I speak Southern Food

I'm pretty sure that Food is the unofficial language of the South. Anyone born, raised or even transplanted here learns that quickly. There are certain dishes for certain events. And, believe me, nothing is an event without food. Corporations like to think they invented the "lunch meeting." Obviously, they had never been to a Methodist church meeting. Lots of business discussed, and even more food eaten. 

The first example of Southern Food speaking is when you show up at a Southern home. Invited, uninvited, or possibly even just stopping at a wrong address, you will be offered food and drink. God forbid you turn it down. This food says, "My mother would roll over in her grave if I did not offer you something, and besides that, you're a guest, and guests are like family we don't live with.

A typical conversation in my Mother's kitchen. 

"Oh, honey, don't you want something to drink? I have some cheese and crackers, too. Let me get those." 

"Oh, no. I'm fine, Joan. I had lunch before I came."

"Oh, okay. Just let me get you a little bit then."
"No, really, I'm fine."

"All right. Do you want a sandwich then?"

The food will keep getting bigger. If you keep resisting, you'll find yourself eating a whole turkey and have no memory of how it happened. I think my husband just married me to get family status, so he'd just have to get his own stuff out of the fridge when he wanted it, and not have the Southern Inquisition every time he came in the door. Little did he know that as a son-in-law, and the skinniest of us all, he'd become the victim of, "Well, I can't hold another bite. Here, Chad, eat this."

Southern food cannot be mentioned without the word "potluck." These mish-mashed, buffet wonders bring out the major leagues of food. As a child, you're exempt from bringing, so it's a right of passage when you get your first crock pot, your first 9x13 Pyrex casserole dish, and your first church cookbook. After that, you better not show up empty-handed. Even those who cannot cook have assigned duties. "Melba's daughter burns everything, so just tell her to bring drinks. Lord, if we ask Judy to cook something, she'll make that awful chicken stuff with the sauce. Tell her kids love chicken nuggets and to just pick some up from McDonalds. Tell Roy to bring ice."  

That buffet says, "We're a family, of sorts. We may not see eye to eye, not all the time. But, we're here together, we're breaking bread together, and we're sharing of ourselves. Even if I am trying to pass off a bucket of KFC as my own by throwing it in a monogrammed casserole dish. Listen, I forgot about the potluck until an hour ago, okay? Cut me some slack. We're family. And, at least I didn't make that chicken thing Judy makes. So, eat the KFC and pretend you don't know what it is. That's what family does."

But, despite wonderful memories of casseroles, itty-bitty ham biscuits and loads of fluffy, mashed potatoes, there's another side of the Southern Food language. The language of sympathy, of love and of caring. That's when the casseroles come out full tilt: illness and death.

When my Dad went into the hospital that last time, the food came out in droves. "We are so sorry about your Daddy,"the friends and family said. "We love you, our hearts are broken, and this is all we can think to do," the food said. "We're so worried about your Mama," it said. Dear friends delivered a Christmas Eve feast to his hospital room. They told us it was just weird to not have us over that night, as was our usual tradition. But, the food said, "We know this has to be the worst Christmas ever, and we couldn't stand the thought of you eating in a cafeteria. This is how we can show you we love you. We know this is probably the last thing we will get to do for your Daddy, and we know he loves to eat. So, take this, and enjoy your time with him, and know our hearts are tied in knots."

A sandwich that took me 5 hours to eat said, "I know the end is near with him, and you're too scared to leave his side to even get a super fast lunch." 

And, then, my niece's favorite tradition, funeral food. She was amazed (Sydney-born urbanite that she is), that the neighbors and friends showed up in droves, and all brought food. She totally understood the immediate, and beautiful language of Southern Food. "We've never even met you guys, or haven't seen you in 10 years, but we love your family, so we love you. We can't bring your wonderful grandfather back. But, here's something we made, in our homes. It's full of love, calories, cheese and prayers. It's all we can do. Keep the dish."

Our hearts and our fridges overflowed with casseroles and love. We spoke the language as well, as we sent folks home with plates of the food others had made us, if only to make room in the fridge for the next round. We told them, "here, you don't have to even cook tonight, we have plenty." But, the food told them, "You've spent an entire night over here, having your kids entertain my brother's kids. Keeping our mind off the fact that we'll never see him walk in the door again. This is all my scrambled brain can even think to do."  

And, in one case, "You seriously just helped me pour my father's ashes into an urn in the kitchen sink and we managed not to spill any. You are totally taking a cheesecake home."

So, the next time you're in my house, and I offer you a drink, know a few things:

a. You better take it, next comes the food.

b. Seriously, you'll wind up with a whole turkey. And the only one I have isn't even thawed.

c. We lined the sink with towels before the urn thing. Don't worry. I didn't wash your dish in a sink that might have had microscopic ash residue. Besides, we didn't spill any. I promise.