Taste Not. Want Not

Growing up, I vividly remember my Mother and Grandmother telling me the story of how, when my Mom was a child, they had gone over to a cousin's house for a Christmas dinner. This was no favorite cousin but, family is family. Arriving well before anything was close to being done, in fact, there was much to chop, the bird was still raw, and the pots and pans were just heating up, Grandma offered to help. The stern but kindly response was that this was a day for Grandma to be a guest. So, she sat back and watched as the child who would one day be my mother laid the coats down across a chair. Now, I suspect that our cousin just didn't want Grandma messin' 'round in her pots. It's long been established that my Grandmother can throw down in the kitchen... and if you give her an inch. Uh-oh!

They chewed the fat a bit as, eventually, it came time for the bird to be cleaned. It must have been a formidable beast in it's day. Cleaning it was a true test of strength. Our cousin fumbled with the bulky fowl precariously teetering it on the edge of the sink. With every gyration that nearly returned the bird to flight, my Grandmother grimaced, winced, and wriggled nervously. She could hardly look directly at the sight. But, for the force of judgmental willpower, she managed. Besides, she wasn't eatin' no bird off the floor!

Gizzards gone and all, that bird made it to the table safely. It was still raw but, it was in the roaster. Seasoned and buttered, it was almost ready to go. Grandma sat relieved as the cooking continued. With no more need of any facial contortions and with heart rate slowing, she nestled back off of the edge of her seat and, once again, started back in on that piece of fat they were chewing. Just then, with absolutely no trepidation, the cat jumped up on the table and peed on the bird.

...

"Good Gravy!!!", Grandma blurted rocketing to her feet. "Did you just see that!"

Informed of the mishap, the woman, almost nonchalantly, swiped away the cat away. As she twisted her lips and rolled her eyes, she proceeded to rinse the bird, slap it back in the roaster, and throw it into the, now, preheated oven.

It'd take too long to explained the complexities of my Grandmother to you. Suffice it to say that, for the offence of attempting to serve her daughter any portion of a urine soaked gobbler, had this woman not been family, Grandma would have beaten her 'til she was too short to... well, if you loved through the '80's, you'll know how to finish that one.

She did well that day. They put their coats on. They walked out. They went out to eat.

So, I mentioned that Grandma can throw down in the kitchen. Now, I'm not just bragging. She can cook! This woman makes the only cranberry sauce I actually like. Well, covetously desire is a better term. I suppose, I do have to admit that my wife does make one cut with applesauce that I find tolerable. But, my Grandmother's cooking, if I were to put the taste sensation to music, I'd say, get the hook from Dr. Dre & Snoop Dogg's Gin & Juice playing in your head but, use these words:

Nothing's gonna keep me from sleep
'cause now I feel so full
from eatin' my Grandma's food

Laid Back _ with my food in my belly and my belly on my thighs.

Got the picture? When people went to Grandma's, they went ready to eat and, since its common knowledge that a fat Black woman cooking for the holidays makes no less than 4.5 million servings of food, its little wonder that everyone in the building and even stray people off the street would find any and every excuse to need to stop by. To be fair, the smell would grab a person just like in that old cartoon way. It'd grab you by the nose and you'd sort of just float in to where the good eats were.

I'm not too sure how old I was at the time. I'd guess around 8. The thought of what I was expecting that day still makes my mouth water. Passed down to me from my Mother, from her Mother, is a tradition surely not to be recommended by the Surgeon General of these United States. Grandma would take a separate extra large turkey roaster and fill it until it was almost bursting with severely meet laden lasagna. Oh, and it had cheese... and cheese... and sauce ...and not one single veggie! The lid was useless for this thing so, it got filled with lasagna too. A slice of this deep dish masterpiece improperly balanced on a plate would crack it in half. People had to be seated at the table prior to serving just for structural support. Oh... and that aroma!!!

We got off the bus, I think on 5th Ave. My Mommy and I eagerly walked through the crisp, late afternoon cold over to Pacific Street. When we made it to her brownstone, we didn't know what it was but something wasn't right. It didn't matter though because, we were going in. As soon as we cracked the door, it just intensified. It was like somebody had jabbed us in the nose with some rancid feet. The stench was momentarily blinding. As we drudgingly paced through the long corridor leading back toward the kitchen entrance, the smell seemed to take on an added dimension of extremely unwashed butt. Several of them. Pachyderm, I believe. It would pulse in agonizing waves of forceful repugnance. It really was all we could do to keep from gagging as we tried to speak.

My mother started the conversation. "Mommy, you ok? W... w... what is that smell?!"

"Child, what smell you talkin' 'bout?"

"Yeah, Grandma, something doesn't smell right."

"Mommy, something Stinks! We smelled it before we even came inside. You been experimenting in here?"

"What?! Don't nothing' stink in here!"

"Grandma, something really does smell."

"Boy, you don't like my cookin'? You don't have to come 'round here again for another month a Sunday's. Ya hear?"

"Oh, yes it does! It smells like you've been experimenting with those little cheeses. Did you put them in the lasagna?"

"No! No. of course not. Why would I do that? I know better than that."

"So, then, what's that smell?"

"I don't know what smell you're talking about. I've been in here cookin' up some good food. Everything's almost done and I know ain't nothin' wrong."

Just about then, Rabbit, the building's friendly and, for the moment, sober wino, made his way down the stairs. He knew well enough to not come down all the way.

"Ms B... Ms B. Somethin' the matter down there?"

"Awe, there it is!", she muttered, hardly under her breath. Intensifying, she emitted, "Rabbit! What do you want?!"

"I just wanted to know if you was ok Ms B. Somethin's smellin' awful bad up here."

"I'll give you awful bad!"

"Ma, he's right. Something smells putrid."

Luckily for Rabbit, uncle Raymond had just come down from his apartment on the top floor. Grandma was already in the hallway with a spatula and a knife. Sober or not, Rabbit didn't have enough distance on her.

"I'm gitin' sick and tired of people tellin' me that something stinks. Been slavin' all day!"

We all chimed in. "It does!"

My mother tried to reason with her. "Mommy, you been in here all day with whatever it is. That's why you can't smell it."

"Yeah, Ma, she's right. You should go outside for a while and then come back in."

"Shut up boy. I been cookin' since before you was born. I know what I'm doin'."

As the number of family and guests mounted, the same story played out over and over again. Everyone wanted to know what the horrid smell was. Grandma would admit nothing. Finally, partly because of all the criticism and partly because of the general pall that had enshrouded what would normally be festivities, Grandma went outside to chat with a friend. Ten minutes or so later, she came back in.

"Oh... well, good gravy." She clutched her mouth, biting her lip, as she shyly tried to hold in the giggles. "Something does stink! This smells bad!"

Eventually, she admitted to tossing an unholy blend of those little sample cheeses into the lasagna. The more we lost the ability to smell, the better our moods became. We had a great time. We ate a ton. Interestingly enough, That stinky lasagna tasted great! We wore out bellies on our thighs.