I love chicken and dumplings. Living and traveling in the south you learn about comfort foods. Biscuits the size of a softball and the weight of a feather. Slathered with butter that someone just churned out back. We found a ramshackled little dinner in Tennessee. Warped floorboards that made you dizzy walking on them.
Mom and daughter doing the cooking and waiting. Big smile when you walked in the door. ” Here’s the menu. Biscuits in the oven. Ready in five. Here’s the coffee. I’ll get your tea in a minute . Haven’t seen you in a long time .” This a year after the first visit. Friends we brought in were amazed ” She remembered you from a year ago?” “ Guess so.”
The tray comes in covered with a large linen napkin to keep the biscuits from floating away. The rest of the meal just a distant memory. Overshadowed by the biscuits. Same biscuits for biscuits and gravy. The taste and texture beyond my ability to describe. You’ve either had it or you haven’t.
Down to Georgia. Seems like we kinda gravitated to the ugliest buildings to find the best food. Walk in the door and there’s Aunt Jemima . In all her glory. I don’t know if you can use her name anymore, so go ahead and leave it blank if you want . Fried chicken with a crispy crackling skin covering the juiciest, most tender chicken you’ve ever tasted. And grits. I always thought I hated grits. No more!!! I just never knew what they really were.
All this is prelude to let you know that I know what comfort food is. And what it isn’t. Fast forward an eon or two. Ran into an old friend from the traveling days. “ C’mon over for dinner. I’m making chicken and dumplings. “ Yeah. Don’t have to ask twice.
The long awaited time finally creeps forward. Here we are. Beer glasses put aside. Salad and decent soup warming up the taste buds. It’s been a long time eating regular food. Ready for the piece de la resistance. That’s French for the good stuff. As my friend is carrying the pot the aroma steams its way to my nose. Salivating as I wait. My brain travels back to what it expected. It compares what it knew to what it now smells. A loud disconnect. That’s not what I thought it was supposed to be says my brain. Oh my goodness. This is awful. I mean AWFUL !!!
The limits of friendship tested. We eat and do the appropriate ooohs and ahhhs , nodding according to custom. Cordials, conversation and compliments precede the hugs and handshakes. Finally leave and I have a lump in my gut. Not just from the gustatory disappointment. An actual lump.
The next morning as I was desperately trying to dump the ling, I imagined the process I had been subjected to. No matter how well you chewed this golf ball sized and textured lump, it was going to travel its way to a previously determined spot in your digestive tract and reassemble itself into a gigundous blockade to keep everything away from the intended path.
I will spare you a description of the huffing and puffing and grunting and groaning that ensued. You all know that my stories always have a happy ending. This one did too. Finally . The moral of the story is simply this. Friends are worth keeping no matter what. Memories sometimes fool us into thinking they are superior to reality. I said sometimes, not always. And sometimes push does come to shove. Hope that’s not too subtle.
Fred
