My maternal grandmother was a Tarpley. Not just any Tarpley, but rather of THE Methodist Tarpleys, direct from the line of cohorts of John Wesley himself. My g-g-g-grandfather Edward Jones Tarpley came down to Georgia from Virginia, sometime after the war of 1812, as a circuit riding Methodist preacher, part of an effort by the church to build membership among African-Americans, (let’s hope he started with his 39 slaves, as recorded in the 1810 census), Native Americans (before or after procuring their land, I can’t rightly say), and, of course, settlers of European descent, in other words, lots of very white folks. The Methodists were hot on the heels of the Baptists, who, by the grace of Jesus, got there first, but they were no less determined. Not that there was much difference in the ways the two practiced their faiths in those days. (An old Georgia joke gives the definition of a Methodist as a Baptist who can read.)
The “Shoutin’ Methodists,” as they were known, practiced a particularly severe brand of Methodism and were given to preaching hellfire and damnation at outdoor camp meetings, in the warm months, and in private homes, in the winter. Later small churches sprang up, often on the sites where the camp meetings had been held. So it was with Salem Methodist, founded in 1818, in a sandy bottom at the intersection of two winding red dirt roads, and just up the hill from a natural spring full of crystal clear running water and rattlesnakes – a church as simple and austere as the people themselves, and not unrepresentative, as it happens.
There on the second Sunday in July, in the very throes of the insufferable Georgia summer, Salem celebrates homecoming, (always has, always will), complete with dinner on the grounds, preaching, singing and “fellowship,” with people you haven’t seen in 30 years, have never met, or don’t remember even if you did.
A couple of years ago I persuaded a cousin to accompany me to the festivities. She’d heard there were “a lot of good cooks up there,” so, not to be outdone, we set out armed with homemade potato salad, baked beans and brownies. On the way a local politician, who was running for office in an upcoming election, (and not one to miss an opportunity to glad hand constituents), flagged us down for directions. If you’ve ever been to Salem you know you never forget the way. You also know it’s impossible to tell anyone else how to get there. We suggested she follow us, and although we all made it there in good order, she lost the election anyway.
Dinner on the grounds did not disappoint, (although some infidel brought KFC and I did see a couple of store bought pies, a sin that would’ve guaranteed a ticket to hell in Grandma’s day). I did some comparison shopping at the deviled egg smorgasbord, then made straight away to the homemade cakes and pies. There was also an excellent corn pudding, some better than average field peas, and don’t get me started on the fig preserves. And by the way, when these people fry a chicken, they fry it all, even the feet, and they fry it in lard. (The chicken was quite good. I can’t vouch for the feet.)
The place was crawling with Thompsons and Tarpleys and Lords and Wynns, shirt-tail relatives all. (It's a very small gene pool.) I met the son of the man who made the cedar chest, which I inherited from my mother, out of a cedar tree that was struck by lightning and fell into my grandparent’s yard, (right smack on top of cousin Wavy Thompson's brand new jeep). Well over 80 himself, he’s a 3rd cousin. Another 3rd cousin once removed, whose ‘Yankee’ mother left his father and absconded north with him just a baby, was there, looking for his “roots.” (He SO brought the KFC.) The church pianist, a 4th cousin, is the daughter of the woman who played piano there back when I attended services with my grandparents, (and she plays just a badly too).
Then I meet the controversial new pastor, a short, stocky woman with a genial, if somewhat butch, manner, wearing a big cross around her neck and a man’s wristwatch on her arm. Let’s call her the Rev. Debbie. Rev. Debbie is controversial not because she is most probably a Lesbian, (they don’t have a clue), but rather because she is a woman. That being the case, she had me at 'hello.'
Rev. Debbie is pushing the sale of a church cookbook with recipes contributed by the congregation. (They’re hoping to raise enough money to install indoor toilets.) It has seven different recipes for squash casserole. Somebody named “Aunt Effie” has donated a recipe for “three ingredient pork roast, “(1 pork loin, 1 package onion soup mix, 1 can Dr. Pepper). I buy one for myself and several more for friends who like to cook and share my sense of humor. The recipe for “Better Than ??? Cake,” (that would be “Better Than Sex Cake,” anyplace else), alone is worth the price.
By early afternoon it’s sweltering so everybody is eager to move into the church, where two window unit air conditioners, (the bounty of last year's cookbook fundraiser), are heaving out a tepid draft. I grab a supplemental Jesus breeze, (that’s a hand fan with a photo of Jesus on one side and a funeral home advert on the other, in case you didn't know), and squeeze into a pew. It’s SRO. After a hymn or two the guest minister (another 3rd cousin) delivers an affable and innocuous sermon about family and reconnecting and, well, there you have it, homecoming. I’m chillin' with my homies and getting a serious case of the warm fuzzies. There’s some more singing while they pass the collection plate. I give generously. (I’m down with that indoor bathroom idea, and they might well work on paving those roads too.) Then Rev. Debbie gets up to make a few closing remarks.
I’m totally unprepared for what happens next. The Rev. Debbie passes out flyers with the names, numbers and address of all our members of congress, and urges each and every one of us flood their offices with letters, calls and emails, demanding they support an amendment to the U.S. Constitution to define marriage as the union between one man and one woman. According to Rev. Debbie the very sanctity of marriage and family as we know it is at stake, hanging on a thread beneath the specter of homosexual connubial bliss. To my utter dismay a chorus of “amens” echos around the room. Here we are in one of the poorest counties, in arguably one of the poorer states in the county, the public school system is a disaster, the nearest fully facilitated hospital is 40 miles away and the local white trash have graduated from moonshining to manufacturing methamphetamines. These people have got a lot better things to worry about than whether the prissy bachelor next door is getting it in the butt from the cute blonde guy he lives with and wants to marry him. Believe it.
I want my donation back. They deserve their porta-potties, and their fried chicken feet too.
I didn’t make it to Homecoming this year, but I'll likely go again someday. The Rev. Debbie, for whatever reason, is no longer there, and the new preacher, so I’m told, is an earnest young fellow with a wife and a couple of small children. Sounds like a safe choice. Maybe. Anyhow, next time I’m going to bake a cake for the occasion and put a little food flag on top so everybody knows just what kind of cake it is.
BETTER THAN SEX CAKE (my recipe, not theirs):
1 box Devil’s Food cake mix
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 6-ounce jar caramel topping
1 8-ounce container of Cool Whip (or, to really kick it, 8 ounces of heavy cream, whipped)
3 chocolate covered toffee bars (Heath bars work well), crushed
Bittersweet chocolate bar for shaving
Prepare cake according to package direction and bake in a 9 X 13 inch pan. Poke holes over top of cake with a skewer or chopstick. Pour condensed milk over cake, allowing time to soak in. Heat caramel topping in microwave and pour over top of cake. Scatter crushed chocolate toffee bars over cake. Chill thoroughly. Top with Cool Whip or whipped cream. Shave bittersweet chocolate on top. Serve.
Is it really better than sex? Well, that would depend entirely on the cook... or the lover.
No comments:
Post a Comment