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    Sunday Dinner: a Savor the South cookbook
    Sunday Dinner: a Savor the South cookbook
    Sunday Dinner: a Savor the South cookbook
    Ebook138 pages1 hour

    Sunday Dinner: a Savor the South cookbook

    By Bridgette A. Lacy

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    About this ebook

    Bridgette A. Lacy offers an ode to a meal that, notably in the Sabbath-minding South, is more than a meal. Sunday dinner, Lacy observes, is "a state of mind. It is about taking the time to be with the people who matter to you." Describing her own childhood Sunday dinners, in which her beloved, culinary-minded grandfather played an indelible role, Lacy explores and celebrates the rhythms of Sunday food traditions. But Lacy knows that, today, many who grew up eating Sunday dinner surrounded by kin now dine alone in front of the television. Her Sunday Dinner provides remedy and delicious inspiration any day of the week.

    Sure to reward those gathered around the table, Lacy's fifty-one recipes range from classic southern favorites, including Sunday Yeast Rolls, Grandma's Fried Chicken, and Papa's Nilla Wafer Brown Pound Cake, to contemporary, lighter twists such as Roasted Vegetable Medley and Summer Fruit Salad. Lacy's tips for styling meals with an eye to color, texture, and a simple beauty embody her own Sunday dinner recollection that "anything you needed was already on the table."
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherThe University of North Carolina Press
    Release dateSep 15, 2015
    ISBN9781469622460
    Sunday Dinner: a Savor the South cookbook
    Author

    Bridgette A. Lacy

    Bridgette A. Lacy is a journalist who writes about food for the Independent Weekly and the North Carolina Arts Council. She also served as a longtime features and food writer for the Raleigh News & Observer.

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      Book preview

      Sunday Dinner - Bridgette A. Lacy

      Introduction

      FOOD AS LOVE

      My earliest food memories are of sitting on my grandfather’s lap, cutting my teeth on bacon at my grandparents’ home in Lynchburg, Virginia. I was his first grandchild, and he called me his sugar girl. I named him Papa. James Russell Moore Jr. was one of the best cooks I have ever known. He knew how to prepare what he called a good something to eat, especially on the Sabbath.

      He grew lots of fruits and vegetables. His cantaloupes were so sweet, they tasted like he had poured sugar in the ground. He bought his flour for making yeast rolls and cakes from a bakery. His pantry was organized with canned goods clearly labeled and cooking gadgets and utensils neatly stacked in their boxes. On Saturday and Sunday afternoons, there was a flurry of activity in the kitchen. And I had a seat at the table.

      Preparing the Sunday meal was a family affair at my grandparents’ home. I learned to peel potatoes, snap the ends off string beans, and rinse tomatoes, squash, and other produce from Papa’s backyard garden. My mother chopped celery, sliced onions, or washed dishes. Grandma shaped the yeast rolls and fried the chicken. Aunt Barbara Anne set the dining room table for the big meal.

      As a young girl, on warm summer days, I experienced Sunday dinner sitting down with my grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, siblings, and cousins to a meal of fried chicken, potato salad, green beans, and yeast rolls. On cold winter afternoons, Sunday dinner meant generous portions of perfectly seasoned pot roast with mashed potatoes and carrots. The meals were always made with the freshest seasonal produce—often from Papa’s garden or a farmers’ market—along with the nicer cuts of meats and homemade desserts, including coconut pies and what Papa called his Nilla Wafer Brown Pound Cake.

      Unlike weekdays, Sunday was a time when everyone was expected to gather around the table at the same time. Visiting relatives such as Papa’s sister, my great-aunt Ernestine, who lived in New York, and close friends were invited to share a seat at the table on Sundays more than any other day. Or maybe my mother’s brother, Uncle Moco, who lived a few houses up the street, and his family, would be at the table. Sometimes my grandmother’s sister, Aunt Mary Pullen, and her husband, Uncle Weldon, would join us.

      The meal was never rushed, and all lingered at the table for second helpings. There was a lot of please and thank you heard around the table, as well as yes, sir and no, ma’am.

      After dinner, while some of us cleared the table, others retreated to the living room or the front or back porch, depending on the weather.

      Sunday dinner was the artistic expression of my grandfather’s love for his family, and it was a masterpiece. He worked at the foundry molding pipe during the week, but on the weekends, those hands produced the most delicate pies, cakes, and hearty entrées.

      My grandfather came from a large family of ten children. He was born in 1918 to James and Ernestine Moore. His family owned a fifty-five-acre farm in Madison Heights, Virginia, with a chicken coop, a hog pen, and a shelter for a milking cow, surrounded by rows of corn, tomatoes, squash, and green beans for the dinner table.

      Papa met my grandmother when she taught his siblings in a one-room schoolhouse. Marie Moorman stood 5-feet-10-inches tall, recited poetry beautifully, and exhibited an air of sophistication. On occasion, his family invited her to dinner. Papa courted grandma by playing Ain’t She Sweet on his ukulele as they walked along the bank of the James River. Grandma often recalled that she liked him in part because he wasn’t stingy. Another suitor, she said, bought her a soda, only to drink half before she took the first sip. I cherished the telling of that story during those luxurious hours on Sunday afternoons.

      To have the privilege of putting your feet under Papa’s square dining room table was downright spiritual.

      Why Is Sunday Dinner So Important?

      For some, Sunday dinner represents a snapshot of that wonderful time and place where families gathered and recharged, and for others, it may be the start of a ritual they’ve only heard about through older family members. For all, it will be a reminder to carve out that sacred space in life to cherish family and friends and celebrate the big and small moments. Sunday dinner helped shape me as a person. It was during those meals that I expressed my dream of becoming a writer. It was during those meals that I bonded with country cousins, eccentric aunts and uncles, and cherished grandparents. It was during those meals that I learned the rich history of my proud family. We laughed, loved, and ate. We left the table with our hearts and bellies full.

      Sunday still commands a certain type of reverence. Many southerners still feel the need to get in the kitchen and deliver a feast for those closest to them. It often starts with carefully selecting fresh produce from the farmers’ market on Saturday, then rising early on Sunday morning to marinate and season meats or shape yeast rolls needing to rise by dinnertime.

      My grandparents are gone now, but most Sunday afternoons, I return to that table where my love for that sacred meal first started. It’s uncanny how many times my mother and I are eating the same dishes on Sunday afternoon even though we are separated by 263 miles and we haven’t discussed the meal ahead of time.

      Sunday dinner, especially in the South, is more than a meal—it’s a state of mind. It’s about taking the time to be with the people who matter to you. During the week, we often are rushing—to get home, to get to a meeting, or to get to a child’s after-school activity. On Sunday, we can slow down, relax, and savor the food and relationships that will nourish us for the rest of the week.

      Today, there are fewer large family clans. Children have moved far away from parents and grandparents. Uncles and cousins no longer live within walking distance. Many of us who grew up eating Sunday dinner surrounded by family now eat dinner alone. For others, Sunday dinner has become an afternoon at the local all-you-can-eat buffet, eating among tables of strangers.

      But the lure of Sunday dinner has never left. And so as a single woman, I have often sought out friends and colleagues to join my culinary communion especially on Sundays.

      Like many Americans especially during the week, I eat dinner alone. Sometimes I scarf down my food while watching television in my

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