April Fools & Counting Candles
That Guy gags his pals. And Jan blows out another candle.
Giggle: April Fools
Fools Party! Undeserved presents for That Guy and gag gifts for you are a win-win for him.
That Guy gags his favorite folks with a unique gift on April Fool’s Day.
Gab: Counting Candles
That Guy’s birthday is not in April. But mine is… And I am ready for the next candle on my birthday cake, plus one to grow on!
My upcoming birthday brings me pause, as I consider this time and place in life and connect my previous lives that got me here. From a baby without a permanent home to being a mother raising my sons and fur babies, a teacher with students who have become authors, becoming a writer and internet entrepreneur, and marrying the man I love who supports it all, I have been blessed.
From the start food connected the dots. Weighing 5.5 pounds (after a castor oil induced labor, two weeks early) my arrival into the world brought chaos. While I downed bottles of formula at the hospital, my parents argued over my name. Daddy finally gave up and left. And by the end of the day, my mother got her choice of “Beverly” as first name, along with Grandmother Copeland’s choice “Jan” as the middle name.
Before my first birthday, on Easter Sunday, my parents were divorced. Most of my life was divided between both grandparents’ homes. The Stevenson’s working farm included a small, white clapboard farmhouse, fields, pastures, and barns. There were dogs, horses, cows, pigs, and many grandchildren to play with on weekends and summers. There I was “Beverly.” At the Copeland’s brick Tudor, filled with fine antiques, leather-bound books, on 70 acres, I was “Jan.” As the only grandchild, I was the center of attention. Outside I made sandcastles in my sandbox and helped Pappy garden. Inside I “cooked” on my kitchen play set alongside my grandmother and cuddled by the fire with her dog, Ervin, as she taught me to read. On birthdays, I blew out the candles on fairy tale birthday cakes and opened gifts galore, from dolls to jewelry. And I was happy at both places.
This life continued until I was almost five. My Grandmother Copeland, the lovely lady who played the piano while singing our song, “You are my sunshine…” was lying in a strange bed in the living room, where her neighbors, friends, and family from South Alabama were “visiting.” I could see her through the dining room’s French doors, where I sat in my best Sunday dress at the marble topped breakfast room table. Daddy gave me a bowl of vanilla ice cream and sat down across the table from me. He nervously tapped a cigarette from an open pack of Camel’s, lit it with one trembling hand, and wiped a tear with the other. As the tip of the cigarette burned red, my mother came in and sat down in the chair beside me. The smell of smoke and scent of perfume sucked the air and life from the room. My heart sank as my ice cream began to melt. Not understanding, I wanted to go wake her!
My life would never be the same. I was moved full time to the Stevenson farm with all my belongings… and my grandmother’s small alligator handbag. Inside along with her glasses, compact, lipstick, and wallet, there was a to do list, with “Buy gifts for Jan’s 5th Birthday” written at the top. On the farm work did not stop for birthdays. There was cotton to pick, peas to shell, cows to milk, and eggs to gather. And although there was no bedroom for me, my generous and loving Aunt Celia (who would be 11 years old later that month) shared her room with me and became my “big sister.” Our birthdays were seven years and seven days apart. And Granny made time to bake a date nut cake for her and a chocolate birthday cake for me. She also made us new dresses from the patterns each of us had chosen on Saturday trips to Oneonta. And I still cherish the enamel heart she bought me from the Avon Lady for my fifth birthday.
Each morning Celia and I woke to aromas of bacon and sausage cooking floated through the farmhouse before daylight. The stove stayed hot from daylight until dawn, with Granny cooking everything from scratch. Buttermilk biscuits were made with her buttermilk and hand churned butter also from our cows… I still have the churns.
While Celia got ready for school each day, Granny and I headed to the “new” barn to milk Bessie. In one of her aging hands was the handle to a tin milk bucket, and in the other was a hoe for mornings when a snake made its way out of the high grass onto our dirt path. Granny would chop off his head. Returning to the house I ran into the old, grey weathered barn, which demanded the past remain. Still standing proudly it had become home to and protector of each hen’s nest. Removing my bonnet, I climbed slowly up creaky wooden ladder to peek inside the hen’s nest and carefully gather the eggs into my bonnet, for tomorrow’s breakfast. Then I was off to ride on the tractor or ride my pony, Big John, with my grandfather and his horse, Silver.
On the farm the mid-day meal was not called lunch. It was dinner, and the largest meal of the day. Dinner was called supper, which was heated up leftovers from the midday meal when the tables were filled with large bowls of creamed corn, fried potatoes, green beans, field peas, vine ripe tomatoes, watermelon, cantaloupe all grown on the farm, along with hot crackling and regular cornbread. Occasionally there was fried chicken, which I refused to eat. How could you? I named that bird! Desserts were seasonal. In spring and summer there were fruit pies, strawberry shortcakes, and ice cream we made by turning the crank. In fall and winter, it was sweet potato pies, pecan pies, and red velvet cake at Christmas. At Christmas time, we all rode on the tractor and trailer to the woods adjoining the fields, to pick out a cedar tree for our Christmas tree. Granny popped popcorn. Celia and I strung it carefully into garland, wearing our thimbles.
My life on the farm also ended abruptly, mid school year of second grade, when I was moved to the county seat of Oneonta to live with my mother. No garden here. Nice mom and pop grocery store, but with a working mother, neither shopping nor cooking was a practice at this house. Instead, I ate out at restaurants three meals a day. In the mornings before school, at Jonah’s, Jonah Price, like a father to me, would have my breakfast cooked ready to serve. When I walked in the door at Jonah’s a plate of fried eggs, grits, and toast was immediately served. He allowed me to sign the ticket before I dashed off to school. My favorite dinner restaurant in Oneonta was the Gold Star, Jonah’s wife, Kate’s restaurant. Here I first ate green salads tossed with oil and vinegar dressing or with my favorite, Kate’s locally famous dressing. No mashed or country fried potatoes there. Plump baked potatoes wrapped in aluminum foil, heaped with butter and sour cream were served with my thick, lean, hamburger steak, smothered in caramelized onions.
My new school’s lunchroom had no chocolate milk. On Fridays Teacher would make us clean our plates to get dessert, a fudge pop. As each child finished with raised hand, she handed over the prized pop. But how could I eat that orange, giggly stuff with carrots shaved on top and canned fruit inside? Yuk! Eyeing my tray for a place to hide this goo … I suddenly became motivated to drink white milk. And in its carton the square of gelatin fit perfectly. Here a spaghetti supper was held annually as a fund raiser, leaving me to ask Teacher, “What is spaghetti?” My first bite started a love affair with Italian cuisine.
I recall trips to Birmingham, dining at the Parliament House, where children were seen and not heard. Birmingham’s Luau was more child friendly, with sugary sweet “Shirley Temples” and coconut ice cream served in a real coconut shell. By my teen years Birmingham had become the destination for birthdays, dates, and lunch during shopping trips. Joy Young was my favorite. La Paree was second. And El Palacio was third. These were my first tastes of Chinese, French, and Mexican. If I could have any restaurant dish back from the past back it would be Joy Young’s plump, aromatic, and divine egg rolls.
By the time I was sixteen, I’d had enough of lunchroom food and their gelatin squares. So, I started slipping out and driving to nearby restaurants for lunch. Some girlfriends took notice, long before the principal did, and began to join me. Soon we were two cars full sneaking out to a different eatery each day until one day when I was out sick. Returning to school the following day, none of my “lunch ladies” were in attendance. I asked where they were to learn that they had been caught leaving the campus for lunch and were all on suspension. Oops!
In my 20s, my all-time favorite, Oneonta restaurant became The Landmark, in former Jonah’s location. Opened by my neighbor and locally legendary, chef Charlie Bottcher, this destination restaurant, drew diners from all over Alabama. Charlie’s dad would bring fresh seafood from the Gulf. And Charlie’s crab cakes bursting with jumbo lump crabmeat were the best I have ever had—and still are. We still make them at home from the original recipe in The Landmark Cookbook.
Daddy took me to Egypt for my 36th birthday and in the years afterwards to Russia, China, Mongolia, France, Italy, Turkey, Greece, and many other countries. Traveling to foreign lands, I experienced authentic cuisines of many cultures. I walked in the pouring rain to McDonald’s in Moscow to get a taste of home, during a three-week Orient Express journey from Beijing to Moscow. And although I would not eat one today, the Big Mac was the best meal I had in Russia. Other trips abroad with Kev afterwards and celebrating my 60th in The Tower Room at The Plaza were the cherry on top.
In my 30s I also moved to the Birmingham area where there were award winning restaurants and worked at a software company before being offered a wine column. What is wine without food? And what a place to experience and review food! In the decades since I developed two other tech companies, one in medical and one in legal, based on my Birmingham Restaurants model. And last year I started Culinary Cartoons, the most fun venture yet. Each year I select a different Birmingham restaurant to celebrate my birthday. And this year it is Bocca Ristorante! Here I plan to make a wish for the future and blow out a candle, sending my wish and prayer to heaven.
Goods:
There is no better birthday gift than taking the birthday girl or boy out for lunch or dinner on their birthday or during their birthday month. If this is not possible, purchase a gift certificate (not an embarrassing discount certificate) to their favorite restaurant.
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