Unsung pleasure

Mama used to sing "Old Rugged Cross" enthusiastically when she washed the dishes, as if Jesus died on that cross so we could have food on the table and give thanks for being able to clean up after the family dinner. Leading up to Christmas Mama would switch to the hymns of the season.

"Silent night, holy night," she'd sing or hum, as she stacked the sparkling dishes to air dry on the counter. "Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king" and a verse of "O Holy Night," and she'd be done.

When I was very young, I begged to wash the dishes. Mama would always say, "You're not quite old enough yet," and that just made me want to wash the dishes even more, as if it were a rite of passage like starting school or learning to ride a bike.

Growing up, we didn't have a dishwasher. I still don't, and neither does my mother. I think I know why.

Mama doesn't trust dishwashers to get things clean, and she thinks if you're going to rinse a dish you might as well wash it while you're at it. Like me, she probably doesn't even know how to load a dishwasher. Eat at Mama's house, and you can be confident your dishes and utensils have no food or soap dried onto them, and the glasses will sparkle like disco balls.

When I was about 6, Mama finally let me wash the supper dishes. Her only instruction to me was "You have to be fast as well as efficient."

As mothers often have over the years, she'd outsmarted her child. While I was washing and butchering "Old Rugged Cross," having what I thought was a fine — and very mature — time, Mama sat in her easy chair, read the paper and had another glass of tea.

It didn't take too many weeks before I found myself scrubbing the pots and pans and wishing them "on a hill far away" from the crowded sink.

Things have come full circle over the past decades.

Mama cooks a huge dinner on holidays to feed our extended family of 10, plus friends. Mounds of dressing, rice and butterbeans, macaroni and cheese, squash casserole, sweet potato souffle, turkey, ham or pork loin and all the other dishes we love weigh down the table. There are so many dirty dishes they won't all fit in the sink, and they clutter the counters. They have to be washed and put away in shifts.

Immediately my sister Cindy and I and her adult daughters spring up to clear the table. We start washing the dishes, and Mama says, "Just leave those. I can wash them tomorrow when you're all gone. I don't have to wash them all at once. I can stop and rest if I need to."

We get those dishes washed, dried and put away faster than any electric dishwasher. The glasses sparkle as they air dry — but not as much as Mama's eyes.

I think she's just happy we all love her so much and want to please her and spend our holiday with her — but maybe she's just outfoxed us again?

New restaurant fills need, stomachs

When my dining companion and I walked into Simply Southern Bistro Wednesday night, we didn't expect a crowd. After all, it was the new restaurant's first evening open. Instead, there were few vacant tables, and four were occupied by people we knew.
And everyone had nothing but praise for Chef Jeff Dennis' food.
We were soon to find out why.
Not starving, I ordered the smaller portion of prime rib, which the Bistro calls the "Queen Cut." The queen in question must be Victoria or Harvey Fierstein, the cut was that big! The King Cut, I'm sure must be adequate for Henry VIII.
It was also tender, medium rare, juicy, and well, just delicious. The au jus was good, too, but the beef didn't need any additional flavor. Dennis' blend of herbs and spices for his rotisserie meats didn't overpower the beef itself, but served to enhance the taste.
I had sauteed spinach and marinated cucumbers and tomatoes on the side. Each was tasty, and the spinach was especially well seasoned, earthy, with hints of sesame oil, one of my personal favorite flavor enhancers.
My companion pronounced his pan seared duck breast "delicious" and "succulent," and his rice pilaf tender and flavorful (He also had the spinach).
The Bistro's wine list is short, but good, with moderately priced selections.My Sterling Vintner's Collection Merlot was smooth, deep, fruity with a slight oak overtone.
The Mirassou pinot noir was a good match for my companion's duck breast. A light, easy-drinking wine with just a little depth, but pleasant fruity flavor and a slight tang.
With the addition of fabric tablecloths and napkins at night, Simply Southern Bistro will be a standout among Sumter's finer restaurants. The food is seriously good, the service was excellent, and the medium-sized menu means Dennis has time to cook each dish to perfection.
We can hardly wait to go back to try his pork tenderloin, fish and grits, salmon, Low County Crab Cakes and more, especially the Bacon Pimiento Cheese Burger for lunch. The Crazy Burger, with fried egg, is intriguing, too.
Simply Southern Bistro is located at 65 W. Wesmark Boulevard, across from Simpson Hardware. Call (803) 469-8502.

Bring your own Kool-Aid

Two things happened Sunday that somehow got connected in my head. First, I read an article in The New Yorker about how a Christmas stocking should be “all Cracker Jack surprises” but no food.
Later that afternoon I found a marble. I was walking through the old neighborhood and spotted a small, round, blue and white object embedded more than halfway in the ground on the right-of-way between the sidewalk and Hasel Street. I used to get them in my stocking.
Every time I find a marble, I pick it up, take it home, wash it off and put it in a sock. I've got quite a collection, even though this is the first one I've found in years.
I've been thinking about marbles a lot lately. When I pass 13 Chestnut on my strolls, I look toward the back right corner of the house and picture the bare dirt where the gang used to play.
Sometimes Aunt Alma would sweep the area, the flattest we could find in the neighborhood, and sometimes she'd hand one of us the broom to do it ourselves. Once it was cleared to our satisfaction, I'd take a stick and draw a large circle, then each player would put an agreed upon number of small marbles in the center. We thought cat's eyes were great.
Buckshot Bradley always used an old ball bearing as his shooter, and he was pretty good. My shooter was glass, like most of the regular marbles, just bigger.
We'd take turns shooting the big marbles off the knuckle of our thumbs, the object being to knock the smaller marbles out of the ring. Kind of like billiards, I guess. The winner was the player who had won the most marbles that way. Usually, we'd take back our marbles and start another game, but sometimes we'd play “keepsies.”
Now, you didn't play keepsies often with Buckshot, because you'd wind up with an empty sock, while his would overflow. He was that good. My cousin Harry could shoot a mean game of marbles, too. But you'd always be able to find plenty of stray marbles that fell through holes in pockets all around the neighborhood and in the old Elks Club playground on the corner of Salem Avenue and Broad Street.
Marbles is a simple game that takes skill and a lot of luck, plus some time to harden your knuckle. It also seems to help if you sort of bite your tongue as you stick the tip of it out of the corner of your mouth, get as close to the ground as you can, close one eye, concentrate and aim. The dirtier your knees, the better.
You never see kids playing marbles any more. I even tried to find a computer marbles game, but none of them resemble the real game we played on Chestnut Street.
When we've used up all the world's energy resources, and our computers and Nintendos don't work, I'm ready to resume those marble games. Buckshot's not around any longer, but I'm sure there are plenty of other baby boomers who'd be happy to participate in another never-ending marble tournament. The crack of marbles hitting marbles and of our knees popping as we get down on the dirt should be pretty compatible.
Maybe Rose Ford over the recreation department will get together a tournament. We don't even have to play for keepsies.
I'll sweep the ground.