Ouch! How To Handle Aunts In The Kitchen!

My extended family on my mother's side was big; not only in body size, but sheer numbers.  My grandmother was one of 10 children, and what a group of characters! From short to tall, skinny to not, all had the personalities of a herd (group, clan, tribe?) of monkeys.  Two of the men grew up to be war heroes, all were good, solid Americans. An onery bunch, they were not without their oddities. One sister was married 4 times, (My grandmother, see? I come from good stock!) no small error in the 40's, and her first husband, my mother's birth father, was rumored to have been shot as he attempted an escape from a lover's bedroom window. The story line was "They don't cotton to tom-cattin' around in this small town!" Evidently, the woman's husband walked in at the wrong moment, and a rifle was handy and well, you can guess the rest. No anger control. Maybe things haven't changed all that much.

As I grew up, no one in the family ever talked above a whisper about my mother's birth father, "it" happened when she was three, so she never knew much about the facts. And, all who know the real story are no longer on earth, meaning the story is buried, so to speak. The treasure chest of family history remains a mystery.

This group of siblings farmed their land, helped their neighbor, went to church, and if they didn't make it or couldn't pay for it, it wasn't to be had. All possessions were shared. They voted, griped, praised, and worked. They raised their children and were good to their animals, though seldom let them in the house. I sneaked in as many as I could.

My aunts and uncles lived a life full of noise, practical jokes, laughter, arguments, and rivalry, all flavored with spice, vinegar, and liberal doses of denial.

In the 50's and 60's family was strictly defined. The women focused on the work of the day, keeping family secrets, and putting away the fruit of their labors. Be it cash or canned beans, they kept life simple. My aunts did not dwell on politics or war, often denied the mere existance of scandal, both nationally and personally. If they had opinions about the preacher or government, they kept it to themselves or spoke it in whispers. Their energies were devoted to cooking for company or the preacher, decorating their houses, sewing and gossiping about how many months passed before the just married young couple had their first baby. My Aunt Lady even kept a calendar! Shame on her, but it was entertainment of sorts.

Lately, I find myself looking back to see, who's been looking back at me. The "mind-movie" is vivid, full of messages from yester-years.

There was comfort in those days of clear roles, patriotism, and farm work. A city girl born and bred, my visits to rural Oklahoma exposed me to a simple life, and the difference was exciting to me. I flash back, to a brown-eyed, long-haired, naive, barely aware of the world girl who sat still, thinking of angels in heaven and devils on the ground. Me, at 11, on a hard, wooden church pew, sitting between my dad and my Aunt Cally, with her sister, my Aunt Lady, next to her. The preacher has just finished his Sunday morning sermon and the crowd is quite, with a bit of sniffling here and there. Hell, Fire, and Brimstone Sermons always produced a few sniffles, and I added mine just to fit in.

My Uncle Raymond, Aunt Lady's banker husband, stood upon nod of the preacher. He raised his arm, and began to lead the church, acapella style, in singing the hymn "What A Friend We Have In Jesus." Aunt Cally's deep alto voice found the harmony and she lifted her chin slightly, in that familiar tilt to the left, as she began to sing. Finding her in a crowd of musical voices was never difficult. Taking in her appearance at a glance, I saw salt and pepper hair curled around her chubby cheeks and wrinkley eyes. I thought she was beautiful, though the red dots of facial blush caused most to look twice. No one dared to call it odd.

Aunt Lady instantly found the tenor range and my dad joined in with the bass. Scooting closer to Aunt Cally, I tried to imitate her strong alto. I breathed when she did, and held onto the notes until she let them go. Everyone told me I would soon be singing just like her. She winked and shared her hymnal, but I knew all the words and concentrated on blending our voices into one.

Before the first verse ended, some people moved to the center aisle, going "forward" towards the preacher who waited to receive those who were asking for prayers.

Always soft-hearted, I was moved to tears this Sunday, listening to the strong voices of my Aunts, the deep bass of my father, and I whispered "Dad, I want to go forward, too."

He stopped singing and leaned over to me "What did you do, cheat yourself at playing jacks?" He smiled to soften the words.

"No, but I want to ask for prayers." I replied, sniffling.

"Marisue, do you say your prayers at night?" Dad asked, still whispering.

"Yes." I nodded vigorously.

"Then I think you're safe, let's leave it there." Dad looked firm, but understandingly at me and picked up the where the congregation was in the song.

I was still. Listening to my aunts, I knew if a sinner was anywhere close to us, their singing would motivate them to repent. I couldn't think of anything to confess or ask for prayers about, but the voices were so moving, I was willing to run down the aisle, making up a sin on the way. Surely I could think of something: a lie? an undone chore? a mean thought? My mind went blank. Where's a good sin when you need one? I felt so alone and left out. Sighing, I began to sing again.

Today, thinking of a few sins would be no challenge, having lived a more carnal adult life. I've decided after all these many mistakes, when it's my turn in Heaven to confess it all, I'm going to ask for Aunt Cally and Aunt Lady to step forward and sing their favorite hymns, creating background music guaranteed to make the toughest talk.

But then, I was struggling. So, I just enjoyed the notes and the blending of voices. After all, there was always next Sunday. Maybe I could do something evil by then. I would put it to thought.

I glanced at my dad who winked and kept singing. My uncle took us through all verses of the "going forward" invitation song. The long songs gave everyone plenty of time to work up courage, I thought.

I knew then, and even more so over the years, where my dad was coming from. He was not one to give in to public spectacles of "weeping and gnashing of teeth," as he called it. Never one to strongly disagree with a preacher publicly, he taught us at home about his own convictions. "If you've got a problem, take it to God, but don't be too quick to share your errors with others. They'll just give it back to you one day and it won't even resemble what it was in the beginning. God knows you, talk to Him all you want. Some things in our lives are private."

Dad was convinced I was a good girl, and at 11, did not have enough experience with the devilish deeds of wrong to go confessing to anyone just yet. Still, the emotion of the moments of those asking for prayers was contagious, causing many to join the parade of sinners walking down the aisle.

I don't belittle it. My dad, my mom, and all of us sitting on those pews bowed in reverence, joined in sincere prayers for the ones who requested help. I wasn't sure what they had done, they looked pretty normal, though I had heard a rumor of a few affairs and a couple of young girls who might be pregnant. Pretty exciting stuff, eh? Mom and dad would often state it was none of our business. "Take care of your own soul," Dad stated with an implied stern warning against meddling.

My parents were firm that little kids didn't belong on the front row asking for forgiveness. Dad would say "May you never need to go there." I guess he was right, though I could probably qualify now.

After church, the fun began. More often than not, I would be invited to Aunt Cally's or Aunt Lady's for lunch. Frequently, on Sundays they ate together, since they lived next door to each other. The Sunday dinner rivaled Thanksgiving with rump roast, ham, baked chicken, dressing, mashed potatoes, home canned green beans cooked with bacon, buttered creamed corn, black-eyed peas, a relish tray containing homemade pickles and canned beets, and a salad of everything. No meal was complete without homemade biscuits and buttermilk cornbread, and sometimes the Buttermilk Chocolate Sheet cake.

No wonder they were fat. But, Oh, they were happy.

After setting the table with beautiful flowered plates, I perched on the kitchen stool, mentally recording all the jokes and gossip. Did these women never get tired? It was a show beyond belief. One would wash a pan, set it on the counter for their own use, only to turn back to the pan and see it already in the oven holding the other cook's meat or casserole. Cobblers were re-arranged constantly, one aunt preferring a certain position over the other. Cally would put her dishes in front on the buffet, and Lady would move them to the back. Sometimes they goofed and moved their own, causing insane giggles.

Aunt Cally was a marvelous cook, getting up at 4 am to bake the chicken and dressing, perfectly seasoned. Her crust on the peach cobbler was cinnamony and flakey, melting in your mouth. But, Aunt Lady performed an art that would have made Julia Child drool. She often worked on many dishes at the same time, whipping up a cake, stirring up cornbread, and kneading biscuit dough, leaving the biscuits for the cake, and returning to the biscuits without missing an ingredient. Though she wrote recipes, I never saw her read one.

My question of "Aunt Lady, how did you make this?" would be answered with "Two fingers and a thumb of salt, a palm of sugar, a palm and a half of flour, half a palm of oats and beat in 2 eggs." uh, huh. She did have a system, but I never figured it out and neither did anyone else, we just ate everything that wasn't mooing or wiggling.

Every burner and every rack in the oven was full of the best smells, the creamiest corn, the cheesiest maccaroni. Her biscuits floated in air, the secret being in the wrist she declared. No one makes them since.

The preparation of food was a sight, but the conversation that accompanied the work was even more entertaining. Gossip reigned! It was not harmful and never carried out of the house. THAT was "carrying tales." Try as they would, the aunts would attempt seriousness. It just never lasted more than a minute. It was second nature, to play jokes on each other, laughing at secret jokes of the past known only to them, memories triggered by a movement or word. I laughed because they laughed. Tears flowed down cheeks as they tried to talk remembering past goofs, such as adding a "palm" of salt instead of sugar to a cake, and serving it to a visiting district preacher, or getting lost in a cornfield, or being chased by a hog, or pecked by a rooster, or teased by a brother who played dead.

Good christian women, they gossiped religiously. Well, give them their due, they didn't say anything with the intent to belittle. Yet, the half finished sentences included "did you see her hair? Could it get more blue?" and "I am sure she's pregnant, either that or she swallowed a watermelon, she's only been married 3 months. I won't say a word..." or "The preacher gave this same sermon 3 Sunday's ago." and "He did not, it was at least 6 weeks." then "Maybe he thinks we didn't repent, I surely wanted to break out in that song about "Did you repent?" Then, great bursts of laughter as they remembered Aunt Cally practicing the song during an early meeting of the church choir (which was the entire church) and as she concentrated so hard on reading the notes, she misread the words, singing loudly "Did you Pee Rent, fully Pee Rent, on His great name, then..." Aunt Lady laughed 'til she cried while talking about how Aunt Cally didn't even realize what she had sung until the whole church stopped singing. Lady would say "You said it twice, as loud as you could sing....you said "Pee Rent fully Pee rent, plain as day, Cally, plain as day."

Well, you had to be there.

What I noticed was that no one got mad at the jokes or the making fun of past errors. Somehow, they knew how far to go, or not to go. The sisters were a formidable force of togetherness. On occasion, the wives of the brothers would be visiting, and that is the only time I detected any tension. The aunts didn't like all their sister-in-laws, all the time, and worked very hard to conceal it. Sitting on the stool, I sometimes had butterflies in my stomach as I witnessed dirty looks from the "out-law in-laws" towards my aunts. Mostly, the aunts ignored the tension, though it would be great script for future Sunday gossip sessions. I couldn't WAIT for that!

After the meals were done, fun in the kitchen had only begun. Hours of crafting took over the big kitchen table. The current project was a jeweled trunk. The whole town talked about Aunt Cally and Aunt Lady's constant request for old jewelry. They would spend hours in the evening, taking apart bracelets and necklaces, where the pieces would be painstakingly glued to the outside of old trunks. As she beat and banged on each piece of glittery jewelry, I'm sure I heard Aunt Cally mutter "I hate this shit." under her breath, but I feigned deafness. Do you know how many earrings and beads it takes to cover a trunk? Within 6 months they had two trunks duly decorated and no friends left in town.

People talked about it for years. It was pretty sticky business.

I would never go to all that trouble now, but i sure loved those two trunks. No one else had anything even remotely like the gaudy things. It took many dinner invitations before the aunts got back into the good graces of old friends. Some suggested they could make trunks for all those who contributed, to which both aunts screamed "No!"

As I grew up, I would come over with a dream or a problem, both of which were addressed with "Let's bake cookies." We did, and all problems disappeared. Their solutions were mixed in with hot chocolate, a wooden spoon, a cup of flour and sugar, and some chocolate chips.

It was good logic then and today.

The enemy named time has stolen the fun. The aunts are gone, now. The yellow kitchen stool long discarded. The old, small rural town has shrunk, as the cemetary has grown. Main street looks much the same, but the buildings no longer buzz with life. When I go back to visit, and soon to live, I hear singing in the distance. My dad's words of wisdom to "plow straight ahead, kid" come to me when I search for a solution to a problem. His admonition to not experience everything good or bad for myself, but to learn from others and let wisdom dictate my actions replays in my mind and heart.

I walk down the rough sidewalk, and stop at a corner of a now vacant store, where I bend down to run my fingers across my mother's hand prints, still visible in the cement.

Aunt Cally's house has been sold; Aunt Lady's house is owned by her only son, who's life was scarred by his loss of a daughter when she was 6. A little girl my Aunts frequently called "Marisue" because she looked and acted like me, they said.

On days when I can't figure things out, and there have been many, or when I struggle with a bit of sadness, I find myself singing, "Did you Pee Rent, Fully Pee Rent, on His great name them...." and beating up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. or kneading the heck out of biscuits. They don't float, but they ain't half bad.

How do you handle Aunts in the Kitchen? Stay completely out of their way, and brag on their cooking, equally!

My mother's strong heritage from her mother and the sisters has trickled down to me. The kitchen stool and the church pew, were good places to learn. I hope I did them proud.