Clara knows full well that some people think college football is all about the game. Her husband, Harrison Sanders—Harris for short—is one of them. All Harris can talk about during the season is starting lineups, well-executed touchdown passes, and how soon one player or another will get off the injured list. Poor thing, the way Harris goes on and on about Bear Bryant, you’d think the legendary coach was still alive and calling plays on the field. But Clara knows that for some people, herself included, college football is about the game and the getting together.
Her mama taught her early on about the art of the tailgate, and that training served her well in college. Today, now that she and Harris have graduated and are raising children of their own, Clara is more determined than ever to continue the tradition. There’s not a home game that goes by that you won’t find the Sanders brood on campus, and they try to make it to at least one away game every fall.
Southerners make it look easy, but in reality both well-honed culinary skills and top-notch social savvy are required for successful tailgating. You need to know how to cook, yes. You need to know which foods will travel without going bad. And you have to accept that being on the road is no excuse for poor presentation.
But you must also be able to handle that roommate you never really got along with when she parades by before the game to show off her handsome husband and three perfect children and pictures of their most recent trip to Italy.
“Well bless your heart,” she’ll say when Clara responds with her own vacation story about two weeks in a fully furnished cabin in Gatlinburg over the summer. “That’s so dear,” the mean woman will add. “And local.” Please, whatever you do, don’t get Clara started on her.
And you might as well be ready to run into the sociology professor who treated you so unfairly when you were late for class two weeks in a row because of rush. As vice-president of the sorority, you had obligations. You tried to explain it to him, but he did not seem to appreciate the seriousness with which you undertook your commitment to the next generation of sisters.
Back in Clara’s grandmother’s day, an old quilt and a mess of fried chicken might have done the trick. And Clara can accept that some fans still prefer the cardboard-table-out-of-the trunk approach. She understands that’s how the concept originated, eating a picnic on the tailgate of the car. If you push her, Clara will even acknowledge the growing number of tailgaters who park their RVs near the campus the night before the game, setting up their grills and tuning in their radios early the next morning. That’s a tad too rustic for Clara’s taste, sort of like camping out. It’s quaint, though, and who is Clara to mock someone’s tailgating preferences?
As for Clara and her ilk, they prefer to be on campus, in the middle of the action. The Sanderses like to set up their tent in front of the old law school, because it’s a prime spot for seeing the players run by on their way to the stadium. It makes Harris happy, being so close to the athletes for those few, brief moments. He hadn’t been eligible to play himself, and if you must know, Clara isn’t convinced he’s dealt with that particular disappointment in a healthy manner. So she asked her daddy to do what he could to reserve that spot on the quad for them in perpetuity. She doesn’t make a habit of it, of course, but sometimes Clara is forced to take advantage of her connections. Her father worked hard to get into the school’s contributors hall of fame, after all, so why not capitalize on it once in a while? That’s Clara’s philosophy at least. You might feel different.
On the morning of every home game, Clara shakes out the tablecloth, the one her mother-in-law had specially designed in school colors, and lets it settle over the long folding table she found on the “last chance aisle” at Lucky’s Bargain Bin. (Even though the Sanderses are blessed financially, Clara still appreciates a good deal as much as anyone.) Depending on what she’s serving that day, she’ll either light the Sterno to keep the beef tenderloin warm or spread the ice evenly over the shrimp. Her mama never did resort to plastic utensils, so it’s standard issue for Clara to use real silverware. It complements the chilled pewter cups she brings for the mint tea. Some of her friends use disposable everything: cups, plates, napkins, knives, and forks; and a few are raving about some newfangled biodegradable bamboo plates you can throw right on your compost pile. All that’s fine, of course. But Clara sees no reason to change her tailgating philosophy at this stage of the game.
“We called them ‘picnics,’” says Clara’s grandmother every time she sees Clara getting ready for an upcoming game. “We didn’t need monogrammed napkins and imported cheese like you young people do today. We had team spirit and hot dogs. Maybe a little blackberry lemonade, if we were lucky. But sugar was so expensive back then . . .”
Such naysaying does not faze Clara in the least. She’s too busy making tiny goalposts out of icing for the cupcakes and tossing the black bean and corn salsa. It’s no bother, really, because Clara is proud of her heritage and she wants to pass that respect on to her children. They may not appreciate it now, being so young and all, but one day they’ll be thankful they had a mother who cared enough to teach them how to carve a football out of a pumpkin for the tailgate centerpiece. Clara is sure of it.