1985. Ruben Anderson is appointed to the Mississippi State Supreme Court. My dad decided to have a dinner party in his honor. My dad was making a point. He probably thought his points were subtle, but they never were. There were men in Mississippi who might make a face at having a black man on the State Supreme court, and my dad wanted them to know his opinion of their opinion.
Besides Judge Anderson and his remarkable wife, the guest list was the regular suspects, Brum Day, Rowan Taylor, Charlie Deaton, and added in George Hughes, Bill Goodman, and of course, everyone's respective spouses or public girlfriends. A lot of times, I was more pleased to see the spouses and girlfriends than the men themselves.
Daddy was making a point. His side of the Capitol Street Gang approved of Judge Anderson, and he didn't care who had other opinions. Not just approval of Judge Anderson, although he's a genuinely remarkable man, but approval of having black men in positions of power in Jackson, Mississippi.
The guts and the details of the dinner party fell to my mom. She was a self-taught cook and a great one. Her regular co-conspirators were Mrs. Kroeze, Mrs. Lewis, Mrs. Flood, Mrs. Bass, and my Aunt Linda. Jane Lewis was the best baker I've ever met. They told me it was a rare disease that took her from us, but several other dear Mississippians died of the same condition, so maybe it wasn't all that rare after all. That disease stole vital human beings from me. That makes it my enemy.
Mother was a very experimental cook, which I appreciated, but my siblings often had another opinion. Sometimes her menus were unconventional. Gazpacho, different forms of liver and oysters, and calf's tongue were served at family dinners but not well received.
"What are you serving?" I asked as she was cutting onions.
"Shrimp and Grits," she said. I could see the shrimp in the sink where she de-veined them. She bought them from a man coming up from Biloxi every week and parked his truck with ice chests full of fresh seafood at Deville Plaza. Every woman in town made occasional trips to meet him and cut a deal.
"Mother, this man is a judge; you cannot serve grits for supper." I was adamant.
She ignored my opinion, as she often would. In this instance, she was correct. This was a few years before Bill Neal made shrimp and grits famous and Southern Cooking respectable. If you've never heard of Bill Neal, I'll include a link to a video about him. He's a remarkable man and responsible for many of the recipes you eat.
Years later, I asked her how she knew ten years before anyone else that Shrimp and Grits were a thing. She said she got the recipe out of Southern Living, but I've looked, and there weren't any Shrimp and Grits recipes in Southern Living that year. Further research told me that Galatoire's in New Orleans had occasionally been serving Shrimp and Grits since the seventies. Her recipe was similar to that. Either she had it there, or one of her co-conspirators had it there.
The best Shrimp and Grits I've ever had was at City Grocery in Oxford. Their recipe was similar to Bill Neal's but had a little extra push to it. By now, if you're from here, you've had the dish somewhere unless you were kosher or suffered a shellfish allergy.
For me, Shrimp and Grits mean a time when my mother was right, and I was wrong. They represent a day when my Daddy wanted to make a blunt point, and my mom made it graceful. Food isn't just food. It's art, and it's culture, and sometimes it's memory.
A video about Bill Neal
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeteYtkVB6Y
