My momma was a lovely Southern Belle born and bred in the backwater of the Florida panhandle. She was beautiful in a country girl sort of way. With her emerald green eyes, jet black hair and lithe form, she could turn a head or two with no effort at all. I will never forget the light that came into her eyes when she spoke of those glorious days of youth when to be pursued by the local beaus was a matter of course. She was the talk of the town, what town there was, and the belle of the ball; and she loved every minute of it.
Like most of the Southern Belles I have been blessed to meet and marry over the years she was a lovely combination of gentility and don’t mess with me. Like her mother before her, she had a heart of gold, a backbone of cast iron, the temper and tenacity of an irate bobcat and a smile that could disarm any number of desperados.
The definition of a Southern Belle was my momma, and the southern heritage in her veins rang true; but like the Liberty Bell before her, my momma was a little cracked.
She hid it well, but once in a while a discordant note would sound and the family would know that mom was in a mood; and that at the very least, something unique and perhaps, dare I say, disturbing was about to happen.
Christmas dinner was often accompanied by such a discordant note. You see my mother had a unique, and to me at least, a startling take on Christmas dinner sometimes.
Whereas most of the civilized world, that would be the South, had settled on ham or turkey for the entrée with mashed potatoes, butter beans, creamed corn, candied yams and the like for the sides; it would appear that my mother had attended the Andy Warhol School for the Culinary Arts and had other opinions.
I kid you not, over the years we as a family enjoyed, or in my particular case endured, a vegetarian Christmas Dinner, a Mexican Christmas dinner, a broiled fish Christmas dinner, a cocktail weenie Christmas dinner and the crème de la crème of Christmas dinners, a steamed oyster Christmas dinner with a side of raw oysters for the, quote, “regular folks.”
Now I can take a lot. I can; but when I entered mom’s house that Christmas morning for the annual Rowell family Christmas expecting to be greeted by the savory smells of roast beast and figgy pudding, only to be met with the pungent odor of oysters on the half shell enjoying a nice steam, my reaction was predictable if not pleasant.
You see, I am very consistent in a few things. I don’t like change, and I have no love for oysters, raw or otherwise. To me they are gooey and creepy, squishy and grey. As a foodstuff, they are a sorry substitute for turkey and dressing, trust me.
At the time of this surfside Christmas dinner, I was old enough to know better than to make a scene. After all I was a seminarian and student preacher and to fuss and cuss and fume just wouldn’t do. So I did the next best thing. I found a chair off by itself, sat down and pouted like a three year old.
My momma, God rest her soul, spied her melancholy middle child, pulled up a chair across from me and shamelessly laughed at me.
When she finally caught her breath she said with a grin, “You haven’t learned much in that seminary of yours have you?”
I said “M’am?”
Then momma looked deeply into my eyes and said: “Christmas isn’t about you Tone. You of all people should know that.”
Later when she brought out the fried chicken that she had prepared for my Christmas dinner, I had to fight off the rest of the family like they were a pack of wild dogs. No matter though, it was nice to know that I wasn’t alone.
A few years later, just before Christmas, my momma passed away, leaving the family lost and alone and rudderless for a while; and leaving her melancholy middle child heartbroken even to this day.
Jane, my sister, and I were with momma when she passed; and as I felt her body relax beneath my touch, I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving for the mother with whom I had been blessed. Odd as she could be at times, I could not have asked for better.
Christmas can be a difficult time for some of us. I will forever be reminded of my mother’s passing as Christmas approaches. I am reminded as well of the poignant words of my mother all those years ago reminding me that Christmas isn’t about me; Christmas is about the amazing love that our Creator holds in His heart for each of us.
So whether its turkey and dressing or steamed oysters, celebrate the Christ child this coming Christmas and rejoice in the love that your God has for you.
Bon Appétit and Merry Christmas!
Tony Rowell
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