Here’s to good health and a lot of good food

Okay, it looks like I may live to fight another day. I just got a clean bill of health from my latest checkup at the request of my insurance company. All systems are go. Physically, all the numbers were good. Mentally, I was required to draw a clock with the hands at 10 o’clock and given three words to remember and recite back later. Not exactly Mensa stuff, but I aced it. Thank goodness it wasn’t trigonometry, or we might not be having this conversation.

I am grateful to have made it this far, and assuming I don’t step in front of a bus or forget to pull the ripcord should I go skydiving, I intend to keep on living to the hilt.

I have walked this earth a long time. My older brother even longer. We agree that we inherited parents with good genes. Both lived into their 80s. There may be other reasons, as well. I would cite clean living as one, but then God might zap me with a bolt of lightning for telling such a whopper, and that would shoot my chances of a long life. Of course, my brother could make such a claim and get away with it. God always did like my brother better.

The fact that my ticker is ticking away and my arteries aren’t clogged up with fat is somewhat of a wonder, given my fondness for all foods Southern. It’s the way I grew up. My momma was the quintessential Southern cook, meaning that in our house, lard was one of the basic food groups. She fried everything – steak, pork, chicken, okra, green tomatoes – to a crisp. If it got in the skillet, it was going to get itself fried. Even the cornbread got a dose of lard. Oh, and no need for saltshakers. Momma salted the food as it was frying.

I read somewhere that lard, a polite name for pig fat, is making a culinary comeback and is not considered as unhealthy as it once was thought to be, if used in moderation. Using lard in moderation was not an option in Momma’s kitchen. And somehow, we seem to have survived the experience.

It may be because we always had sweet tea with our supper. (A note to émigrés from above the Mason-You-Know-What Line: In the South, we don’t eat dinner in the evening. We eat supper.) Sweet tea, another specialty of my mother’s creation. With spoonfuls of tea in a pitcher, filled with boiling water and a tablespoon inside the pitcher to keep it from shattering, Momma would pour in a heaping cup of sugar. What better way to wash down copious amounts of fried chicken, fried okra, fried green tomatoes and cornbread than with sweet tea loaded with lots of refined sugar. No wonder my brother and I enjoy good health. Southern cooking is the secret.

When I began to court the young lady destined to become The Beloved Woman Who Shared My Name, on occasion I would be invited to her house for Sunday dinner. (A note to émigrés from above the Mason-You-Know-What Line: In the South, we eat dinner at lunch.)

Her mother was from Scotland and grew up in New Jersey, and as much as I would come to love my future mother-in-law and to thank God for allowing me to marry well above my paygrade, it wasn’t because of the Sunday dinners. To call the meals bland would be kind. Everything was boiled, broiled or baked. I don’t think I ever saw a tub of lard there. I learned that you were expected to season to your own taste, and sweet tea wasn’t even an option. A novel concept for this Southern boy.

Truth in advertising requires me to confess that over the years of our marriage I adapted and learned to season my food to my taste and even managed to consume unsweet tea, although I missed Momma’s sweet tea. I still do.

Shakespeare observed that the past is prologue. That phrase has a lot of interpretations. I take it to mean that things can be even better going forward. At least, that’s my intention. It starts with a good health report, garnished with good memories and an appreciation that every day is a gift not to be wasted.

In the meantime, it’s back to work. There are columns to be written and reactions to be received. I can’t do it without you. Here’s to your good health. Salud!

You can reach Dick Yarbrough at dick@dickyarbrough.com or at P.O. Box 725373, Atlanta, Georgia 31139.