Mississippi County - grace grits and gardening

The Year of the Bear!

April 3, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Robert and Brittney sitting in a tree,
K
I
S
S
I
N
G….

For the love of Baylor Nation, isn’t it obvious that Brittney Griner and Robert Griffin III should have a dunking contest, marry and have some amazing little baby bears? PlainAsDay.
Can you imagine the supernatural jocks Baylor would celebrate in 2030, with size 18+ shoes and wing spans like that of the great wandering albatross? Ken Starr needs to make this a mission critical Baylor priority before RG3 moves off to ObamaLand and marries a Victoria’s Secret supermodel. Time is of the essence.

Keiser Yellow Jackets
my 9th grade year
#21

When I attempted to play basketball, I hated seeing Parkin on our schedule. Those Parkin girls, and we used that term loosely, were behemoths with sumo arms and thighs as sturdy as oak tree trunks. In 7th grade, I prayed Coach Graham would forget I was on the team. Please God keep the starters out of foul trouble. My stomach cramped at the thought of being sent in. Going head to head with these titans gave me nightmares. My only semi-basketball-virtue was my height, although it was no great asset when I tried to hide away at the end of the bench, disappearing into my own body like a shrinky dink. And I certainly wasn’t Brittney Griner tall. I had normal sized girl feet and could wear cute shoes, had there been any cute shoes in the 1970s.

My mother was an incredible basketball player with an amazing hook shot that people still talk about in Mississippi County. I had no such shot. She was passionate about the sport and nearly got herself ejected from many a game when my sister and I played. Her behavior only further reminded Coach Graham that I was in fact on the team.

Back inside the safety of our school bus, we were always relieved to have survived another game without death or life threatening injury among the team members or mothers. What were they feeding those girls? Our mothers were convinced some of the Parkin girl’s basketball team players also suited up on the football team last fall. Hmmmm. It was a hot PTA topic. We begged Coach Graham to stop the bus in West Memphis or Marion on the way back to eat supper after the game. Thinking back, a quarter pounder with cheese was probably not the best way to strengthen our core and hone our ball handling skills. While we were giggling and feasting at McDonalds, those Parkin girls were probably drinking steroid laced energy drinks and running bleacher laps to stretch out their dragonslayer quads. Oh well, it’s not whether you win or lose right? Ha. What a crock.

Sic’ em Lady Bears! Beat the Irish.

Lady Bears v. Aggies

talya

Musical Pairings:

George Baines Rosborough, “That Good Old Baylor Line”
R Kelly, “I Believe I Can Fly”

“The only difference between a good shot and a bad shot is if it goes in or not.” – Charles Barkley

cute bear at the Alamo Bowl:)

Shall we gather at the river?

March 30, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Woodrow Johnson - Johnson Family, Little River

Uncle Woody
Woodrow Johnson

Once upon a time not so very long ago, there was a mystical headless horseman who silently rode along the banks of Little River at dusk. Sitting atop an enormous horse, he wore a flowing cape that trailed behind him. He could most certainly be seen when there was a fog or mist rolling in. And if that wasn’t eerie enough, a gigantic black snake slithered around within the overgrown brush on those banks as well.

A huge snake, bigger than the one at the Memphis Zoo, more like the ones in National Geographic that swallowed whole villages. We were very mindful playing around Little River, because that snake snacked on little girls just for fun. Thank goodness Uncle Woody kept a vigilant eye on these dangers. He was a Navy man, trained for menacing assignments around U.S. waterways. And he always reminded us of these creatures that lived only a few cartwheels from the back door, especially at bedtime. We often spent the night with our cousin Lesa.

As masterful as Uncle Woody was at weaving together a hypnotic tale, Aunt Lavern was just as skillful whipping up a luscious banana pudding or chicken pot pie in the kitchen. Both could make your heart skip a beat. Who wouldn’t want to fritter away time there? Snake or no snake.

Talya, Lesa, Staci
Cousins:)

We played on the Little River ditch banks, building forts and making trails. We stayed out there all day until supper time, coming home with sunburns and cockleburs. On Sunday afternoons, we often hid down inside the weeds around the water, watching a group being baptized in the muddy water. One by one these sinners waded into the mucky water. No way would I go in there! Plus, did these folks not know about the SNAKE? This was Little River for heaven’s sake, not the River Jordan! This was not the way we did it at Brinkley Chapel just down the road.

We sat and watched, silently mesmerized. These people seemed to speak a completely different language. Were they speaking in tongues? We read about that in Sunday School, but we didn’t partake at our church. Maybe we should – it would certainly shake things up a bit. In fact, maybe these people were snake handlers… Hmmmm. That would explain a lot. Sometimes we accidentally giggled and rustled the underbrush. I’m sure they spied us in the tall grass, and said a prayer for the little heathen barefoot girls with cherry Kool-aid mustaches. Aunt Lavern would eventually discover us over by the bridge and shoo us into some more appropriate activity, leaving these people to their sin washing in peace.

Aunt Lavern

The Johnson family has always gathered at Little River for reunions. Cousins and babies and aunts and uncles make their way back to that little spot between Athelstan and Carroll’s Corner to visit and eat and laugh and hug and sing and talkandtalkandtalkandtalk. The Johnsons are a talking, eating, hugging, singing bunch of people. They drive in from Missouri and Texas and Louisiana and just down the road. Uncle Woody died years ago and sadly, Aunt Lavern passed away recently. Will this tradition change? I know she would still want everyone to gather at the river. At her house. Just watch for the headless horseman. And the black snake.

Aunt Lavern’s Chicken Pot Pie
1 can cream of potato soup
1 can cream of chicken soup
1 can of veg-all (mixed veggies) drained – about 16 oz
1/4 c milk
Thyme, salt, pepper to taste (or whatever seasoning you like)
3 cooked and chopped chicken breasts (or leftover turkey)
One package Pillsbury pie crust (2 crusts to a pkg folded) or homemade pie crusts

Mix all ingredients and pour into one crust. Fold other crust on top. Vent top with a few knife cuts or use a pie bird. Bake at 350 degrees for approx 1 hour 15 min until brown and bubbly.

Note: I always make this with leftover turkey after Thanksgiving. The turkey is well seasoned already which makes the pot pie flavorful. Also, I usually have leftover roasted veggies of some sort to use instead of Veg-All. Carrots, parsnips, potatoes, anything will work well. I prefer to buy the creamy potato/leek soup at Whole Foods, but any “cream of” soup…. celery, mushroom, etc, will work. And to save time you can use one of those roasted chickens from the grocery store (if it isn’t Thanksgiving). This freezes well. I usually make 2 and freeze one. Also, you can leave out the meat and add additional veggies for a vegetarian pot pie.

talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Musical Pairings:

Alison Krause, “Down to the River to Pray”

“The preacher says all my sins is warshed away, including that Piggly Wiggly I knocked over in Yazoo.” Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

my secret garden

March 28, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

my well-worn copy

Santa knew I was a voracious reader. He fed my addiction, always bringing me a stack of books for Christmas which I devoured more quickly than the chocolate candy in my stocking. One year he gave me The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. It was magical and life-changing as I became completely lost within the pages, on the moors at Misselthwaite Manor. Mary Lennox and I were both ten years old, and I somehow related to her. Living in the country surrounded by bare winter fields could be a bit dull.

It was the first book I read that I simply could not put down. Although I wanted it to last forever, I quickly inhaled it. Wrapped in my blue and white polka dot sleeping bag and hidden underneath the dining room table, I found myself behind the stone garden wall, reading cover to cover one cold, Sunday afternoon, after church. It was a quiet spot to read as long as my little sister didn’t search for me. And it was cozy with the wall furnace nearby. Everyone needs a place to hide sometime. By the time the thistles turned to roses at the end of the story, I was designing my own secret garden. Someday.

Our secret garden

Forty years and hundreds of books later, The Secret Garden is still one of my top 10 books. It may even be in my top 5. I re-read it every few years and discover new things each time. And it continues to inspire me as John and I plant and trim and weed our tiny, postage stamp sized yard near downtown Dallas. It was a challenge from the beginning with no fence, bad dirt, a dying trash tree, and an oddly shaped deck. Slowly, we are transforming our bit of earth, hidden behind an iron fence and a few Japanese maple trees.

Along the way, we’ve discovered our garden has a few secrets of its own. Underneath the garage lies an old root cellar. It was filled in years ago, but we discovered its massive concrete doors during pool excavation. UpCharge…. And each time we dig a hole to plant a flower, we find a brick. Through research we discovered several apartment units were built onto the back of the house for returning soldiers after WWII. After demolition, these bricks were buried over time. So far, we’ve found no gold bricks, jars of silver coins, or a secret garden gate key buried in a badger hole. Although John thinks we might have a badger…

Within the tangle of oregano lives a yellow plastic army man – he guards the plants with his rifle drawn. I stationed him there after digging him up in the yard, evidently forgotten by a child who played here years ago. That army man is doing a great job – we have enough oregano to open a pizza restaurant. And to say my cactus is thriving is an understatement. What began as a small cutting from my Nana’s cactus is taking over our side yard. Some people inherit jewels or antiques, but I have a family heirloom cactus.

For such a small space, the life within it is pretty phenomenal. Along with bright green geckos, varieties of butterflies and a giant orange dragonfly that hovers and darts over the pool like the enchanted golden Snitch, we also have entertaining birds. A cardinal family built a nest on one side of the yard and the blue jay family moved in to the adjacent nest. They reluctantly coexist, but occasionally like the Bloods and Crips, there’s a confrontation.

Last weekend, a baby screech owl tried to move into the garden as well. Like nosey neighbors, the cardinals and blue jays lined up along the back fence protesting and gossiping as John fished the fledgling from the pool. Owls can’t swim, and this one was just learning to fly. I suspect the Angry Birds pushed the baby owl into the water.

The owl has been relocated to a nearby bird sanctuary, the cardinals and blue jays are now settled back into their respective nests and two busy schnauzers are diligently patrolling the perimeter this morning. All is calm, all is bright in our garden refuge.