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One can't describe the feeling of catching a wild West Virginia Trout with a rod you built and a fly you tied.
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Friday, March 13, 2009
Mother Nature is a Pole dancer, or That first batch of Iced Tea for the season
6:50 AM | Posted by
David |
Finally, the weather gave me a few rare moments to sit in the swing and feel that, perhaps, winter has been chased away. It seems like forever since I was able to sit in the swing, watch the river and enjoy a glass of ice cold sweet tea. As I sat there with such a wonderful elixir in my glass, it brought back a memory of one of my less than wise ventures to the low country of South Carolina.I'm not sure of the history of sweet tea. I'm sure, however, there are a lot of claims to it's origin. If you talk to someone from the south, they lay claim to it as strongly as they do to grits and NASCAR.
I was at an old home place that still held all the stereotypes of days gone by in the south, complete with Spanish Moss and tall white pillars across a long, deep front porch. I was taken to the kitchen to be introduced to the gathered family and obviously where only the women folk were allowed. It was almost as if I had walked into the women's restroom by mistake. Sundays after church was a tradition one simply didn't skip unless one wanted to be the blunt of next Sunday's tongue lashing. The same food was served each Sunday, including the old standby of fried chicken and all the trimmings.
First on the list was the introduction to "mama" who was obvious the kitchen pit boss. Still dressed in her Sunday finest with the addition of a well worn apron, she was barking out orders as to what went on what plate and what went into the oven at just the right time. You would have thought it was a NASA launch instead of a Sunday meal.
I couldn't help but pick up an aroma of something that was so strange to me. When I asked what it was, I got the strangest look from all the cook trainees under Mama's tutelage. I was told it was "tsup". Something I had never heard of, but must admit I loved the smell. When I asked what in the world is "tsup", I was looked at like an alien asking for someone to take me to their leader. "It's "tsup", David. How do you make Ice Tea without "tsup". It then dawned on me the inherited nature of not pronouncing their "r's " and "g's". They were telling me "Tea Syrup".
I asked what was in it and a silence came over the room, along with a refusal to answer. I knew if I inquired any further all the family "bubbas" would remove me from the room and possibly the property. All I know, it was dark and thick and the steam from it went right to your nose.
Mama said grace at the table that would rival any benediction to a tent revival. Each said a very impressive amen as if to reward her for her oratory. Biscuits the size of a saucer were passed and you took one even if you didn't want it. These people had the ritual down pat, cause the next thing to be passed was the butter. The fried Chicken would rival anything the Colonel would shove into a box. Then the picture of Iced Tea was passed and it was poured over ice in such a tall thin glass. To me there wasn't much more than a good swallow there, it was what they used.
It was then as if someone counted out to three in a silence code, that a napkin was wrapped around the glass. I haven't yet figured that out and glad the men folk didn't partake of that ritual.
I must say I have never tasted fried Chicken that good before or since. I can still remember the stares when I ate it with fork. I think the women folk ate it by hand just to show off the 200 dollar fingernail jobs. Once the main meal was over a plate was served with a large slice of pecan pie. Now, add that to a sugar high from the Iced Tea and you will walk the floors at night for a week. I have always loved Pecan Pie, but I have yet to taste any that was as good as Momma had made for that Sunday dinner. Everyone retired to the front porch with napkin covered glasses in hand. It was there the most recent gossip gathered at church, rather than the sermon, was discussed. My, oh my, those Southerners really know how to spice up one's life, and fair to keep it a secret. I wonder why all these Jr. ministers tend to falter while doing counseling? Needs research I think.
I tried to follow the conversations, but between the accents, sugar high and whispers, I kept loosing track of who was sleeping with who or who had the latest plastic surgery. I still think my ice tea is much better and sitting in the swing with a glass that has no napkin, I can wonder what secrets the river holds instead of what whisper I missed.
As I sat there in the swing sipping my tea I could see all my Daylilies peaking up out of the ground. The Maples are full of leaf buds along with the Dogwood and Redbud trees. The grass is showing green and my Pachysandra is starting to flower. I'm sure there will be at least one Easter Storm front come through. There always is. Yet, I gaze out the windows with a glass of tea in hand and think of warmer days and trout streams waiting. It's been one of the hardest winters on me I can remember. My bones just don't do the cold like they use to. Stil, l I think I'll search the Internet and see if I can find my own "tsup" recipe.
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