Warm Fuzzy Wednesday - AuthorCynthiaHerron.com

Are you as weary with the day-to-day news events as I am?

Goodness gracious me, it’s enough to drive me to my coffee pot. Thank heaven for this good, ol’ Ozarks’ heat and humidity otherwise the caffeine might just send me over the edge.

Today I’ll just stick with my iced tea and chocolate. Cheers!

*clink*

Over the next few weeks, you may notice my blog posts posting later. No worries! It’s not your e-mail delivery service or a snafu with your feed.

It’s me.

I know. But honesty is the best policy. 🙂

For the past several months, I’ve been in a season of busyness. Between preparing baby bird for her college take-off, conference prep, and caregiving, blogging has taken a back seat for a time.

Thank you, thank you for the love and prayers sent my way. I feel them!

Now…

Let’s get cooking!

(BTW with temps reaching 100 degrees plus in much of the Midwest just now, we’re well on our way.)

Here’s your Warm Fuzzy Wednesday feel-good

Way-back-when I was a little girl, my daddy pastored a small, growing church in the rural Missouri Ozarks.

I loved the musty-scented building with its dated hardback pews and a pulpit big enough for Paul Bunyan, but just right for Daddy.

I loved the dog-eared hymnals and Sunday morning worship (even if services did go a mite too long in my six-year-old opinion).

I loved the cheery atmosphere and the kindness extended toward neighbors. Miss Emma’s high soprano could shatter a communion cup, but her heart was in the right place, and so we overlooked.

I especially loved once-a-month dinner on the grounds. That meant Mama’s fried chicken and lemon meringue pie. Mmm. Home cooking at its finest. And often, she’d make extra and stash some back for leftovers, because if she didn’t, we weren’t likely to get any. Her samplings were always the first to go.

What I didn’t I love? Ohh. It pains me to say it, and really—bless her sweet, salmon patty making heart—but I didn’t love Miss Louise’s (you guessed it) made-with-everything-but-the-kitchen sink salmon patties.

I think the dear lady prepared them right there in the church kitchen because the smell (odor) could stop a tank in its tracks.

The pungent scent of fishy goodness kind of wafted through the fellowship hall, throughout the sanctuary, and over the meadow and through the woods, and it left nothing to the hungry parishioner’s imagination what was in store for them.

Now, I’m a big fan of seafood today, and yes—even salmon patties, but back then, the very smell of Miss Louise’s concoction made my stomach roll.

I don’t know what on earth she put in her patties (what were those little green things anyway? Pickles?), but I steered clear of that pretty platter of patties.

That is until Miss Louise noticed.

Daddy was off meeting and greeting as pastors do, and Mama was helping in the kitchen as pastors’ wives do, too. I don’t know where kid sis was—probably navigating about in her walker with her binky of choice.

There I stood—filling my plate with all kinds of Sunday-go-to-meeting goodness.

Mama’s fried chicken. A little slice of pie squished to the side. A spoonful of mashed taters. A thimble of green beans, a hunk of homemade bread, and a heaping, helping of Miss Emma’s corn casserole. (What her singing lacked, her cooking made up for.)

Now…this. This was heaven on a plate. I couldn’t wait to dig in!

Until—

“Well, darlin’. Don’t be bashful. I see you lingering, just wondering where you’re going to put it.”

Plop.

“There you go.”

And slicker’n a whistle, a you-know-what appeared.

Miss Louise smiled. “My mama’s favorite recipe—God rest her soul. Does my heart good to see kids appreciate fine cooking.”

I think I mumbled a thank you.

And later, when Miss Louise wasn’t watching, I positioned the paper napkin over the offending unmentionable and watched some grown-ups do the same.

No one wanted to hurt this dear lady’s feelings. Even at six, I understood that.

I don’t know how the church janitor whisked the trash can away without the evidence being discovered, but he did, and I don’t think Miss Louise was any the wiser.

To this day, I can’t even look at a salmon patty without remembering the middle-aged church lady with blue-black hair, kind eyes, and a gentle heart.

Bless you, Miss Louise. I know you make God smile.

***