Someone's In The Kitchen With Momma: Seven Bananas Pudding

Chapter 1: BiLo 



Sometimes her list would require six, but usually, scrawled in blue Bic ink beside 'bananas' was a (7) in parentheses; a week’s supply of potassium until the next shopping day rolled around.



I try to remember now who did her shopping before it became our job. Likely an array of her extended network of family and friends, for though she didn't drive, Aunt Nellie June was well-known, and well-liked.

She needn't go out, we came to her. And truly, it was our pleasure to help; to just be in her orbit. 

So it was, back when we were not just kinfolk but also neighbors, I would take the list she had made after consulting the weekly circular, along with her envelope of carefully counted money, to the Bi-Lo on the corner, and do her weekly shopping. 

Her list was quite specific, calculated for maximum savings and minimal waste.

Seventy years in one primary location had worn a groove in her routine.



Amongst a rotation of seasonal produce and various household products, every week her list included the same fare: 

• Whole milk (PET brand only) 


• One pack of hot dogs (Oscar Myer or Carolina Pride) 


• Cool Whip (the plastic container to be recycled as food storage) 


• Pepsi (an anomaly in Coca-Cola's dixieland domain, but she was a woman confident in her choices)


• Butter pecan or cherry vanilla ice cream (as much for her neighbors as for herself, but she did have a sweet tooth or three ) 


• Bananas (6 or 7) 

I still count bananas in the store, or tell my children how many to get when I ask them to walk back to Produce for things I inevitably remember I've forgotten (but only after crossing at least 2/3 the length of the store)



I always get (6) or (7), not less or more.

Chapter 2: Rodger, that!



Mary Rodgers was the graceful wife of Roger.

That's right, Roger Rodgers.



Mary and Roger served in the church I grew up in for many, many years.



Mr. Rodgers owned an old fashioned barber shop in town, complete with barber pole out front and Mayberry atmosphere inside.



Mrs. Rodgers was gifted in the art of hospitality and often opened her home to our family.



One of my favorite dishes Mrs. Mary served was a thick and creamy banana pudding unlike any found in the Corningware dishes of the other saintly church ladies or served at our myriad local BBQ restaurants.

I was too young to decipher her recipe back then, but the development of my own "kitchen presence" as a young bride coincided with the rise of Google, Food Network and Paula Deen.



I may have never learned the recipe's secret  if not for the ability to cross-reference keywords against a database of tried and true Southern recipes; those iconic Chessmen cookies my Rosetta Stone.  

Chapter 3: Let's Go Krogering 



I am the sum of all my parts, as I believe we all are.

I have been shaped by different environments, exposures and experiences.

I am grateful for them all.



I am thankful for Aunt Nellie June and Mrs. Mary Rodgers as well as a host of other influential souls.

I am thankful for the time they shared with me, the space they created for me in their homes and kitchens and the recipes for life they left for me to follow.



Tonight, as I prepared for the Freewheeling Widows to drop by, I realized banana pudding would be agreeable to all.

In this way, these two precious ladies who've gone-on-to-Glory were welcome in my kitchen as I got ready for two precious ladies who are still going-along-with-me.



I went Krogering to count bananas and gather the following supplies:

• 1 Quart of Heavy Whipping Cream (the secret ingredient, shhh!)  


• One large box of instant vanilla pudding


• One large box of instant banana cream pudding 


• One tub of Cool Whip or can of whipped cream 


• Chessmen Cookies and/or 


• Nilla Wafers (for the purists) 


• Bananas (6 or 7)

Chapter 4: Redeeming The Spotty Ones

I mashed up two leftover bananas that were too far gone for cereal but not yet brown enough for banana bread then added the pudding mix and heavy whipping cream.

I think bananas go spotty like they do to teach us about redemption, if we're inclined to learn.



I included both kinds of cookies because when I am faced with a decision where one person may be disappointed, I become paralyzed with indecision. As a result, I have developed a coping mechanism called 'overcompensation'. When I am in a hurry and can't make up my mind, I jump straight over 'either/or' to 'both and all'



Someday, it will sink in that I really cannot please all the people, all the time and should therefore just pick one already...but, until then, double cookies!

Seems completely healthy and reasonable, no?

I'm sure Cookie Monster approves. 

I layered everything lasagna style and almost alphabetically: "cookies-bananas-pudding-whipped cream-repeat" then chilled the whole thing until the Freewheelers arrived.



We ate tiny glazed Ham on Hawaiian sandwiches and watched Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium before I scooped banana pudding into the Atlanta Braves helmet bowls I'd picked up on Kroger's clearance aisle - for only thirty-five cents each!



Southern Grocery Shopping Rule #1 : The hurry is never too big to bypass clearance. You never know, what you need may be on those shelves. What you don't know you need is probably there, too. 





Chapter 5: Time and Togetherness 



From Bi-Lo to Kroger, there have been many good-byes that came as a surprise.



I'd go back, pay closer attention,  and take more notes if life weren't so insistent about this forward staccato marching we do.



We are allowed only to glance back, not turn back, so we plan for the future ever crossing new horizons.

Tucked in our pockets of memory, or transcribed on a notepad in shaky blue Bic ink, we bring with us instructions from time, left behind.



My freewheelin' gals took leftover sandwiches and pudding home with them, because I'm still learning to cook for just a few.



They also took a little bit of Aunt Nellie June, Mrs. Mary Rodgers and a piece of my heart, too.



We're getting together for Chinese take-out and a Dolly Parton movie soon, because time and togetherness are key ingredients to a life, well-recalled.

"Your life is an occasion, rise to it." 

                                            ~Magorium

The First Meeting of the Freewheeling Widows' Society

Friday night and we are out to eat, two widows proper and me, widowed by the death of a girlish dream.



Our waitress leads us to a four top, one empty chair for the phantoms we bring.



We three share genes and a bloodline, but have different ideas about dressing a biscuit.



My aunt asks for apple butter, my cousin requests honey from a bear and I opt for maple's syrup.



The phantoms are silent. No one asks what they would have liked.



My aunt, alone the longest and of a quiet nature,  is content to share our company.



My cousin, twice widowed yet too young to retire, is - unbeknownst to our waitress - a former five star general in the order of Cracker Barrels.



I feel the need to create content, to lift countenances; we are not begged by little voices to please, pretty please, play checkers.



The phantoms clear their throats and I push the peg game meant for one in front of their empty chair.



"I wonder if they have blueberry muffins tonight?" my cousin asks aloud

"Oooh, mmm!" my aunt replies.



They've been here before, done this a time or two.

But now we are three. And tonight, we are all free.



Freewheelers... like three, but free.



When our Rising Star appears beside the table, our general in disguise requests three blueberry muffins, sliced and thrown onto the grill.

Most people don't know you can do that.



I object. I've already had a syrupy biscuit and a corn muffin is promised with my meal.

Too much bread, daily.



"Trust us, you want one." they agree



We linger, not over coffee, for our cadet is struggling to learn the juggle.



Sometimes, as we chat,  a phantom gets a nod, for our lives and theirs used to be one.



We box up the abundance, including three blueberry muffins, sliced and grilled through the middle.

"That will be just the thing with your coffee in the morning" the experienced widows tell me.



A curl of smoke rises from my cousin's porch rocker to the Gospel music playing overhead.

My aunt rocks on steady, watching the clouds change color, as the sun sets behind the Lowes across the street.

They have chosen rockers on either side of an old church pew.



"Are you guys saying I need to go to church?"

I sit on the pew with my leftovers and a bag of general store goods.



"If the shoe fits!" laughs the rocker to my left.

And it is accidentally, instantly funny, for I've invited them to church with me countless times.

But on Sundays,  I sit alone.



We each take home a miniature toy that represents childhood joy,

reminders that we've come far and do not walk alone.



The phantoms let us open our own car door, withholding their good night kisses.

We, busy making plans for next time, gladly fail to notice.



~*~



I scrawl this out over rapidly cooling coffee, the crumbs of a grilled blueberry muffin sinking into silt at the bottom of my mug.



They were right, it was delicious, and just the thing to start a Saturday morning in a house devoid of children. They have more than muffins to teach me, I know.



I'm looking forward to our next Freewheeling Adventure, I hear Fuddruckers might be involved.



Meanwhile, I'm happy and content.

Alone, but not lonely.

In my quiet house, 'where no one now is sleeping...'