Yell at your casseroles

People who do not speak to their ingredients are not real cooks.

I don’t care what Ina or Martha think about that.

That’s what I’ve decided.

I was throwing together a dinner for my friend Jayson. His mom has been sick.

And this is the South, and what we lack in emotional intelligence, we make up for with good cookin’.

(I don’t always find that comforting either—I do find it delicious!)

I was compiling all the ingredients for my salad, portioning out cherry red tomatoes—freshly washed.

After plucking a few from the vine I moved the container, “Now that’s enough. You ladies need to dry off—we can’t just be drippin’ everywhere.”

Or to the romaine rolling on the cutting board, “Would you hold still, I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Or to the casserole as she bubbled in the oven, “Hurry up, honey! We’re already late. I don’t have time for this.”

Because obviously time management is the casserole’s fault, not the chefs.

You simply have to talk to the food.

It’s the most important ingredient in any dish.

When it was finally finished, I packed up all the loot for my meal, put on my driving shoes and walked out the door.

As I entered the elevator my neighbor who lives on 21 looked at me and said, “Boy that smells good. Where are you headed?”

“My friend’s mom is sick in the hospital, so I’m just takin’ them a little dinner and some wine,” I said.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but they are in for a good meal. That smells wonderful!”

“Thank you,” I said. “I hope she travels well. She’s a little soupy for these Atlanta potholes.”

We laughed as I exited the elevator and walked to the car.

Jayson helped me lug all my spoils into the hospital apartment. He had the table nicely set for three.

I pulled out my mason jar with a little thrown together red wine vinaigrette and unlidded the salad.

As I peeled back the tinfoil on the casserole I realized she didn’t travel as well as I would have liked—rag.

(That’s a family thing. If you are messy, sassy, assy, gassy, then, “you are a rag.” Like some ole dishrag. Momma and I like to say, “be the best rag you can be, girl. Whatever kinda rag that is.”)

Her biscuit topper was a little soggy, but she tasted fine.

I know that because it was quiet when we were eating.

Quiet mouths and spoon shoveling always equals delicious.

“Oh I brought wine!” I remembered excitedly.

“I’m not sure what they’ve given us in terms of glasses, but let me look,” Jayson said getting up.

I smiled and pulled three stemmed wine glasses from my dinner bag (a wine bottle bag that’s been repurposed).

“I don’t know who you think you’re dealing with, but this is the South—we are prepared.”

We laughed and ate chicken casserole and maybe little comfort was had.

For both the stomach and the heart.