For Heaven's Sake!

I clicked the wrong click, and clicked out of my last post before it was finished. I MUST evaluate the fried catfish. I grew up eating fried catfish, fresh catfish that my grandfather caught and froze in paper Foremost milk cartons full of the water in which the fish lived. My grandmother had some sort of secret recipe for frying the fish - my mother says that she soaked the fish in milk before coating it in corn meal and frying it in either lard or Crisco. However she cooked it, I will never forget the taste of that fish, and was thoroughly spoiled by it, so that when people say, "So-and-So has the BEST catfish!," I smile smugly to myself. Grandma's catfish was the best. As I have grown older, however, I have recognized that no one can fix Grandma's catfish, and so if I want to eat catfish, I will have to try other, inferior cooks' versions. So far, by far, Fred's Fish House in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas, has held the crown. I tried the fried catfish at The Fish House in Conway, Arkansas, and found it pleasing, the hush puppies addictive, and the brown, soupy pinto beans delicious, but Fred's coating was still the lightest and most crisp. So when we went to Oxford, where Taylor Grocery was heralded as the best by locals and tourists alike, I had to go and pronounce it good, great, or passable. It was very good. The cornmeal coating was light and crispy, but I needed to add a little salt. The hush puppies were probably, in all fairness, better than Fred's or The Fish House's, because they had just a little bite, probably from a smidgin of cayenne pepper. Taylor Grocery's atmosphere was far superior to either Fred's or The Fish House, because I confess that I believe most meals are made better with the addition of a glass of wine, or the the menu demands, a bottle of beer. Also, I enjoyed the crowd at Taylor, all of whom were raucous, lively, and happy. Fred's customer base is quieter, and Fred's is most crowded on Sunday around noon when all the churches let out. No one is raucous after church! My visit to The Fish House came on a Saturday afternoon, when most of the lunch crowd was gone and our waitress had definitely earned time to sit rather than wait on yet another table. So I cannot determine the best. I prefer the crust on Fred's fish, the pinto beans at The Fish House, and the hush puppies, ambience, and ability to imbibe at Taylor Grocery. Perhaps, just perhaps, the answer lies in yet another trip to each!

Catfish Heaven

On my little jaunt to Oxford, Mississippi, I indulged in one of my secret food faves: eating fried anything! We went to dinner at a little old storefront that once served as a grocery store, and now functions as one of Oxford's most well-known foodie haunts: Taylor Grocery.

Taylor Grocery is not a fancy place; it is a fun place where good ol' boys and girls sit around and eat fried catfish and French fries and hush puppies, and where a couple of guys play old time country music and 1970s rock on acoustic guitars and take the diners' tips as their pay. They get food, too, which is a really good reason to play music there. The high section of the walls of Taylor Grocery are covered with names of people who have been there to eat. In fact, as we read some of the names, one of my traveling companions found someone whose first name as inscribed on the wall was the same as her maiden name - Senn. Coincidentally, the restaurant's floor is vaguely reminiscent of the floor of Senn 5 & 10 in our home town - old, well-worn, distressed wood planks - and the smell, other than the wonderful aroma of cooking catfish, was also that of an old, well-used building.

Lining the shelves on the lower part of the walls are rows and rows of ingredients and condiments that will eventually be used to make cole slaw, hot sauce, wonderfully soggy green beans, and other delectable treats that, though I have not lived in the Ozark hills for 40 years, are still as much a part of me as my right arm. I knew by looking at those shelves that the cole slaw was mayonnaise-based rather than hot vinegar-based; I haven't ever seen so many plastic gallon-jars of Kraft mayo in one place!

Most important, most diners had plastic glasses, the 24-oz. opaque kind that a fan gets at a college football game, and they were full of what fans drink at college football games. Apparently, the liquor laws in the State of Mississippi are as weird as they are in Arkansas: some counties are "dry" and some are "wet." Some cities are "wet" while the county in which they are located are "dry." Such is the case in Lafayette (pronounced luh-FAY-ut) County, Mississippi. According to our waitress, as long as the liquor can't be seen, we were free to enjoy a glass of wine with our meal. I didn't know that rule when I sat down, and I was somewhat disconcerted when the owner of the joint strode over to our table and covered our lovely wine bottle with an old paper sack, the one in which we spirited the juice of the grape into the restaurant.

Atmosphere aside, however, the food was great. I rarely give myself permission to eat something that comes out of a deep fat fryer, but when my two companions and I decided what to order, they chose the grilled catfish and the blackened, which left me with (sigh) fried fillets. The fish came with hush puppies, and I ate green beans, which were cooked the only decent Southern way green beans should be cooked: with bacon, onions, and garlic. We shared the other kinds of fish, but all agreed that the fried was the way to go.

Oxford is a great place to visit!

A week or so ago, I struck out for Oxford, Mississippi, to see what the town was like. Home to Ole Miss and Rowan Oak, which is William Faulkner's home, Oxford is a delightful town around the same size as Sedalia, but with a thriving downtown square that hosts several restaurants, local shops, and a two-story bookstore that sponsors book signings and author lectures. In fact, the weekend I visited, the sole surviving Faulkner was scheduled to talk about her new book, which she had written about the family and the lovely old home that is Rowan Oak. I will detail my visit to Oxford more thoroughly in my article for 417 Magazine, which will be published later this year, but suffice to say here that I stayed in a lovely hotel, ate lots of good food, shopped 'til I dropped, saw the building where James Meredith was housed at the University of Mississippi when the Universtiy was integrated, and enjoyed the gentility of southern manners for an entire weekend. Go there. You'll have a good time.

Spring Break and Oxford

I am excited because today is my last day in class before spring break, and I leave this afternoon to start a long weekend in Oxford, Mississippi. I will be writing a travel article about what Oxford has to offer, and I have heard already from one of my travel companions that Oxford offers catfish. Wherever this place is will have to work hard to compete with or beat Fred's Fish House in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas, but I am willing to give it a try AND be fair in my assessment.

I am traveling with my "oldest" friend, who has known me from the time we were in diapers, and my "oldest" friend from the newest part of my life - the part in Sedalia. I know the two will get along famously, and that we will have a good time.

At this point, I plan to write about the literary part of Oxford, which includes a very old book store, John Grisham, and most important, William Faulkner; however, I cannot leave food and drink out of the mix. I will be eating three meals a day, which will add inches to my waistline, I am sure, but what the heck? It's all for my fledgling writing career! Inches cannot be a deterrent!

Our plan is to trek down south toward my home town, Thayer, Missouri; then toward Memphis; and then into Oxford. We will be staying at an Oxford institution, and exploring the square. The funny thing about Oxford is that it is about the size of Sedalia - about 20,000 people. The University, I have read, doubles the size of the town to about 38,000. What is most interesting about that factoid is that Oxford has a town square that is vital and booming, whereas Sedalia has to fight to keep people downtown.

I have also read that Oxford has been rated a great place to retire. While I am not ready to retire (am I'm not sure I ever will be), I will be looking around to gauge the general age of the population. I wonder if I will find a pocket of young people (students) and a pocket of people older than I (retirees)? "Let it be a mystery. . ." (Up the Down Staircase).

The South has some fabulous old homes and wonderful gardens, and I hope that this week's warmer temperatures will let us have a beautiful trip as well as a tasty one! I will let you know what I find.

Is it possible? Spring is almost here!

I hate to continue talking about the weather, but this past winter has been extremely, well, extreme. I admit to having enjoyed the snow, especially on the days when Max and I couldn't get out of the house. I felt somewhat like Laura and Mary in the Little House series; when I read those books, especially the ones that dealt with winter, I wondered what it would be like to see nothing but snow for such a long time. This year, I found out!

Then after the snows, I felt as if I would be permanently depressed because of the cold, damp, gray air that pushed through even the warmth of the "growing and framing" fire in the fireplace. I have been looking fervently and with dedication for the signs that erupt to comfort me every year, telling me that the long winter will soon be over: budding grape hyacinths, brilliant yellow forsythia's wildly waving arms, pink spears that push up through the vinca and mulch to become pink and white peonies, tips of pointy green variegated leaves leading the way for the coral tulips to herald Easter's coming yet again. The signs, though, have so far remained hidden.

And then yesterday, when the sun was out and the air was warm and welcoming, I saw one of the signs - not one I was looking for, but one that nevertheless told me that spring was going to be here soon. I saw weeds - flowering weeds. Even that made me happy! And then I looked a little more closely and saw the tulip leaves, and a lump in the ground that portends sweet-smelling hyacinths. The peonies are still underground, but I know they are there. I can wait for a while.

Spring and Easter remind me of each other. They signify resurrection and rebirth after a long and dreary winter, and a resurgence of hope for the sore human heart.

So now, I wait somewhat impatiently for what I know is to come, and hope that I will enjoy every bit of it when it arrives.

The Deaf Man

I am a big fan of Evan Hunter a/k/a Ed McBain, and his 87th Precinct books. Anyone who knows the series knows that Steve Carella's nemesis of sorts is the deaf man. And it appears that I, too, have a deaf man nemesis.

The Deaf Man has a house that is literally falling down around his head. And he is literally deaf. From what I can tell, he has lived in the house all his life. His parents lived there, he grew up there, and he lives there now. I think he may have siblings, but I don't know where they are. He is older than I, I believe, so he probably had little formal education. My friend who is a deaf ed teacher tells me that he probably doesn't have a vocabulary much past third or fourth grade, because "back in the old days," schools didn't provide an education for deaf people.

He is my nemesis because I don't know what to do about him and his house. The law says that he has to bring his house up to code, but the City is now saying that the house is uninhabitable. That means that the house, the one with trees and bushes growing up through the porch roof, the one with holes in the roof, the one with plants climbing up the walls so that the house looks like an apparition in a Disney movie, will be condemned and torn down. And that will leave the deaf man homeless.

Services for senior citizens in the county will provide him with a place to live, but he is not a social being. I don't know if he has ever held a job. He does not drive. He dons heavy down-filled, shearling-lined clothing and goggles and rides a bicycle all over town. I don't know if he has meaningful exchanges with anyone. When we mention finding a new place to live, he becomes not only defensive, but belligerent.

I don't know where he eats. I don't know if his place has running water. All I know is that this is his home, and it is the only place he knows and has ever lived. Senior services cannot take the place of the comfort, safety, and familiarity of home.

And so, he stands in front of me, defiant, angry, and I know, frightened. All he has is endangered. The life he knows teeters on the edge. What next?

The deaf man.

White outside

Just when I thought winter was on its last legs toward a slow crawl toward spring - after all, February is only 28 days - we were hit with what is, for me, the storm of my life so far. I believe the ground is covered with at least 18 inches of pure white snow. Our driveway is lost, as is the sidewalk leading to the front door.

I hope that Mr. Bentley, who is a consistent defendant but not a "frequent flier," will show up today to help Max shovel. I have no idea where we will put the snow, but the most difficult and most important place to clear is where the driveway meets the street. The snowplow does its job, but leaves a HUGE pile of snow that no car in this garage can get over. As long as that ridge is there, no one in this house is going anywhere. Period.

This will be my third consecutive day of slugdom. Yesterday, I made cookies and took a short nap and watched the snow pouring down and sat in a leather chair by the fire and watched the fire burn, watched Law and Order - you get the idea. Today will have to be a little more productive so that I can come back to life as life comes back to me. I plan to clean the house a little, make sure that I have all my papers graded, and do some planning for Max's 60th birthday, which arrives one week before Emily's graduation.

I wonder if I will be tired of the solitude and of these four walls by the end of today. Probably not. They are more attractive than the alternative, which is to be out. Yesterday, as I was trying to go to the store early in the morning, I became stuck in the snow on the highway twice. I was pretty terrified, as only a couple of people stopped to help and the tail end of the car kept sweeping over into the next lane, where 18-wheelers were barreling toward me. They, of course, cannot stop quick in an emergency, and I hoped to stay out of their way. It was not such a good thing.

Off to downstairs to build yet another fire with wonderful firewood, and to begin to enjoy another day of doing nothing.