Let Us Now Praise Famous Cooks music and lyrics by Price Walden
Program Note I will never forget the day John T. Edge and I met in his office to talk about what this piece would become. We had each, serendipitously, brought copies of White Trash Cooking, seeing in this one volume all the stories and hopes we wanted to share with the world. After lots of reading and two amazing days of research at the University of Florida library, I found a kindred spirit in Ernest Matthew Mickler and his two books, White Trash Cooking and Sinkin Spells, Hot Flashes, Fits, and Cravins. I saw myself and the women I grew up with in Booneville, Mississippi, on every page, and I knew these were the people we should celebrate. Ernest Matthew Mickler was born in Palm Valley, Florida, in 1940. After a brief career as a country singer and earning an MFA from Mills College in Oakland, California, Mickler went back to his Florida roots and cobbled together White Trash Cooking, a collection of 229 recipes and 46 photographs from his travels. Harper Lee called it “a beautiful testament to a stubborn people of proud and poignant heritage,” while Colman Andrews called it “the best American cookbook of the century, by far.” In 1988, Mickler tragically died of AIDS, the very next day after the publication of Sinkin Spells, Hot Flashes, Fits, and Cravins. What follows is a song cycle in name, but, at heart, it is a series of portraits of six women and one man, all either from or suggested by Micklerʼs recipes and writings. In a culture of class warfare and elitism, we have forgotten the skill and ingenuity it takes to produce a cuisine this rich and varied. In this age of “white trash” theme parties and poverty tourism, I hope to restore depth and grace to our cultureʼs caricatures of the human beings that Ernie and I found so much beauty and vitality in. Let Us Now Praise Famous Cooks is a set of six songs, lovingly dedicated to Sarah Taylor Ellis, and performed in memory of Ernest Matthew Mickler, a Renaissance man for the rest of us.
Margieʼs Fried Chicken The opening stanza and the recipe for Margieʼs Fried Chicken can be found on page 37 of White Trash Cooking. The rest of this story is fiction, though, if youʼve ever been woken up too early by a rooster, not implausible. “You take a chicken and you kill it And you put it in a skillet And fry to a golden brown Thatʼs Southern Cookinʼ And itʼs mighty fine” Margie Walsh woke up at five A.M. Took her butcher knife to the chicken pen. She was determined to let her family sleep in, So breakfast was chicken; the alarm clock had met his end. Oh, the sweet peace and quiet as she cut it up to fry it. Margieʼs Fried Chicken was the envy of the town. A little lemon, a pinch of allspice and a beer to wash it down. But Margie kept her secret close until the day she died. She knew revenge is a dish thatʼs best served fried. Tuesday morning, Margie woke in a state of shock Two houses over was the home of a roaring cock-a-doodle-doo Before she knew it, she had missiled a rock. So, Tuesday, more chicken; she had won her another clock. Her family thought the menus odd, but they would all just smile and nod because Margieʼs Fried Chicken was the envy of the town.
A little lemon, a pinch of allspice and a beer to wash it down. But Margie kept her secret close until the day she died. She knew revenge is a dish thatʼs best served fried. Well, demand started growing. Other roosters started crowing. And potluck time was getting going. But when Margie walked in Nebo Creek with chicken two feet high the congregation just let out a sigh, because Margieʼs Fried Chicken was the envy of the town. A little lemon, a pinch of allspice and a beer to wash it down. [Unless, youʼre a Baptist, in which case, and I quote, “Have a lemonade, and may God bless your home.”] But Margie kept her secret close until the day she died. She knew revenge is a dish thatʼs best served fried.
Beulah This song takes as its starting point the classic gospel song “Beulah Land,” and is dedicated in memory of my great aunt, Pauline Wigginton, who taught me the arts of ironing and the banana and mayo sandwich. “Iʼm kind of homesick for a place Iʼve never seen,” Beulah told me, as she ironed my jeans. Tuesday mornings, a breakfast of buttermilk and cake. She said, “We ainʼt got much, but what weʼve got weʼll take ʻtil we get home.” Aunt Beulah lived in a trailer on the other side of town, Far away from heaven, far away from settled down. With trembling hands, she made our lunch, a banana and mayo spread, Then she grasped my hand, closed her eyes, and Beulah said, “Iʼm getting homesick for Canaanʼs happy shore, and I just canʼt feel at home in this old world anymore. This bodyʼs fleeting, and my work is nearly done. Just a few more meals, a few more hours, and Iʼll see the Son. Take me home.” Oh Beulah, Beulah take me home. Beulah never saw the day her garden would survive, but she had little use for life on this side.
“Iʼll never read my name in the paper or win at the county fair, but I know when they call that heavenly roll, Iʼll hear Gabriel declare, ʻBeulah, welcome home.ʼ” Oh, Beulah, Beulah, welcome home. Beulah, Beulah, welcome home.
The Lonely Hunters Inspired by a sketch of a story from Mickler始s notebooks, this is a story of Southern love at its finest. Vada and Mildred lived at the bottom of county road three-thirty-one Both in their fifties, you would never see the other without the one Mildred did chores while Vada would hunt for whatever protein they didn始t eat yesterday. Vada could skin a possum before you knew he was deceased and Mildred had learned precisely the way to get him sugared and greased. Neither had needs to stand on their own. A pair better fit has never been known. Once, our two heroines took an adventure. (Vada had planned a surprise.) At Moccasin Creek, they hit they jackpot. Mildred just couldn始t believe her eyes; Resting themselves on the edge of the creek: Enough cooters for stew to last for a week. Vada and Mildred were satisfied with their lot. If they couldn始t kill it or make it, that need was a not. A kitchen for two and a bedroom for one, and possums to share for years to come. Neither had needs to stand on their own. A pair better fit has never been known.
Edna Rae Edna Rae Mickler was, at one time or another, a gas station attendant, a restauranteur, a fisher, a shrimper, a mother of 5 boys; all in all, a more fascinating woman than one song can contain. Instead, I chose a meditation on her generosity of spirit. Just across a bridge in Palm Valley stands a station with no sign where Edna Rae sold kerosene and candy and beer, just crossed the county line. A cigar box with change for the needy just in case a house burned down a Rolodex of recipes for the hungry and numbers to every phone in the town. If trouble came, Edna Rae was always standing by to make a batch of hoe cakes Jesus neednʼt multiply. In the parking lot of that old store, the offering box was passed with a scripture to remind you, ʻMake the first out of the last.ʼ Now the stationʼs closed, the bridge is new The years have washed away their mark I might forget the faces, but I wonʼt forget the touch that taught me how to pierce the dark. Just across a bridge in Palm Valley where the road meets the waterway, a widow and five sons gave us a second chance to make ourselves another day.
Aunt Doe Raeʼs Sermon to the Ladies of the Mt. Nebo Creek Baptist Church, or Dinners in the Hands of an Angry God Freely adapted from the final story of Sinkin Spells, Hot Flashes, Fits, and Cravins, this song is a fire-and-brimstone celebration of all the tinfoil covered dishes at your local potluck. Sisters, I stand before you Havinʼ mustered all my might, ʻCause the spread you brought to last yearʼs dinner was a shameful, shameful sight. With cartons and boxes from all the fast foods in the county, The gifts you put before our Savior were far from righteous bounty. And the Lord appeared to me in a dream. He told me, “Doe Rae, tell ʻem what weʼve seen.” Your offerings are nothing to applaud. These are just dinners in the hands of an angry God. Who needs Colonel Sanders, always licking at his digits when weʼve got Margie Walsh, whose chickenʼs never seen a fridge? Itʼs them poisons in that fast eatinʼ thatʼs caused this lack of pride. ʻCause nothinʼ called a number two should leave you satisfied. If Lucy Mae and her one hand can bake up lemon pies, you all can bring something to dry tears from my eyes. Jesus save my soul, Iʼm shocked and awed youʼd bring these dinners to the hands of an angry God. When the roll is called up yonder it wonʼt be by Sister Schubert. If you think angels eat out, youʼre in for a world of new hurt.
ʻTdonʼt matter if itʼs all from scratch or four can tuna pie, just strap those aprons on and let those skillets start to fry.
If at next Sundayʼs prayer meetinʼ you keep up all this soulless eatinʼ, It wonʼt be the cholesterol thatʼs gonna get you after all. Donʼt think Iʼll spare the child and spoil the rod to deal with dinners in the hands of an angry God. A reading from Genesis: “And God liked Abel and his offering, but He did not like Cain and his offering. And the Lord said unto Cain, “Why are you mad? If you do good, wonʼt you be accepted? And if you donʼt do good, sin is lying at your doorstep, awaitinʼ.” Now Betty Sue, whatʼs there to say for apple pie you had to pay for? You can call me nasty, brash, or rude, but with your idle hands, youʼve made the Devilʼs food. Like your brother Cain, youʼve all come up a fraud: Youʼre all just sinners, I mean dinners in the hands of an angry God.
Someday This song was inspired by Andrew Holleranʼs essay on attending Micklerʼs funeral. The repeated refrain consists of two quotes: the first two lines from Micklerʼs singersongwriter days, the final line his inscription of his book to a friend just before he passed. We, your disciples, took your last supper in the fellowship hall of the church “When you take this meal, do it for me. And talk to someone you donʼt know.” Another queen told us that grief is the price we pay for having felt love. If by the next tide, you are not at my side, I guess weʼll figure it out someday. A brush on my hand as I stole the last rib, a final communion to go. A hitch in my breath as the sun coats my skin, baptismal fire and glare. Love never dies but the ones we love do. You left us these gifts to sustain. If by the next tide, you are not at my side, I guess weʼll figure it out someday.