Carol Southard

I learned how to appreciate the smell of coffee, from my Dad. Every morning started off with a freshly-brewed (usually from a percolator) pot of strong coffee, and it smelled wonderful. (Sadly, I didn't come to love the taste of coffee until years later, when I picked up a caffeine habit in college...) Also, on weekends, he made pancakes from scratch, or french toast, or scrambled eggs. My Mom made bacon, in a big cast iron skillet. In that same skillet, she made pan fried steak, pork chops, fried catfish with hush puppies, or fried chicken, or cornbread. I learned to love food, good food, from their adventures in the kitchen. I especially remember holiday meals, like Thanksgiving, where the skillet also played a major role. My Mom filled it with butter and onions and celery, and my Dad toasted several loaves of sandwich bread, which made its way into the big speckled enamel roaster, to be broken up into bite-size pieces by me and my siblings. We also sorted cranberries, and watched as giblet stock was prepared, and a huge 30-plus pound turkey was prepared for its eventual fate. I continue these rituals to this day, and even though they are both gone from this life, I connect with them each time I make one of these meals.