Potluck Parables of Giving, Taking, and Belonging

First Memories ~ The Community of Family Southern women with the soft beauty of a flower and theresolved strength of galvanized metal are known as "Steel Magnolias." I am the daughter, granddaughter, and niece of a large bouquet of those very blooms. I saw their loveliness in the graceful ways they carried themselves, in how they dressed for going to the market or for just sitting on the patio. But I was also witness to their most intense beauty during times that called on their steel. They balanced femininity and fortitude the way a butterfly balances itself with two wings. The right or wrong response from either wing can send you flying or falling. In the context of this sisterhood, I was introduced to the potluck, and it became my template for community. My first memories were of aproned aunts scrambling for position in the kitchen; they worked for hours, and by the time morning gave way to afternoon, the refrigerator was full of the fruits of their labors. Creamed corn in a deep bowl looked up through plastic wrap on the shelf next to breaded okra. The corn had been shaved from the cob by my bony but pot-bellied oldest aunts over morning cigarettes and coffee. They mixed the corn with sweet milk and butter in the frying pan and cooked it until the sugars were released. The okra was washed, cut up, and dipped in egg, followed by a dusting of cornmeal. It would be fried in the same skillet as the corn was, just before we sat down to eat. My most flesh-endowed aunt snapped the sugar peas after opening her first Coke bottle of the morning. My morning Diet Coke drinking is clearly genetic in origin. Arguing over whether to bake the buttermilk corn bread in an iron skillet or in muffin tins, my mom (the youngest) and her closest sister, Gene, huddled in muffled cackles, making comments under their breath about their older sister, Virginia, who told off-color jokes. By afternoon, muffins and skillet corn bread were piled up beside fried chicken on a platter covered in foil, and Aunt Virginia's "blue" joke had been retold a half-dozen times in quiet corners around the house. Mom's pale, yellow-tinted potato salad, bound with mustard instead of Nanny's Miracle Whip, completed the list of things to be prepared. After adding their own individual touches to the meal to come, the sisters sat down for a glass of sweet tea. I can remember the smells settling over the house in the early afternoon, signaling that dinner was not far off. The uncles put the kitchen and card tables toe to head, and a patchwork of Pyrex dishes and Fiesta bowls, covered casseroles and dutch ovens, crockery and carnival class was placed within reach of every diner. I loved the deviled-egg plate, with its egg holders arranged in concentric circles, and the slotted relish trays that served up sweet pickles and olives. Every food was at home in its dish, and I was most at home in my skin at those tables. At family gatherings during my childhood, when relatives arrived at the designated aunt's house, the initial conversation was a bit labored with the formality that accompanies distance and time. But as minutes became hours, the formality passed as one of my uncles pulled a dime out of my ear or dropped it from my nose. We all responded with proper amazement at the mystifying world of magic. Next came the comments on how all the nieces and nephews had grown, inquiries about boyfriends or girlfriends, and reports on the various illnesses and "conditions" of the uncles and aunts. With the initial state-of-the-family reports out of the way, we settled into a comforting rhythm of conversation, shared lives, and easy presence. Someone always asked about my navy dad, what faraway port he was stationed in or where his last letter was posted. Uncle George relayed the latest news about bicycle repair, Uncle Wigi shared a gruesome storyThomas, Kim is the author of 'Potluck Parables of Giving, Taking, and Belonging', published 2006 under ISBN 9781400071180 and ISBN 1400071186.