reasonably sure.”
“Why can’t a man have a little red meat at the end of a day?” my father asked, laying down his fork. “That’s all I ask. Even a fried fish or a mess of shrimp and gravy. We eat meat a nigger wouldn’t touch. Or a dog. Where’s Joop? Come here, boy. Come here, Joop.”
Joop was sleeping in his chair and he raised his amiable gray-flecked head in the last summer he would be alive and jumped heavily to the floor. He approached my father cautiously, his eyes milky with cataracts, trembling from the effect of the heartworms that would kill him.
“Come here, Joop. Come on over here,” my father yelled impatiently. “Goddamn it, dog, get your black ass over here.”
“You can tell Joop’s smart,” Savannah said. “He’s always hated Dad’s guts.”
Joop stopped five feet away from my father and awaited further developments. Dad was the only human being on earth that Joop did not unreservedly adore.
“Hey, Joop, you dimwit hound, eat a plate of sweetbreads, pal.”
My father set his plate on the floor and Joop approached the sweetbreads slowly. He sniffed them scornfully, licked off a bit of cream, then turned and went back to his chair.
“I spent all day preparing this meal,” my mother said.
“See that,” my father said, crowing. “See the living proof. I’m supposed to eat food a dog won’t touch. I get up at five in the morning, bust my ass catching a shrimp or two, work like a dock nigger from morning till night, then come home and eat food the dumbest dog in the world won’t touch.”
“Try to look at it as an adventure in food, dear. Just an adventure. I want the children to experience all different kinds of food. I’m trying to broaden their horizons. This is a classic French dish. A classic. I found it in Gourmet,” she explained in a wounded, defeated voice.
“French!” my father yelled. “Am I French? I hate the goddamn French. You ever hear the way they talk? Jesus Christ, Lila, it’s like they’ve got twenty pounds of Cheddar cheese stuffed up their behinds. I’m an American, Lila. A simple, shit-kicking American out trying to make a buck. I like American food—steaks, potatoes, shrimp, okra, corn, that kind of shit. I don’t like snails or caviar or frog livers or dragonfly balls or any of that other crap the French jack off about. I don’t want an adventure in food, honey. I just want to eat. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
Luke had begun eating his sweetbreads with exaggerated relish.
“I think this food is great, Mom,” he said. “In fact, I think this is the best food I’ve ever tasted.”
I took a small, cautious bite and was surprised to find the taste agreeable.
“Fab, Mom,” I said. “Really fabulous.”
“Great stuff, Mom,” Savannah agreed. “Relax, Dad, and I’ll fry you up a wahoo in a couple of minutes.”
“The stupid dog wouldn’t eat it,” my father said, feeling the pressure of the family’s gathering solidarity against him.
“He won’t eat nothin’ unless it comes out of a can,” Luke explained.
“Anything,” Mother corrected, smiling again. “Grammar should be stressed until it becomes a habit.”
“Why don’t you give Dad a can of Alpo?” Savannah suggested.
“Let him fight it out with Joop,” I said.
At that moment, if my mother had served us horse turds in white wine we would have
praised their texture and delicacy. It was part of a complex unwritten system of ethics that caused us to rally thoughtlessly around our mother whenever our father sallied forth on these gratuitous expeditions against her spirit. No matter how valid his point, Henry Wingo could never shake his image as the archetype of the swaggering bully. It both isolated and enraged him, yet it was a fixed destiny. His eyes took it all in, his children gaily savoring those fresh glands as an act of defiance against the man of the house.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve succeeded in turning all of my children against me, Lila. I guess I’m the big heavy in all this.”
“Just be polite, Dad,” Luke said gently. “Mom worked hard on this meal.”
“Hey, big mouth. I work hard so your mother can put this shit on the table. I’m the breadwinner in this mouthy family, not the goddamn sweetbread winner. If I want to gripe, then I’ve earned the right to gripe.”
“Say it nicely, Dad,” Savannah said in an even but imperiled voice. “You can be so nice when you’re not being a bully.”
“Shut up,” Dad said.
“I have a right to my opinion,” she answered, eating her meal. “This is America and I’m an American citizen. You’ve no right to tell me to shut up.”
“I said ‘shut up,’ “ he repeated.
“Big man. Big brave man,” my mother taunted with a perfectly ill-timed interjection.
“You go cook me some decent food, Lila,” Dad ordered. “Right now. I’ve been working all day and I’ve got a right to some food.”
“Relax, Dad,” Luke said, his voice pained and conciliatory.
My father slapped Luke hard across the mouth. Luke stared at my father in surprise, then bent his head down toward his plate.
“Now, get me some meat,” my father said. “Any kind of meat will do. I’ve got to teach this family to have a little respect for a working-man.”
“Are you all right, Luke?” my mother asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, “I’m fine.”
“There’s some leftover hash. And some rice. I’ll heat it, Henry,” she said.
“I’ll help you, Mama,” Savannah said.
I slid back my chair from the table and said, “Me too.”
Only Luke remained in the dining room with my father.
I sought refuge in the kitchen, for long experience had taught me to retreat from my father’s angle of attack when he erupted.
“Could you chop an onion, Tom?” my mother asked.
“Sure.”
“And, Savannah, could you heat the rice, honey? It’s in a covered dish way back in the Frigidaire.”
“I’m so sorry, Mama,” Savannah said, opening the refrigerator door.
“Sorry?” she said. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. This is the life I chose. The life I deserve.”
She was searching through the canned goods in the pantry and emerged carrying a can of dog food. She ignored our glances of disbelief, opened the can, then began sautéing the onions in the butter.
“Chop another onion, please, Tom,” she asked as the smell of cooked onions began to fill the kitchen. “And peel me a couple of cloves of garlic.”
When the onions and garlic had turned transparent in the butter, my mother spooned the Alpo into the frying pan and began vigorously to combine the ingredients. She salted and peppered the meat, dashed it with Worcestershire sauce and Tabasco, and added a cup of tomato sauce. She threw a handful of chopped chives into the pan, then added the day-old rice and brought it to a hot sizzle. Arranging the concoction prettily on a clean plate, she garnished it with chopped scallions and fresh parsley. She carried it proudly into the dining room and placed it with a triumphant flourish before my father.
Joop awoke once more, dropped heavily to the floor, and approached my father.
“See, the dumb dog knows what’s good to eat.”
My father took a bread dish and spooned a small portion out for Joop and set it on the floor. Joop ate it quickly, then returned to his chair, snorting with pleasure.
“The king’s taster,” Savannah said as she resumed her meal.
His authority restored, my father tasted the hash and pronounced it to his satisfaction. “Now, this is food, Lila. Simple food, but good. I’m a simple man and I’m not ashamed of it. But I know what’s good and what’s good for you. This is a fitting meal and I thank you for going to the trouble.”
“Think nothing of it, darling. It was my pleasure,” my mother answered acidly.
“I hate it the way we always fight at mealtimes,” Luke said. “It always feels like I’m getting ready to land on Normandy Beach when I sit down to this table.”
Savannah said, “It’s one of the pleasures of family life, Luke. You ought to be used to it by now. You eat a few peas for strength, then you get punched in the mouth.”
“That’ll be quite enough out of you, young lady,” my mother warned.
“It’s character-building, Luke,” my father said, innocently shoveling in a forkful of Alpo and speaking with a full mouth. “I wish my father had whipped my butt when I screwed up instead of making me read ten pages out of the Bible.”
“The Bible helped make your father the booming success he is today,” my mother said bitterly.
“I’m sorry I’m not a heart surgeon or a white-shirt banker, Lila,” my father said, “but it’s about time you quit being ashamed of me being a shrimper.”
“I’m just ashamed that you’re not even the best shrimper. There are ten men on the river, half of them colored, who catch more shrimp than you do.”
“But they ain’t got the business ideas I got. Their brains ain’t bustin’ with ideas to make money.”
“You’ve lost more money than some men ever made.”
“That’s because my ideas have always been ahead of their time, Lila. Even you have to admit that. I got more pizzazz than the average Joe. I just need to borrow a little capital and take a bow from Lady Luck.”
“You’re a natural-born loser and you smell like shrimp,” my mother said cruelly.
“I shrimp for a living,” my father said, and his voice was tired. “The smell comes with the territory.”
“If you’d rub a little garlic across your chest, you’d smell just like shrimp scampi,” she said.
“I love the smell of fresh shrimp,” Luke said.
“Thanks, Luke,” my father said.
“Ha!” my mother said to Luke. “How would you like to go to bed with a two-hundred-twenty-pound shrimp?”
“See what I mean,” Luke said. “Everything becomes a fight.”
“It’s hard to think of Dad as a shrimp,” Savannah said, looking at my father who was sadly finishing up his plate of Alpo.
“Why don’t we talk and laugh and tell about the day’s activities like the families on TV do? Those fathers always wear coats and ties to dinner, Dad,” Luke said.
“Can you see me trying to set nets in a storm wearing a coat and tie, Luke? Besides, those aren’t real fathers. They’re Hollywood fruitcakes.”
“But they’re always happy at dinner,” Luke insisted.
“You’d be happy too if you had a couple of million smacks socked away in the old safety deposit box,” Dad said, finishing his meal with an animal belch of pure satisfaction. “Now, that hit the old spoteroo, Lila. Just remember, you’re cooking for an American, not a Frog.”
“I could deep-fat-fry rocks and you’d gulp them down like a black-bottom hog, Henry. But I’m also trying to educate these children in the ways of the world. And I’m trying to improve myself at the same time. I’m looking for the right recipe, the one that will impress those members of the Colleton League who’ve been voting me down. So I’m going to experiment with food until I come up with something so original that it’ll make all of them realize I’d be an asset to their organization.”
Dad looked directly at my mother and said the words that had never been said around our table: “Honey, they ain’t never gonna let you in no Collet
on League. Don’t you know that by now? They have a Colleton League just so they can keep people like you out of it. You can cook all the food in France and Italy and cook the living hell out of it and they still aren’t going to let you in. It’s better that you hear it from me than from them. It’s just the plain facts you’ve got to be facing.”
“Don’t even bother to send them a recipe, Mom,” I said. “Please, Mom, Dad’s right.”
Savannah said softly, “Mom, why are you even trying to help those ladies in the Colleton League out by sending them a recipe? All they do is hurt your feelings.”
“Your feelings can be hurt only if you allow people to hurt them,” she said proudly. “I know that I’m just as good as every one of those women, and deep down inside they know it too. In my own quiet way, I contribute to this town as much as any of them. But Rome wasn’t built in a day. They’ve had advantages I’ve never had. But I make full use of the resources at hand. I’ll get in the League some day. There’s no doubt about that.”
“But why do you want to join, Mama?” Savannah asked. “I wouldn’t want to be in a club that didn’t want me.”
“They want me,” she said. “They just don’t know it yet.”
My father rose from the table and said, “You don’t have a Chinaman’s chance in hell to get in the Colleton League, Lila. And it’s because of me, darling, not you.”
“Yes, I know, Henry,” my mother said, disregarding his rare note of grace. “You’re certainly not what I’d call an asset.”
For the rest of the summer she concentrated on working with materials native to the lowcountry. Her powers of concentration were astonishing and heroic. She cooked chicken ten different ways and each variation seemed like the creation of a new bird beneath my mother’s attentive hands. Whenever Dad complained, he finished the meal with Alpo and rice, but even that entree improved with time. She did magic things with pork and changed the way I looked at the flesh of pigs forever. If she had published her recipe for pit barbecue, it would have altered the quality of life in the South as we knew it. But barbecue was indissolubly linked to her past and she eliminated it from contention as too simple and pedestrian. We had family arguments over which recipe should be chosen to send to the ladies of the Colleton League. She fixed a shrimp mousse that I thought was the finest thing I had ever put in my mouth. Savannah favored a bouillabaisse my mother had concocted from a day’s catch on the shrimp boat. My father remained loyal to her fried chicken. It was as happy a summer as my family would ever have. Even when Joop died, there was a sweetness to his passing, an easiness in the way we cried, a quiet beauty to his burial. We found him dead on his chair and we decorated the box we made for him with photographs of Joop and all of us together, from the time Joop was a puppy to the last year of his life. He had always been with us and he represented the best part of us, the part that could love without recompense or expectation. We buried him by our stillborn brothers and sisters and we buried him with two cans of Alpo to help him along the journey and to let anyone know who disturbed his bones that Joop was a dog tenderly cared for by a family who loved him well.