My Granny

My paternal grandmother is probably the most influential Kentucky woman in my life.  For that matter, she's on the short list of the most influential people in my life.  She likes to have things her way, but then again, so do I. She's very emphatic in her opinions on food, basketball, politics and religion; Lord knows I am, too. I once described the two of us as a "hillbilly version of Lady Mary and the Dowager Countess." There's an image I can't take back, but it's not exactly wrong.

My granny is one of the strongest people I know. She taught first grade for 43 years. Literally, half our county owes their literacy to her. She's outlived her husband, her parents, and all five of her siblings. She's 87 years old, and while she doesn't move quite as fast as she used to, she still keeps her kids and grandkids in line with the precision of a drill sergeant.

I've written about my granny many times. I've written about her belief that "everybody who's anybody owns a set of Blue Willow dishes."  I've written about her unshakeable belief in family. But, most of all, I've written about her quilts. They aren't a hobby or a home accessory. They're works of art.

My grandparents with my father and aunt. Easter, 1950s

As we celebrate Women's History Month here on HerKentucky, I first thought that I'd give y'all a break from more essays about my grandmother. I just couldn't do it, though. The older I get, the more I realize that she has left perhaps the most indelible impression on my life. She truly is amazing, if at times infuriating and headstrong. (I, of course, have never once been called those things. Ever...)

My grandparents receiving degrees from EKU, 1961.

As I get older, I find so many ways that my grandmother has influenced me. Nobody else in the world can make cornbread properly. Only her recipe, which involves instructions like "the amount of baking soda that fits on the first knuckle of your first three fingers", is worth eating.  I sure do love blue-and-white dishes. And, while I've said time and again that I'm finally going to finish a quilt, this time I mean it. I have a family legacy to uphold.

Can I Get a Y'all-alujah?

 HerKentucky is thrilled to welcome our newest contributor -- my friend and sorority sister Erin Smallwood Wathen. Erin is a London, KY native and an alumna of Transylvania University and Lexington Theological Seminary. Erin and her husband live in Arizona with their two small children and their dog named Van Halen. Erin is the Senior Pastor of Foothills Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) in north Phoenix. Erin's  blog, Irreverin (Facebook her here) is featured as part of  the Progressive Christian Network on Patheos; her reflections on faith, family and pop culture always keep me entertained! -- HCW

I live in the midst of an amazing desert landscape. Trails from my backyard lead into the foothills of the Sonoran Mountains. Their silhouette defines the north horizon, and depending on season and time of day, they range in color from blue to brown to green, sometimes even pink. The giant saguaro cacti lift their hands in praise each morning. Most days of the year, the sky shimmers an aching, iridescent blue that your eyes can scarcely take in. It provides a backdrop for the twice daily hot air balloon shows that we enjoy from our patio. Meanwhile, the sacred smell of the scarce rain defies description. And don’t get me started on our rainbows.  Like God got a new set of magic markers and took up the spirit of a 3-year-old for the day. 

And the moon and stars that live over my house? I’m sorry, but they’re better than yours. They really are.

All this is true.  But y’all…some days I need some green grass so badly that I almost wish I played golf. (out here in PGA land, they somehow manage to find water enough for rainforest-like turf, even in the dead-ass middle of summer). Some days, I want to see fall color so badly that my family will pile in the car and drive two hours north. Some days, I want to order a biscuit and know that it did not come from the freezer. Some days, I need to say ‘y’all’ and not have it be a thing. You know?

Of course you know. You are Kentucky women. You know what it is to love a place and have it be a part of you. You might even know what it is to leave such a place. And if you know what it is to leave, then you also know what it means to take it with you.

There is, of course, much that I miss about my old Kentucky home. Beyond the biscuits and the four distinct seasons, I also miss a world in which people know (and care about) their neighbors. And I certainly miss life where people know what’s what about a certain spirit that comes from a barrel. True story: my husband and I were in a nice restaurant and we asked our server for the top shelf bourbon selection. And—I swear to God, ladies—he tried to offer us a ‘wonderful Crown Royal blend…’ (sigh). We had to learn him something about bourbon right then and there. But at least we tip well…

ANYway…I miss the place on the map where such things need not be explained. But what I’ve found in my wilderness wandering years is this: for all that I miss and even mourn about my homescape, most of what really matters is that which I’ve brought with me. And I don’t just mean an old Southern Living cook book and my grandmother’s end tables. I don’t even mean the ‘y’all’ that occasionally comes from my pulpit—unbidden and unplanned as though brought forth by the Holy Spirit. 

While my literal Kentucky accent has certainly rolled with me for this whole journey, what I really brought with me was a certain kind of voice. It is a voice that you can hear in my preaching, in my writing, and in my everyday encounters. It bears a ‘charm and disarm’ quality that allows me to say things preachers can’t always say (like, ‘yes, Jesus loves gay people. And in fact, if the church had more of them, we would have better decorations and better music—choreography, even!). It also tells the world that I’ve got just enough redneck lurking right beneath the surface, so perhaps you don’t want to mess with me.

It’s a voice that speaks the truth even when the truth is not pretty—and while I know many prophetic preachers and powerful parents who can speak the truth in love, my brand of gospel is uniquely Kentucky. It bears the tones of Wendell Berry and Loretta Lynn, echoes of Silas House and my own grandparents. And I’m pretty sure that, like Moses, I had to leave home and head out to the wilderness in order to really hear it. 

On my frequent sojourns in the desert, I take in the stark beauty of this landscape. For all its barrenness, it is a stunning and deeply spiritual place. But in my heart of hearts, I know that I brought that wilderness voice with me. It keeps me rooted for the roaming, and calls me to speak, to preach, to write the world’s truth, as it was and is to come. It is a gospel that both moves and shapes me; it grounds me and keeps me moving, all at the same time. And you’d better believe, that good news is for not just some of us, but for y’all.

Valentine's Day Karaoke?

How does your family celebrate Valentine's Day? I admit that I'm not one for chocolates, flowers or jewelry. This, reportedly, is one of my husband's favorite things about me. Instead of the Hallmark cards, the fancy dinners and the declarations of undying love, this is how my family celebrates Valentine's Day.

 

Yes. We are different, even a little weird sometimes. We have started a tradition of having a karaoke party in celebration of Valentine's Day. Don't ask how we got started, or why the party pictures above had an Adult Prom theme to it, but there's just about nothing my family loves to do more than sing. Some of us are very, very good at it. Others, like me, can't carry a tune in a bucket but love to sing.

Every year, we rent a sound system from the Doo Wop Shop, my uncle brings his fancy karaoke machine and microphones and we all take turns singing our favorites and hogging the mic. 

Nothing says love like singing "Family Tradition" with your dad and uncles, right?

A Caney Creek Christmas Tree: Alice Lloyd College Ornaments

Alice Lloyd College is a very special place for my family. The College has been a part of my family for generations. So many of my relatives can thank ALC for their education and their career path. It's truly an amazing, one-of-a-kind school.

Every year, ALC sends little presents out to all its alumni. These gifts are  work-study projects for ALC students. These ornaments are some of the "Caney presents" we've collected over the years. The ornaments are actually marked with name, class, and major of the student who made them. What a wonderful reminder that, after all these years, Alice Lloyd College is carrying out the mission of the great lady who founded the school!

Did Somebody Say Jello?

It's just not a southern holiday until somebody makes something with Jello.

Like Megan, I am blessed to have grown up with a grandmother who's an amazing cook. As my granny has gotten older, however, she hasn't been able to cook like she once did. She still quilts like a boss, but she's no longer able to cook.

This year, she asked for my help in making her cranberry salad. This concoction has three packs of Jello, and is the most Thanksgiving-y thing around. There aren't many of us who actually eat it, but it wouldn't be Thanksgiving without this dish on the table.

Nan's Cranberry Jello Salad
3 packs strawberry Jello (cherry works, too.)
1 cup sugar
3.5 cups hot water
1 Red Delicious apple, peeled and diced
Zest and juice of 1 orange
1 cup pecans
1 can whole berry cranberry sauce
1 can crushed pineapple (use the juice, too!)

Mix together Jello and sugar in large bowl. Pour in water and allow to thicken slightly. Stir in other ingredients and pour in flat-bottomed dish. Let chill overnight.

Boom. Thanksgiving in a dish.

Summer Vegetables

Garden-fresh vegetables are the quintessential summer food. You can keep your barbecue, your ice cream, or your picnic fare. Where I come from, it's not summer without fresh green beans, corn and tomatoes.

Now, a few years back, a best-selling book was based on the premise that you shouldn't eat anything that your grandmother wouldn't recognize. The rest of the year, I can't get enough sushi or Indian food. I slavishly replicate the signature French dishes that made Julia and Ina famous, and I've developed a bit of a specialty in making Cajun dishes. But, in the summer, I find myself cooking the exact same simple country meals that my grandmother has always made, using the very same varietals that she's been growing for six decades or so. Fried chicken, white half runner green beans and silver queen corn, with a crudité plate of cucumbers, beefy red tomatoes and green onions. You don't question it. You just serve it.

Growing up in a small Eastern Kentucky town, I just assumed that everyone had access to garden vegetables all summer long. My grandparents had a huge, bountiful garden. We're talking "rent a mule to plow it" huge. My uncle now plants a similar garden every year, providing us all with more vegetables than we could possibly eat, can, or freeze. I guess I'll always be a country girl at heart; I take for granted that, no matter where I live, this summer harvest will be available. I laughingly refer to my family as my own personal CSA because it seems that, all summer long, somebody is always bringing me more veggies than I could ever use. A few years ago, I memorably asked my grandmother to send me a few tomatoes. The following weekend, she sent my parents to Lexington with seventy-six!

Food, summer, and small-town life will always be interconnected for me because of my family's commitment to gardening. My grandmother, the queen of the subtle nuances between varietals, has a network of friends from whom she purchases certain vegetables that we can't quite get to grow or which we need in mass quantities for preserving purposes. Growing up, I thought that everybody had a "corn man"; ours is named Maurice. (Our "raspberry lady", who recently passed away, was named Dottie.) It was a fascinating little microcosm to observe -- my granny and her friends had been trading for so long that they no longer even had to ask questions or call ahead, they just showed up when they had a crop to sell. It was a dramatic representation of the "grandmother foods" foodie manifesto, and a powerful lesson in community.

These days, I find that my hometown is starting to show signs of the foodie-fication that has swept America in recent years. A recent trip to the Prestonsburg Food City yielded Voss Water (in the coveted glass bottles, no less!) and organic quinoa. (Try to say that in a thick Appalachian accent. I dare you!) The same day, I even found Arencita Rossa at the Wal-Mart. Now, I'll never complain about this kind of diversity, since I never met a pretentious food I didn't like. I found it far odder, though, when I saw a sign for the Floyd County Farmers' Market. We've always had roadside produce stands, but never something this centralized. It's definitely more yuppie and "citified" than we could have imagined even a decade ago. You may see farmers' markets all over cities like Lexington or Louisville, but it seemed somehow out of step in a small rural town. While it's a far cry from the house calls that Maurice makes, it's simply a new way of keeping "grandmother foods" and the farming community alive.

Ultimately, though, it doesn't matter if you're serving your green beans with quinoa or cornbread. It's largely immaterial if you grow your crops yourself, buy them from your corn man, or visit your local farmers' market. Your tomatoes can be a straightforward red fruit or a pricey, multicolored heirloom, and your corn can be the even hue of Silver Queen or the mixed kernels of Peaches and Cream. Farm-fresh Kentucky vegetables will always be the taste of summer.