Each Sunday for many years of my childhood, my Grandma cooked dinner, it was a special time..the family together, a tablecloth dressing the table. The menu almost always consisted of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, homemade gravy, biscuits, sliced onions and maybe jello mixed with cool whip or a pie, depending on how she felt.
It was a time of stories, a time of hearing of things no longer done. How the baby chicks came early one year and they had to be kept in the house, roooms lined in paper, so they wouldn't die of cold. Or how you smoke a hog, render the lard and finish with head cheese so nothing went to waste. The depression was a horrific time for many, my Mama's family faired a bit easier than some, they had land and cattle.
Even now as I age into my 50s, the relaxation and peace of Sunday brings a faint haunting of saddness from the absence of those meals, the stories and the past.
