Growing Up With Elvis

Standard

By Pookie

He’s been dead longer than I’ve been alive, but I grew up with Elvis. Not through his music, but through bathrooms.

As a way of honoring the King, my parents hung a picture of Elvis above every toilet in our home: an ironic gesture that I like to think he would have appreciated. My brother and I never questioned it growing up, we thought of Elvis as the patron saint of bathrooms, until we learned where the music legend died. We still find it funny.

No bathroom has the same totem. One has a Russell Stover’s Chocolate box graced with his iconic visage while another has a black and white Andy Warhol print of Elvis singing. But the master bathroom is a special shrine to the King. Above that toilet is a picture from December 21, 1970: Elvis shaking hands with President Richard Nixon in the Oval Office.

Apparently, Elvis set up the meeting with the President in hopes of getting a badge from the Federal Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. Although he didn’t get the “free drugs” badge, as he saw it, he did get to schedule a meeting with the head of the free world on his own terms, in the famous office, and gift him a Colt .45 from his personal collection while saying “I’m on your side”.

The photo that doesn’t look like it should exist has evolved into a somehow factual myth. There is now even a movie due out this year based on this coming together of 1970s super powers. Elvis and Nixon will star Michael Shannon playing Elvis and Kevin Spacy adding onto his presidential acting resume as President Nixon.

Looking at this picture, I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t want to be Elvis. Starting as a poor kid from Tupelo, Mississippi and growing into such an influential person that he could arrange meetings with the most important people in the world and have them actually play along, even while wearing a purple velvet suit, cape, and obnoxiously large belt.

Long Live The King.

Pookie is a poet and proud Ole Miss Alum who is currently pursuing a Master of Fine Arts degree.

Advertisements

Cooking for Eudora

Standard

“…like all good visits snatched from the jaws of time…” – Eudora Welty, letter to William and Emily Maxwell, June 10, 1970.

This is how I feel when my friend Cecelia and I meet for lunch—whether it’s a long overdue catch-up like the one we enjoyed today or a brief conversation over a sandwich.

Cecelia is also a world class cook with intuition: the friend who somehow senses that you didn’t quite make it to the grocery or that while the husband is travelling you will probably settle into a giant bowl of cereal for dinner. Without having to say a word, she will appear on the doorstep with a perfect Flow Blue Platter full of her famous “Macho Salad” or pork tenderloin with apples saying “I just made way too much and we’ll never finish it all.”

Cecelia is a gracious Southerner in the tradition of Eudora Welty’s neighbor and the Southern Living cookbook author Winifred Green Cheney, who kept the great writer as well as many other friends and neighbors sustained.

“She cooks to honor the visitor, and also she cooks for a varying but ever-present list of neighbors or friends who are convalescing from illness, who are in trouble of some kind, who are alone or confined to their homes,” Welty wrote in the preface to Cheney’s 1976 cookbook The Southern Hospitality Cookbook.

“The original Lady Bountiful was the invention of an Irish dramatist in 1707,” Welty wrote. “Winifred exists as her own version. She makes her rounds with baskets and trays as a simple extension of her natural hospitality. In good weather but especially in bad, splashing forth in raincoat and tennis shoes, carrying a warm cake straight from her oven, she sympathizes with you or celebrates with you by sharing her table with you.”

In addition to being a world-class neighbor, Cheney was a food columnist for The National Observer and also wrote the Southern Living Cooking for Company as well as the books Singing Heart and Singing His Song. Although her recipes are definitely from the 1970s sour cream loving era, I take some comfort in the fact that Cheney died at the age of 87 in 2000; Welty died the following year at age 91.

My favorite recipe from Cheney’s Southern Hospitality is the Sour Cream Pound Cake which she introduces with little fanfare other than “With no exceptions, this is the best pound cake I have ever tasted.”

Agreed!

Sour Cream Pound Cake

“Let me be confined to my typewriter with a deadline, and, as though it were a fate I didn’t deserve, Winifred appears with something on a tray to sustain me,” Eudora Welty.

Preheat oven to 325

1 ½ cups butter, room temperature
3 cups sugar
6 large eggs, room temperature
1 cup sour cream
3 cups all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon baking soda
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon flavoring (vanilla, lemon or ½ teaspoon vanilla and ½ teaspoon almond)

Cream butter until it has reached the consistency of whipped cream. When you think you have creamed it enough, cream it some more. Slowly dribble in sugar a tablespoon at a time, beating well after each addition.

Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Stir in sour cream. Put measured flour into sifter with soda and salt, and resift three times. Add flour ½ cup at a time to creamed butter, blending well with mixer on lowest speed. Add flavoring.(Cheney used vanilla and almond along with two tablespoons brandy. I use orange blossom honey moonshine).

Pour batter into one tube pan, greased and lined with parchment paper. Bake for 1 ¼ to 1 ½ hours or until cake tests done. Cool on rack 15 minutes and sprinkle with powdered sugar. Remove from pan and continue to cool.

Enjoy!

READING FAULKNER

Standard

“So maybe you will enter the literary profession as so many Southern gentlemen and gentlewomen too are doing now and maybe you will remember this and write about it. You will be married then I expect and perhaps your wife will want a new gown or a new chair for the house and you can write this and submit it to the magazines,” Miss Rosa Coldfield, Absalom, Absalom!

I can’t describe this trip without sounding like a lunatic. Or a poser. Or both possibly.

It’s the hottest week of the summer of 2011 and I’m behind the wheel of our Passat wagon barreling North up Mississippi’s U.S. 45. I’ve got the best Mississippi gas station barbeque beef tips balanced on the center console, some sweet tea in a Styrofoam cup and the husband reading to me from Absalom, Absalom!.

It was a scene that would have made William Faulkner proud: his work read aloud while the reader ate barbeque through Mississippi.

We were on our way to the annual Faulkner and Yoknapatawpha Conference hosted by the University of Mississippi that summer after reading about it for years in the New York Times book review. To be truthful, I was a little uncertain about attending this conference as amateurs. We didn’t even belong to a book club, for heaven’s sake.

But we did have ambitious enthusiasm for Faulkner and his world so spending a week studying, eating crisp catfish on the lawn of Rowan Oak and meeting interesting academics for drinks at City Grocery bar sounded like the perfect way to spend some hard-earned vacation time.

What we found was an unlikely group of high school teachers, graduate students, professors and other couples from across the nation who happen to love Faulkner. These were not academics studying the difficult works of a long-dead Southerner. No, this conference is designed to bring his famous, albeit somewhat confusing, writing in focus for us today.

Because behind the walls of every local gated community lives the ambitious heir of Thomas Sutpen, the Tea Party descendant of the Snopes or even the unaware and spoiled grandchildren of Anse Bundren.

Faulkner is simply telling you a story much like my brother does when he’s come across an act of Redneck stupidity too great to be left alone. If you’ve ever picked up As I Lay Dying and promptly sat it back down after a few chapters, find James Franco’s excellent 2013 film and all will become—at times hysterically—clear.

Or do what Faulkner himself advised his own wife after she had problems with The Sound and the Fury…”read it again.” Or, even better, read it aloud.