Martha Thurston
There is nothing fancy about me. I am the daughter of an auto body repairman and a textile mill worker. My dad worked on cars, painting them and would come home smelling of paint and putty dust (a bonding material used to fill in holes in metal). My mother worked in a cotton mill until they all closed down when manufacturing of cotton fabric was shipped overseas in the ’80s and ’90s. I grew up never knowing that my family was poor. It never occurred to me. My parents never spoke of money or lack of money, and I just assumed that we were middle class citizens. My wake up call to that notion came when I was in college and was invited to a friend’s house. They were middle class citizens. My reality was shattered suddenly, and I had a new awareness of life.
Food, just like my living space, was not fancy. Sure, at times my mother would try out recipes that someone had given her, but those recipes did not include items that you would not normally find in our pantry. Our spice rack did not hold hundreds of different spices (mine now does), nor did our refrigerator contain exotic fruits or vegetables. I remember the most exotic thing I ever saw was the coconut that my grandfather would have every Christmas for us. It was such a joy to watch him hammer a nail in it and drain out the coconut water for us before busting it up for us to eat.
Due to our station in life, we did eat many simple meals. Beans and potatoes were a staple. Fried chicken was a once a week meal as my father grew up eating too much chicken when he was a boy. As the story goes, his mother ordered some mail order chickens. The chicks arrived and many were dead. She complained to the company and they sent her more. He said they had so many chickens that you did not have to chase a chicken for dinner. You simply reached your hand out the back door and grabbed one.
Anyhow, due to the cost of meat, we had that only 2-3 times a week. Mostly it was beans and fried potatoes with onion along with biscuits or cornbread. My dad had to have bread with every meal. While that may seem odd, many of us who grew up in the South had this same meal. Beans varied, but potatoes were either fried, mashed, or stewed. A fancy meal may have been a hamburger steak with onions, baked potato, and a salad made with iceburg lettuce and tomato. Actual steak was a splurge.
Overall, I could say that my childhood memories of food were limited, but we did eat well considering what we lacked. My mother was a budget shopper and could stretch meals a long way. I hope to pass some of this off to you, my readers, as I share with you some of the simple meals that made up my childhood.
