This recipe is from Annie’s sister, Sally, who got it from her mother-in-law, Mary Helen, who got it from her mother-in-law, Azzie Quelda.
Sally and her husband, Frank, live in Suffolk, Virginia. According to Frank, Suffolk is the peanut capital of the world. I did a little research to confirm his claim, and found that in addition to Suffolk, Ashburn, Georgia, Blakely, Georgia, and Dothan, Alabama, make the same claim. So, who’s right?
I don’t know.
But I can tell you that Frank is somewhat famous for his outrageous claims.
Frank wanted to know what I was writing about him in my new book. When I said I wasn’t putting him in, he got right huffy about it. He said he expected better. “I’m your brother-in-law,” he said, as if that was somehow relevant. He said he didn’t care what I wrote about him, but he wanted some coverage, something to point out to all of his friends to show them how important he is, something grand and “eloquacious.” Well, I had to tell him I didn’t know anything grand and “eloquacious” about him.
“Just make it up!” he said. “Most of the stuff you write is made up. Just make me sound important.”
So, I decided I’d do just that for good old Frank, but now, thinking about it, I realize that having just told you what-all he said, you wouldn’t believe anything I wrote about him. So, why bother?
Sorry, Frank.
AUNT SALLY’S CORN PUDDING (via MARY HELEN via AZZIE QUELDA)
Serves 4
Ingredients

5 eggs
1 can (15 oz.) creamed style corn
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 tablespoons butter, melted
1½ cups milk

Preheat oven to 350º.

In a medium bowl, beat eggs until fluffy. Add remaining ingredients and fold in. Pour corn mixture into a 9″ x 9″ buttered baking dish and bake for 1 hour or until browned on top, bubbling, and not too soupy.

My traveling friends, Jim and Larry, are a mess–two geezers suffering from enlarged prostates, early-onset deafness, terminal forgetfulness, and insufferable Southern stereotyping. When we travel together, Jim asks a constant stream of questions no normal human could answer while Larry looks for stuff he’s misplaced. That’s mostly what we do.

A typical conversation:

Jim: When will the sun burn out?

Sam: I don’t know.

Larry: Has anybody seen my wallet?

Sam: No.

Jim: What did you say? I have to pee. When do Monarch butterflies start their migration south?

Sam: I don’t know.

Larry: I have to pee, too. Has anybody seen my keys?

Sam: No.

Jim: Do all Southern cops wear those mirrored-sunglasses?

Sam: I don’t know.

Jim: Didn’t you grow up in the South? on a plantation?

Sam: No.

Jim: I’ve heard that there are speed traps all over the South. Is that right?

Sam: Probably no more than anywhere else.

Jim: But that’s what I heard.

Larry: I thought you grew up on a plantation. Where’d you grow up? I have to pee but I’ve got to find my keys first. Anybody seen my keys?

Sam: I grew up in Tennessee, but I didn’t grow up on a plantation. And no, I haven’t seen your keys.

That’s our normal conversation-not terribly enlightening, but what we give up in substance, we make up in consistency. We’re okay with it.

Occasionally, some event will alter the conversation and send us off on an unpredictable tangent. One year we traveled through Louisiana to a jazz festival in Natchitoches (pronounced “NAK a dish”):

Jim: How much further?

Sam: About 20 miles.

Larry: What’d you say?

Sam: 20 miles.

Jim: Why’d they name this place Natchitoches?

Sam: I don’t know.

Jim: I thought you were from the South.

Sam: I am.

Jim: Well then, why wouldn’t you know things like that?

Sam: Why did they name the Okanogan Valley the Okanogan Valley?

Jim: What?

Larry: Anybody see where I put my pen?

Sam: No.

Jim: Why do they pronounce it “NAK a dish”?

Sam: I don’t know.

Jim: I thought you were from the South.

Sam: I am. Why do they pronounce Puyallup “PEW al up”?

Jim: What?

That’s the way it was going as we drove from New Orleans to Natchitoches until I saw a red-flashing light in my rearview mirror.

Sam: Ah oh.

Jim: What?

Sam: Ah oh.

I pulled to the side of the road. A Louisiana State Trooper wearing mirrored-sunglasses came up to my window.

Sam: Yes, Officer?

Trooper: Got you on radar going 60 in a 55 zone.

Jim: What?

Sam: I thought the speed limit was 60.

Trooper: It was, but it ain’t right here.

Sam: Sorry, I didn’t see the sign.

Trooper: Lots of folks say that.

Jim: What?

Larry: I didn’t see a sign either. Where was it?

Trooper: Back a ways.

Jim: What?

Sam: Well, you goin’ to give me a ticket for goin’ just five miles over the limit?

Trooper: Sign says 55, not 55 or whatever you feel like.

Sam: Well, I guess I got no choice. But I don’t want this on my record so I was hoping you might…

Trooper: Won’t go on your record.

Jim: What?

Trooper: Won’t go on your record if you fill out this form, write out a check for $50, and send it in within ten days.

Sam: Sounds more like a toll than a fine if that’s all you gotta do.

Trooper: Call it what you like.

Sam: Okay then, I’ll send it in.

The Trooper filled out the form for me and gave me a postage-prepaid envelope to put it in along with my check for $50. He wandered off and we were on our way–an inconvenient incident but handled with respect and efficiency.

Jim: See, that was a speed trap.

Sam: Yep.

Jim: And that guy was wearing mirrored-sunglasses. I thought you said they didn’t?

Sam: That’s not what I said.

Larry: I gotta pee.

We drove a ways before Jim piped up again.

Jim: I’ve been thinking.

Sam: Ah oh.

Jim: You know how we split trip expenses three ways.

Sam: I’m aware of that.

Jim: You planning to make us share that fine you got?

Larry: Wasn’t a fine. I thought the fella said it was a toll.  We’d share a regular toll.

Sam: I won’t charge you guys. It was my fault. I didn’t see the sign.

Larry: But I didn’t either, so I don’t think you should have to pay it all.

Jim: But you weren’t driving. Sam was driving. Folks ridin’ don’t have to watch the signs. Not a rider’s responsibility.

Larry: Well, I think that was a speed trap. And I don’t think Sam could have avoided paying even if he’d seen the sign and slowed down. So I don’t think he ought to have to pay all of it. I think we should share it like any other trip expense.

Jim: Well, what if you bought a ten-pack of chewing gum at gas station and didn’t offer any to us. Would that be a trip expense?

Larry: No, that’d be personal.

Jim: Well, that’s my point.

Sam: What?

Annie the Dog is gone. She died last week. The vet said it was bone cancer. Said it was better she went quickly.

We miss her.

Annie the Dog, a beautiful Great Pyrenees with soulful eyes, was a loyal protector and a loving companion. Each morning, she was the first to greet me as I emerged from the house and headed for the barn. All she wanted was a pat on the head and a compliment. “You’re doing a nice job, Annie,” I’d say. “Thanks for protecting us from the coyotes, and cougars, and skunks, and pheasants.”

She’d wag her tail and trot off to run the fence line again–to make sure there were no intruders taking advantage of her short break.

Her brother, Sam the Dog, seems lost without her. He’s still roaming the pasture fences, the barn, the cottage porches, the holes they dug together around the foundation of our house, looking for her. Whenever Annie or I venture into the barnyard, he’s there now, looking up at us, asking if we’ve seen Annie the Dog anywhere. Unfortunately, we haven’t. And it’s hard getting used to the notion that we’ll never see her again.

We really miss her.

My Aunt Wiese made really good dinner rolls. I’ve eaten too many dinner rolls in my time, but these are my favorites–no contest.

WIESE’S BEST-EVER HOT ROLLS
Makes 24 large rolls

Ingredients

1 cup Crisco
½ cup sugar
1 cup boiling water
1 cup cold water
2 packages dry yeast
6 cups all purpose flour (not sifted)
1½ teaspoons kosher salt
2 eggs, beaten
½ cup melted butter

Mix Crisco and sugar together until smooth. Slowly add boiling water, stirring constantly. When Crisco and sugar are dissolved in the boiling water, add the cold water and stir. When the mixture is lukewarm, add the yeast. Stir to dissolve. Add flour, salt and beaten eggs. Mix well.

Wrap dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.

Preheat oven to 425°.

Roll dough out to one-half inch thickness. Cut with 2½” biscuit cutter. Place rolls on parchment paper on a sheet pan. Brush rolls with melted butter. Fold rolls in half. Brush with butter again. Place pan in a warm (not drafty) place and allow rolls to rise for 1½ to 2 hours. Bake on upper oven rack for 10 minutes (or until golden brown) rotating pan after 5 minutes.

Enjoy!

Our Say’s Phoebes are back. (I say “our” only by way of description. We lay no real claim to them.)

Since we built our barn back in 2005, they’ve nested in its rafters each year. They arrive mid-February (much earlier than the books say they will) and depart when I threaten to shoot them (an empty threat) in early September. By then, parents and chicks are flying around all over the place, pooping on everything in sight-the backs of our porch chairs, the porch lights on the cottage, the gate railing and its latch. The dogs are tired of chasing them. Even BC, the barn cat, has given up her quest to snatch one from the air while they’re mobbing her. So they’re free to poop wherever they like, unchallenged except by me and I’m no challenge.

They arrived yesterday-pink-breasted and feisty. The female is checking out nest sites, but will probably choose the same site she’s chosen every year, the rafter right above my car. You guessed it, more poop. The male spends the better part of his time pestering BC, trying to establish some ground rules before the babies are born-probably April. Both fly up and down the fence lines in the evening, driving the dogs crazy. It’s a little game they’ll play each night until whenever the dogs tire of it.

Annie and I are glad to see them.

When I was a kid, my Uncle Pete’s farm near Jackson, Tennessee, was better that Disneyland, near as I could figure things. It was as big as the world and fat with adventures. It was, and still is, a special place.

Today, the cornfield in front of the farmhouse is smaller than I remember it. Everything’s little-the farmhouse itself, the old red barn, Uncle Pete’s antique tractor, the falling-down chicken coop, Aunt Irma’s kitchen garden, the fenced pasture behind the house.

The cats are gone, along with the chickens and pigs. The yard’s quiet and still. Black Angus cows graze the hillside above the weed-choked pond. Granddaddy Jolley’s 1964 yellow Buick with the wide white sidewall tires is covered with a tarp, resting ghostly silent under a makeshift aluminum shed behind the barn. Like my Granddaddy McLeod, my Granddaddy Jolley liked driving a fine car. “Couldn’t bring ourselves to sell the thing,” Aunt Irma says. “You know how Grandy loved it. Still runs like a top.”

Mamie, the old black woman who lived with my aunt and uncle and took care of me when I visited as a child, died years ago. She was quite a lady. Her old room is full of worn-out furniture, faded photos in dusty frames, and unlabeled boxes full of who-knows-what.

“When did Mamie pass? I ask.

” ‘84,” Uncle Pete says.

“1985,” Aunt Irma corrects him.

“Close enough,” Uncle Pete says.

“Didn’t half know what to do with ourselves after she left us,” Aunt Irma adds. “She was a blessing when you boys were around.”

“She was a blessing all the time,” Uncle Pete corrects her.

“We’re even,” Aunt Irma says.

Uncle Pete smiles.

The farmhouse was restored back in the ′90’s, but not changed much. The “never-ending erection” (as Aunt Irma calls it) spanned several years.

Out on the porch, my rocking chair squeaks to the beat of the fan turning leisurely above my head. The porch’s bead-board ceiling is painted glossy blue to discourage wasps. A slight warm breeze stirs the pot-bound fern at the top of the steps. A faded-green plastic tub lies next to the fern, waiting on Aunt Irma to collect the lettuce and parsley that’s coming up in her garden. On the porch railing, there’s a clear-glass saltshaker fitted with a rusty metal cap. It’s nearly empty.

Bubba, a gangly puppy coonhound, is tugging at my pant leg trying to pull me out of my chair so I’ll throw his slobber-covered tennis ball again, but I’ve settled in, a mug of hot black coffee here on the table beside me, and I don’t plan to do a thing except sit for a while. Soak the place in.

Aunt Irma is nearly 90 years old. Uncle Pete’s 89. Irma gets around with the aid of a cane Uncle Pete carved from a hickory branch. She moves slowly but steadily from the kitchen where a pot of peeled potatoes simmers on the stove, to the porch to retrieve her vegetable-gathering tub, to the garden to pick salad greens, back to the kitchen to wash the greens, out to the porch again to check on me, around the side of the house to see whether Uncle Pete’s headed our way for lunch, and back into the kitchen to set the table. The boundaries of her domain are well-trodden.

I make like I’m getting up to help her, but only get half way out of my rocker before she waves me down. “Don’t need any help,” she warns. “I know how to do this.”

Uncle Pete wanders up from the barn and takes the rocker next to me, wiping his grimy hands on a grimier red rag.

“Tractor’s on its last legs,” he says, tossing Bubba’s ball into the yard.

That’s what he said 50 years ago.

“Think we should go in for lunch?” I ask.

“Nope,” says Uncle Pete. “Irma don’t like folks-particularly men–in her kitchen ’til she calls ‘em. Life’s better-tolerable if we stay put.”

Fine by me,” I say, “I’m developing a talent for sitting on this porch.”

“Yep,” says Uncle Pete. “Noticed that.”

Annie’s new filly arrived yesterday.

She’s a yearling (just 11 months old), has a lot of spunk, and is generally a cutie. She seems to be settling in with the other horses and has already let Yoda know that he’d be wise to stay out from under her feet.

Her registered name is “RPM’s Doublelicious.” Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it? That’s got Annie musing on other names–ones for everyday use. Thus far, she likes “Pepper” but is open to suggestions. So, if you’ve got a good idea for a name, let us know.

Best,
Sam

When you come to Walla Walla, save a Saturday or Sunday morning for a visit to the Colville Street Patisserie (corner of Colville and Alder). On weekends, they serve fabulous ham and cheese croissants and the best cinnamon buns you’ve ever eaten. Try a Financier or the Kouign Aman-sweet, buttery, and a bit salty. The coffee’s good and the homemade gelato will remind you of a sunny day on the Cinque Terre coast.

Take a friend or a good book and enjoy!

Okay, several of you have asked for my mother’s barbecue sauce recipe. Here it is. Makes my mouth water to think about it. Slather this sauce on barbecued chicken about 5 minutes before you take it off the grill.

COCO’S BARBECUE SAUCE
Makes 1 cup

Ingredients

1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
½ cup Italian parsley, finely chopped
2 tablespoons dark brown sugar
½ tablespoon prepared mustard
2 teaspoons kosher salt
dash cayenne powder
4 tablespoons fresh-squeezed lemon juice
2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
1 tablespoon Worcestershire Sauce
1 cup ketchup
½ cup water

In a small saucepan, sauté the onions in butter until translucent - about 10 minutes.
Add remaining ingredients and stir. Bring to a simmer and reduce by half. Adjust seasoning.

Enjoy!

I’m seated at the bulkhead–Seat 7B.

 I don’t know the definition of “bulkhead” from reading or study. I know it from cruel experience.

bulk’•head, n. - the partition of carpet-covered plastic and extruded aluminum on an airplane between rows six and seven that separates the have’s from the have-not’s but allows the have-not’s a clear view of their betters and the perks of sitting among the chosen few, including seats that sit ample American bottoms comfortably, adjustable headrests, generous servings assorted warm salted nuts (including pistachios), slivers of lemon garnishing tomato juice served in glasses made of glass, cloth napkins with buttonholes at their corners, and more.

 I used to be one of them-the chosen few. I traveled constantly, enjoyed the bounty of hundreds of thousands of frequent flier miles, upgraded to first-class effortlessly, boarded planes first and claimed precious real estate for my road-warrior gear in the overhead bins. I read the Wall Street Journal and New York Times delivered by the first-class stewardess while coach class boarded, only occasionally looking up to enjoy their obvious envy. I stared disapprovingly at the clueless coach class traveler who dared to use our first-class bathroom.

 Those were the good old days and they’re gone. So are the frequent flier miles-frittered away as if there were an unlimited supply of them.

 There wasn’t.

So I sit in Seat 7B–my ample American bottom squeezed between the armrests, the toes of my clogs pressed hard against the bulkhead, my knees bumping my nose, my eyes focused on the empty seat just beyond the bulkhead, Seat 6C.

I take a breath and focus. I hear the hum of jet engines and the light whistling sound of recycled air pouring from the nozzle above my head. I see the light of dawn reflected in neat rectangles on the bulkhead wall–the color of a pale pink rose flecked with particles of golden sand. I notice the pain in my posterior as it pulses into my lower back. I notice the stiffness taking hold in my neck. I notice the tingling of numbness overtaking my toes.

I am squarely in the moment, fully aware, and I wish it weren’t so. I wish I were in Seat 6C. I wonder at the callousness of an airline that denies me what is so clearly available and comfortable and rightfully mine.

I am not happy and I’m planning to stay this way and wallow in it for the next two hours and eight minutes.

I promise myself that I will never, ever fly again…until I need to go somewhere.