Little Beach Bums

   We love the beach. It's in our blood. Here's a photo of yours truly hanging out at Cinco Bayo when I was but a wee babe. No swim diapers then.

     All kidding aside, we were incredibly blessed as children to have a great-grandmother with her own house on Yacht Club Drive. Her property adjoined that of her sisters who in turn had their own houses. Thus it was that I grew up kissin' cousins with not only my first cousins, but my second, third and fourth cousins and with the aunts: that is: aunts, great aunts, and great-great aunts (and a few uncles, too).  I never knew how many generations separated us, nor did I care, I just knew that we were part of a large, wonderful, fun, and funny family.
    The original property on Cinco Bayou has now passed into other hands, but my family and I are striving to develop a similar closeness among the generations. It's why we traveled to the beach en masse last week and then all made the trek to my hometown, DeFuniak Springs, to attend a celebratory wedding and erstwhile family reunion. It was worth the hours we spent moving lots of people, big and small, from Nashville to the beach then to DeFuniak and back. It was oh so worth it, but then again, the love of family is always worth the sacrifice to keep the ties close.
     Here are some favorite photos of our time at the beach last week. The weather did not cooperate at all. It was rainy, cloudy, windy and chilly, but it did not deter Little One and Little Two's ability to enjoy the wonder. See for yourself.

Brrr...are you sure that this is not Antarctica? Nope, it's the Gulf of Mexico. Or so they say.

Run, run, don't let the waves catch you!

When all else fails, let the castle building begin...

Don't you know that you have to get messy, wet, and sandy if you are going to build a good castle?!

Ugh, this is really really heavy!

My teeth are chattering, my knees are knocking, my lips are turning blue,
but I have a job to do.

I have to get that water. Ice water, that is...

Here you go, more water mixed with sand. Let's stir it up to get it just right.

Oops, I bet she does not realize that I am dumping it out as fast as she brings it to me. 

        Uh oh, something about that face tells me that she has figured out my scheme.

I hope I did not see what I think I did...

Time for another project. I am up for some sand burying!

I'll go first. Whee...this is fun!

Even the Mommas are getting in on the act!

This is what cousins are for!

It's a family affair! 

Free at last!

Now it's my turn!

Hoecakes or Cornbread Patties, Either Way A Bite of Heaven

  If you know what this is...you win a prize. You are more than likely a tried and true Southerner or you have been here so long you can almost lay claim to the title. This, my friends who are not from the Deep South, is a hoe cake. Don't get the wrong idea, this is not another version of the word for a loose woman, this is a h-o-e cake, as in a hoe, an implement used to dig a row in a field. Also known as a cornbread pattie. Yet another synonym for these little cakes is the word delicious. I am smacking my lips just thinking of eating one hot out of my grandmother's iron skillet.

   Growing up in the summers at the Big House on Cinco Bayou, we would line up at the back door of the kitchen as soon as the word spread that my grandmother Lou Lou was frying up a batch of these beauties. I have watched her make them what seems like a hundred times, but mine have never ever tasted the same. For one thing, I am not eight years old and standing on the back stoop in my bathing suit, dripping wet, and waiting not so patiently for the taste of that fried cornbread smeared with a little butter. It's just so lip-smacking good. Crispy on the outside and moist and chewy like only soft cornbread can be on the inside.
   The Baby Sister is working on the recipe. I drove over one night the time before last when I was home to taste hers. They were good. But I wasn't eight years and dripping wet at the back door standing in a line of cousins waiting for my turn...you get my drift.
   I have a recipe I am happy to share with you novices who have never heard of a hoe cake or cornbread pattie, much less eaten one. However, no matter how hard you try, you will not likely be able to replicate a true hot fried cornbread experience. That, my friend, is reserved for but a few.
   But you can try.

Keep in mind that this is not an exact science.

1. You will need a cast iron skillet. If you don't have one, you better not try this recipe. There is something about the seasoning in the skillet, the depth of the skillet, and the uniformity of the heat that the cast iron produces that are essential for success.

2. You will need bacon grease. Yes m'am. Crisco alone will not do. Nor will any canola or vegetable oil, or heaven forbid, extra virgin olive oil. You might be able to mix some bacon grease with the aforementioned substitutes, but you must have some bona fide form of lard and Crisco alone does not suffice.

3. You will need cornmeal. Real cornmeal ground in a local grist mill is best, but most of you have no idea what I am talking about. Go ahead and buy your Aunt Jemima if you must, but if you can get your hands on some local yellow or white corn meal, do it. It will be ten times better, trust me.

3. White Lily self-rising flour. You will only need a couple of tablespoons, but it is an important ingredient. White Lily is only acceptable brand left other than Martha White for a tried and true Southerner. Neither of these girls will let you down.

4. Real butter. No fake and bake here. Unsalted or salted. Whatever, just make sure it is butter. That's B-U-T-T-er.

Now for some accompaniments.

Buttermilk. Pretty soon you won't be able to buy this in the grocery stores. I am already seeing a dearth of it up here in the upper South. My dear grandmother would roll over in the grave. She loved this stuff and so does my Momma. Momma used to drink a big glass every night just before bed. Truth be told, I don't care much for the stuff, but if you are gonna have a true Southerner experience, you need to have some buttermilk and cornbread. Real aficionados will dip their hot cornbread in their buttermilk or crumble it up in their glass.

Peas. You need a mess of field peas. Not crowders. Little tiny green and white field peas. Hoecakes or cornbread patties go best with peas and a little pot likker, washed down with a tall glass of cold buttermilk.

Now for the recipe:
Bacon Grease
Cornmeal about 2 cups
2 Tablespoons of self-rising flour
Hot water
Salt
(Some people put an egg in theirs, but I see no need. However, you can add an egg if you want.)

Melt your bacon grease in your cast iron skillet. You want a thin layer of bacon grease, just enough to come up about halfway on your cornbread patties, but not completely submerge them. The hoecakes are fried, but not deep fried.

Mix your 2 cups of cornmeal together with the two Tablespoons of self-rising flour. Add salt. Take your fork and stir it up thoroughly. Next heat up two cups of water in the microwave until just about boiling and pour it into your mixture in increments. You will want your hoecake mixture to be about the consistency of a thick paste. Next up are your hands. Yep, you are gonna have to get messy with this recipe. Using your hands, form little patties and immediately start sliding them into the hot grease. Work quickly. If your dough gets too stiff, add a little water. Do not let the patties touch. Your grease should not be so hot that it is smoking, but it should be hot enough to immediately begin frying the cakes. You will only turn the hoecakes ONCE. Wait to turn them until the sides begin to turn brown. Look at the picture above again to help you gauge this. Remove, drain on paper towels, butter them with softened butter and start handing them out to whomever is in the kitchen. Best if eaten immediately.

If your first batch is a little greasy, either remove some of the grease or turn your heat up.

Obviously making cornbread patties is a trial and error experience. That's the way most Southerners like it. It's not an exact science. But then again, most of what we do down here is not an exact science. You cook with your heart and your taste buds. And you eat in community. Hoecakes are the ultimate in community food because they are not much good when they are cold. So make sure there's a crowd in the kitchen or outside on the stoop when you start cooking these beauties.

           Here are some of the cousins at about the age when we were lining up at the back door, jockeying for whom would get the first cornbread pattie. In case you are at a loss to identify yours truly, I am the one on the far left. My other grandmother made my bathing suit, and I really loved that pom pom trim.
          And this is a picture of the Big House. It was the Big House because there is a tiny little house that sits behind it that you cannot see (not to be confused with the pump house on the far right). Calling it the Big House might be a misnomer to some, but it certainly looms larger than life itself in the canon of my memory.

The beloved Big House, Yacht Club Drive, Cinco Bayou

    If you get adventurous and decide to give the fried cornbread patties a try, let me know how they turn out.

Thanks for the Memories

    One of my North Carolina cousins recently posted some old family pictures on Facebook. If you look at me then and now, you will know just how old some of these pictures are. We are talking 29 years here. So that puts me under 30. Wow, I cannot even remember that far back. The hair cuts are horrendous as are the clothes, but who cares. I look at the pictures, and I am there. There are no mosquitoes or flies and the heat and humidity are not unbearable. That's what memory does for you. It makes everything look hazy and glorious. I probably didn't realize at the time just how glorious it was. But I do now. I hope that counts for something in God's economy. 

I think The Husband still has that shirt. I, on the other  hand, have no clue what 

that get-up is that I am wearing. Oh, and is anyone surprised that I am talking...

with both my mouth and my hands?!

      Three of my four children are in this picture. The fourth is missing because he is not yet born. 

My dear grandmother is holding The Daughter who is just a couple of months old, my sweet 

Momma is the twin on the far right and my two older sons are standing in front of her. Aren't they precious?! My mother's identical twin is to my her left and my beloved North Carolina aunt is holding my nephew. This picture was taken a whopping 29 years ago. 

           Does anyone remember Underoos? That's what the Oldest Son has on in

this picture. Trust me when I tell you that they were "the thing." The precious boys are now            men who are 33 and 32 years old respectively. Raising rambunctious sons who were

sixteen months apart was certainly not a picnic in the park. Then The Daughter came along and I had three children under four. Those days were was a lot about survival.

However, now I am totally reaping the rewards!!!

This picture nearly brought me to tears. I can get maudlin about memories.

Like I said before, you don't remember the itchy bathing suit, the flies or mosquitoes 

and the nearly unbearable heat. What I do remember is that this was

how we spent nearly every day of the summer. Out under the pin oak trees, catching

what little breeze was available and shooting the breeze ourselves. Endlessly.

There was always time for conversation, there was always a lap to hold

a baby, and there was always a good book to read and good food to eat. 

And the picture below was what we feasted our eyes on day and night.

This view, and the love of family, brought peace like a river to my soul.

 

It still does.

The Place of Dreams

   It's something that you cannot hold in your hands. On any given day it can be blue, green, clear or dark gray. It can be smooth or choppy. It is not always good for drinking, but it sure is good for playing. It's that stuff that covers two thirds of our earth that has magical properties in the mind and heart of a child.  It might be some other body of water to someone else, but to me it is the water known as Cinco Bayou.
   I spent my summers as a baby and then a girl cavorting in the calm, gentle waters of the kid-friendly Cinco Bayou outside Fort Walton Beach, Florida. My cousins and I were literally in that delightful bay from sun-up to sundown every single day. We swam in the rain, we swam in the sun and in the evening we took a bar of soap and a towel and bathed ourselves clean in the bay. Our lives revolved around the water. We spent so much time in the water that I often wondered if my fingers and toes would be permanently shriveled.

   In the early morning and late afternoon we fished from the dock using cane poles, red and white bobbins and lead weights and fish hooks we had threaded and tied ourselves. Our bait consisted of spit-rolled bread balls that we ever so carefully squished on our hooks until the first fish was caught. Then that poor guy was immediately headed for the chopping block. (We even fought over who got to use the eyes because they glittered in the water and attracted the most fish!) If we were lucky enough to have left over fish heads, they became the bait for the crab traps where we tried our best to capture the delicious but elusive blue crab (we had little idea what a delicacy blue crab would become.) Sadly, we also tortured poor hermit crabs by lining them up on the sand and making them crawl ever so slowly back to the water's edge, only to have to do it again. And again.

   We cousins filled our days playing endless games that never seemed to grow old: underwater beauty parlor, underwater tea party and the game, catch-the-ball-off-the-dock-in-the-air-before-you-hit-the-water. We held garbled underwater conversations, practiced holding our breath as long as we could, turned underwater somersaults until our ears hurt, and practiced underwater ballet positions. A highlight of the summer would come when we would entice our grandmother into swimming with us all the way to the other side of the bay.    Our beloved Uncle Dunk worked for the Alabama Department of Transportation, and he provided us with the rare treat of very large inflated tires that must have come off of some very large trucks. We tied ply-wood to the top of the tires, filled Coke bottles full of sand and dived for buried treasure just like the Bridges family on the television show, Sea Hunt. Other years we went poling down the mighty Mississippi (really the shallows of Cinco Bayou) just like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. Never mind that we were five girl cousins, we were in truth just about anything and everything we wanted to be. My cousin Babs and I even had all of the younger cousins who visited each summer convinced that we were girls by day and porpoises by night. We accomplished this largely due to the fact that we both lied convincingly (not a great trait as I learned in later life) and could imitate almost perfectly the sounds that the television porpoise Flipper made.
   Cinco Bayou and its environs afforded each of us cousins the fairy tale of a childhood. I could be whatever I dreamed I could be. And dream we all did. To this day when I find myself beside that particular body of water, I feel the stir of memories and the whisper of the magic within my soul. And then this middle-aged woman is suddenly a child filled with the joy of possibility all over again.

   

A Billowing Sail Filled with a Fresh Wind

     Yesterday the ship sailed for the new harbor. It glided out of port about mid-afternoon. My aunt was there but this was one voyage she was not taking with my beloved Uncle Brother, even though she had spent 50 plus years by his side. They had weathered many storms together. Seen great sunrises and equally beautiful sunsets, and never tired of watching the dolphins at play under the prow of their boat. Yet this voyage was the one he would sail solo. She understood. She had maintained a vigil by his side and was aware that the final preparations had begun.
   My uncle stepped foot on the boat just as the wind skipped and picked up.  It was just enough to fill the unfurled sail and take the boat toward open water. The sun was shining brightly and the sea looked like a thousand winking diamonds. There was not a cloud in the sky. All too soon the little sailboat turned out to the open sea and was lost from sight. But just before it rounded the bend, you could see a tiny figure of a man smiling broadly and throwing his head back in laughter as the shining hull came up out of the water and he hung suspended one last time over the swell of the water below.

    Last year I wrote the following piece about my much beloved Uncle Brother. Yesterday he slipped away from earth to sail to the other shore. I am reposting this piece in honor of one of the best men I ever knew.

      When I was but a little one, a few years older than our own Little One, I came to know and love my mother's brother. My momma and her twin sister did not call their only brother by his name (that was my grandmother's LouLou's purview to call him not just Dykes, but to always refer to him by his complete given name, Edward Dykes), yet the twins lovingly referred to him and do so to this day as simply "Brother." And so it was that over time this man known as "Brother" quite logically became the "Uncle Brother" to the next generation. A hearty laugh, a gentle winsome smile, and a tender spirit are the hallmarks of this man who was a project and office manager for a securities firm by day while he dreamed by night of one day living for for a season or two on a sailboat. I like to think it must have been because he, like the rest of us, spent his childhood exploring the bays and coves around the beautiful offshoot of the Choctawhatchee Bay known as Cinco Bayou. I suspect he never got over his powerful addiction for the smell of the sea and the taste and feel of dried salt on one's skin. I am glad that was he who taught me first to sail and to know the sheer unadulterated and exhilirating joy of flying the hull on a Hobie catamaran. I am also glad that he followed his dream and did not abandon it for more mundane pursuits. He and my aunt did purchase that sailboat and did live for the better part of more than one year on it as they sailed up and down the coast of the Eastern United States and wintered in the tiny cays of tropical islands here and there.

       Today my Uncle Brother is slipping away. He has fallen prey to that great robber of minds: Alzheimer's and something else called Lewy Body Dementia. It makes me sad to say or write the words because I know the awful portent of the reality of loss that they have brought and are bringing to Uncle Brother's family: his precious wife, children, sisters, and grandchildren. Each day that passes brings to light a man who barely resembles the husband, father, uncle, brother and friend that they once knew. It is a most difficult and painful loss.

      Yet armed with my faith in God and His goodness, I like to think that when we see those whom we love slipping away from this world in such a manner, their ships have simply weighed anchor and are moving toward the fresh winds of that more glorious place. Their bodies here might be tattered and torn, but where they are going the sails are always filled with wind and the prow of their boat is moving briskly toward its destination as it cuts through the waves with a purposed and much anticipated joy. It is what gives me comfort and hope.

     In the Book of Revelation, it is revealed that there will be a river filled with the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the heavenly city. On each side of the river will be the tree of life and the leaves of the trees will be for the healing of the nations. And far as the eye can see, there will be no curse to be found. No Alzheimer's, no Lewy Body Dementia, no cancer or sickness of any kind. There will be no darkness to fear, no shadows, no lies, or false promises of any sort. It almost sounds too good to be true. And yet, the angel himself told John the Beloved, "These words are indeed trustworthy and true." I don't know about you, but I am living my life counting on it to be just that. True.

The Big House

    Here is where it all began. It is just a cottage constructed of timber and lots of pine, but it ranks up there with the Taj Mahal in my mind. It is certainly one of the seven wonders of my world and will be until the day that I die.

Originally built as a fishing shack by my great-grandmother, Annie Frances Smith Brooks (Mama Frankie to us) in 1926 on the then-hard-to-reach Cinco Bayou, this humble Big House, as it came to be known, was open each year for family gatherings from Memorial Day to Labor Day. There the Brooks-Scofield-Banks-Rushing Clan would gather. And gather we did. My great-great aunts owned homes on either side of the Big House and afternoons and evenings were where we all found ourselves firmly ensconced  in lawn chairs under the live oak trees in front of our house. It was there that I learned to appreciate our family history (some of it colorful and much of it embroidered I am sure). It was there that I found sanctuary, community and a respite from the struggles of life. It was there that I found peace and much joy. The relationships forged with cousins and family have more than stood the test of time. So it was fitting when the five cousins got together for our first-ever Bosom Bottom Buddy Club reunion, that we should once again visit this place where it all began.

My Uncle Brother

      When I was but a little one, a few years older than our own Little One, I came to know and love my mother's brother. My momma and her twin sister did not call their only brother by his name (that was my grandmother's LouLou's purview to call him not just Dykes, but to always refer to him by his complete given name Edward Dykes), yet the twins lovingly referred to him and do so to this day as simply "Brother." And so it was that over time this man known as "Brother" quite logically became the "Uncle Brother" to the next generation. A hearty laugh, a gentle winsome smile, and a tender spirit are the hallmarks of this man who was a project and office manager for a securities firm by day while he dreamed by night of one day living for for a season or two on a sailboat. I like to think it must have been because he, like the rest of us, spent his childhood exploring the bays and coves around the beautiful offshoot of the Choctawhatchee Bay known as Cinco Bayou. I suspect he never got over his powerful addiction for the smell of the sea and the taste and feel of dried salt on one's skin. I am glad that was he who taught me first to sail and to know the sheer unadulterated and exhilirating joy of flying the hull on a Hobie catamaran. I am also glad that he followed his dream and did not abandon it for more mundane pursuits. He and my aunt did purchase that sailboat and did live for the better part of more than one year on it as they sailed up and down the coast of the Eastern United States and wintered in the tiny cays of tropical islands here and there.
       Today my Uncle Brother is slipping away. He has fallen prey to that great robber of minds: Alzheimer's and something else called Lewy Body Dementia. It makes me sad to say or write the words because I know the awful portent of the reality of loss that they have brought and are bringing to Uncle Brother's family: his precious wife, children, sisters, and grandchildren. Each day that passes brings to light a man who barely resembles the husband, father, uncle, brother and friend that they once knew. It is a most difficult and painful loss.
      Yet armed with my faith in God and His goodness, I like to think that when we see those whom we love slipping away from this world in such a manner, their ships have simply weighed anchor and are moving toward the fresh winds of that more glorious place. Their bodies here might be tattered and torn, but where they are going the sails are always filled with wind and the prow of their boat is moving briskly toward its destination as it cuts through the waves with a purposed and much anticipated joy. It is what gives me comfort and hope.
     In the Book of Revelation, it is revealed that there will be a river filled with the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the heavenly city. On each side of the river will be the tree of life and the leaves of the trees will be for the healing of the nations. And far as the eye can see, there will be no curse to be found. No Alzheimer's, no Lewy Body Dementia, no cancer or sickness of any kind. There will be no darkness to fear, no shadows, no lies, or false promises of any sort. It almost sounds too good to be true. And yet, the angel himself told John the Beloved, "These words are indeed trustworthy and true." I don't know about you, but I am living my life counting on it to be just that. True.