Yesterday, as I began to prepare for our neighborhood Friendsgiving, I had an unexpected visitor. Unexpected as he has been gone from his painful earthly vessel for nearly a year. But, given his particular ways, I should have expected his appearance in my kitchen.
A true Southern Gentleman – as he referred to his status of appreciating the finer gentlemen of his world – my friend loved to invade my kitchen. I suppose it was payback from my time invading his mama’s kitchen and that of his home smack-dab in the middle of our hometown. He came when my babies were born and invaded my kitchen. He came when I had surgery and invaded my kitchen. When he found himself in a tiny apartment without a proper kitchen, he came and invaded my kitchen. He was a talented cook and baker. He was also a hot mess!
Back to Friendsgiving. I wanted to bring a “raw apple cake” to honor my grandmother and great grandmother. Back in the days of the depression, apples were plentiful in Southern Indiana, as was a bit of fat, lard, oil – whatever you call it. Those ingredients, a measure or two of flour and a minimal measure of sugar put you in business. Raw apple cake at Thanksgiving was a staple.
I began to sense his presence in my kitchen the very second my hand wrapped around the White Lily Flour bag. I could hear him. I answered. The conversation went like this:
“Hey Poodle.”
“Oh! You gave me a start.”
“So sorry Poodle, I missed you.”
“Well, I miss you too.”
“I know.”
“Well, aren’t we full of ourselves?”
“Just because I landed myself on a purty cloud doesn’t mean I have changed one little iota.”
“I know”
(hearty laughter)
“Now, Sweetmeat, are you using the White Lily?”
“Of course.”
“And the sugar?”
“Not Domino.”
“I expect that will be ok.”
“I also bought the Publix brand cinnamon.”
“I found Publix to have decent spices.”
“All right then, here I go.”
“Is that the way they did it in Terre Haute?” (Private joke spanning 4 decades).
“Yes, of course!” (more laughter)
“Now, are you going to cut them apples in thin slices or thick?”
“You know as well as I do that you cut them in thick slices or they will dry out.”
“Just making sure Poodle – hey, are those flowers still coming from your garden?”
(Beams a prideful smile) “I planted them with the lilys you left for me.”
“I enjoyed them this summer when I stopped by.”
“I figured someone had pulled the dead-heads off.”
“Naw, that was some jewel I met in your garden named Kenni.”
“You’ve met Kenni?”
“She’s a peach – told me all about how she was from Southern Indiana too – loves to hang out in your garden.”
“I miss her too.”
“I’ll let her know.”
“Thank you. You are going, aren’t you?”
“Yes, the cake will come out like a pudding that way you know.”
“I know.”
“Just don’t get any crazy ideas of paintin’ anythin’ Haint Blue, and I’ll be back at Christmas to see the kids and your sweet mama and daddy.”
“I look forward to it.”
“You better try to bake the mince. Your daddy loves it so, and I owed him one.”
“I know – and yes, I will get the None Such for sure.”
“I know – Kisses Poodle.”
My friend, 
So, in honor of Dick “Pop” Moe, a man who has influenced my life since I was “a kid”. I will not “give up” Facebook during Lent. I promise to redouble my efforts to connect with my neighbors, my friends, my loved ones.
FreelanceBeth 