“Be careful now. You’ll burn your mouth if you don’t let it cool first.”
I don’t think my sister and I really listened though.
Old school had met new school. My grandmother was making her world-famous mush recipe in a Fry Daddy. If you aren’t familiar with mush, it’s fried cornmeal, best I understand. It’s a southern dish, I think, that Grandma made when she was young. And when she migrated north with her husband, she brought that tradition with her.
Food brings people together. And when it’s scrumptious, people want to linger and enjoy it. Now that I think about it, that’s probably what Grandma had in mind.
I loved her friend mush. If I had to describe it, I’d say it tasted like fried fat. Crispy, crunchy, buttery, breaded, scrumptious fat. I know that sounds gross, but mix in a little cornmeal with fat and it’s so good!
Grandma would cut it into small rectangles, and when she placed them on the table, they would still be sizzling. If you’re in America, think Applebee’s sizzlin’ skillets.
This article feels a little self-indulgent, but it’s driven by a desire to preserve such memories before they fade. I yearn for my nieces and nephews to be aware of our family traditions, and I’d be thrilled if one of them heard about this one and tried to cook fried mush in honor of the woman they never had the chance to meet.
Reaching one’s fifties often means holding on to fond memories of loved ones whom younger generations never had the opportunity to know. Aside from letters or recordings, sharing their stories remains one of the most effective ways to keep their memories alive. As Margaret Atwood once wrote, “In the end, we’ll all become stories.” In my mind, this includes not only humorous anecdotes but also obscure recipes, unique quirks and other off-the-wall details that shape the essence of who our loved ones were.
Grandma was an unbelievably good cook. She did things with a roast that I’ve never tasted since. I’ve never come close to recreating it in my own slow cooker or frying pan.
Remember how Ray Barone’s mom, Marie, always used to say her food was made with love? Well, that’s what that generation believed. It wasn’t a means to an end; it was an experience. But it was also an agent for keeping people around the dinner table, engaged in meaningful conversation. And I think we’d all benefit from more dinner table time.
