A couple of weekends ago I had the pleasure of experiencing a first in my life: a real Southern homecoming. This was no high school football game complete with king and queen, but an actual small town homecoming. Okay, it was technically a church homecoming, but in tiny Bostwick, Georgia, it’s one and the same.
Walter and I joined his father, his fathers’ father, and quite a few other Thompsons on a beautiful September day filled with food, family, and fellowship. Among the highlights of such a joyous occasion, besides catching up with long lost friends and relatives, was the potluck that brought everyone together. The atmosphere felt spirited, and the attitude was “come as you are and bring what you can,” even if it’s only your appetite.
An event based entirely around Southern home cooking, in my opinion at least, is nothing short of momentous; in fact, I live for eating experiences like these. As I impatiently waited for the banquet room doors to open, I couldn’t help but peek through the glass portholes to admire the rows and rows of country cooking. Despite the tiny windows being fogged with my warm breath, I could see everything from deviled eggs and fried chicken, to countless creamy casseroles waiting before me. (And yes, perhaps I slipped out of church service early to garner a first place in line. But can you blame me?)
In the name of research, I felt obliged to sample every bite I could muster. I found the biggest plate available and scooped heaps from every Pyrex dish I saw. And still it just kept coming. I deliriously devoured whatever food came my way, even if it meant sneaking extra bites from my unassuming tablemates. Walt’s family, bless them, watched in shock and awe. Not without judgement but with sheer amazement (I hope). I’m not sure they’ve ever seen another girl with as much passion to eat!
Everything was wonderful; it was like the best Thanksgiving you could imagine. Right in front of me was the very cuisine that represented the end of a culinary era: bright green jello fluff and canned mushroom soup may not be en vogue anymore, but on that lovely day in that lovely town, nothing could taste better. Delicious food, made with love, and deserving of nothing but praise. Food snobs be damned, this is Southern fare at it’s finest.
Hey, I may have gained five pounds that day, but I can tell you one thing. I can’t wait until next year! (That gives me 365 days to get in shape.)
{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
So delicious! I can’t wait . . . this next Sunday is our “Dinner on the Ground.” It’s my favorite meal of the year!
Glad you took so many wonderful photos.
So glad you joined us for Homecoming!
That is a beautiful sight and I’m sure many of those recipes have been handed down through generations! I might need to put Bostwick on my places to visit
Hey Nealey! What a feast! Those long white church tables lined with home-cooked Southern dishes always bring me joy. I experienced one again just a few weeks ago. My parents came to my small southeast Alabama hometown 40 years ago and I grew up there before I went to college, got married, and moved up to “the big city.” When my mom passed away suddenly, the church put together a luncheon before the funeral. It had been less than 48 hours since I’d gotten the news and I was preparing to give an eulogy for my mother. I was nervous as hell and hadn’t actually eaten much of anything in two days. But when I stepped into the social hall and saw the rows and rows of comfort food, I suddenly found my hunger again. I ate a huge plate of all the veggies and casseroles I could stand, and finished off with the most delectable desserts I’d tasted in years. I still crave some more of that blueberry cream cheese cool whip stuff. Well, let me tell you, those ladies don’t know what they did for me. That food SUSTAINED me. I got right up in front of 300+ people packed into that beautiful old brick Methodist church and read my tribute. I was teary, of course, but I swallowed hard and thought about the love that was poured into that food, and how much those ladies loved my mother, how much I loved my mother, how much my mother loved me, and I survived. I didn’t faint or fall over or break out into an ugly cry. And every time I get a little down, I think of all the meals MY mother made for so many people, and how many people have brought ME a meal over the past few weeks, even way up here in Atlanta, meals made with so much love they might burst for all the goodness. And I’m thankful. And THAT is why I will never underestimate the power of a good potluck.