THERE ARE TWO REASONS THAT A lady will be put on cups and ice. The first reason is because she can’t cook, and in the South, we’d rather chew glass than hurt someone’s feelings. It’s much easier to ask someone to bring cups and ice than it is to tell them that they have no biscuit hand. The second reason is because she cooks TOO good. But take caution—if you are going to put a great cook on cups and ice, know that she won’t go down easy.
I firmly believe that my mother is the greatest cook to ever be put on cups and ice. She is so good that when I tell people that she was put on cups and ice, they don’t believe it. I’m not saying she was a big deal, but she was the Northeast Mississippi Daily Journal’s cook of the week.1
This way of cooking didn’t happen overnight, though. She has had years of practice. She started cooking when she was barely old enough to see above the stove. Both of her parents worked, which meant that she and her brother and two sisters had chores to keep the house running. Her job was to get dinner started. The only mistake I’ve heard my mother make was the night she was supposed to make pork chops. There wasn’t enough room for all the pork chops to fit in the pan, so Mom improvised and cut the bone out and the fat off each pork chop. She was so proud of herself that it was months before they had the heart to tell her to please never cut the bone and fat off a pork chop—ever.
My mother loved collecting cookbooks and recipes almost as much as she loved to cook. She would read her cookbooks like they were the Great American Novel. She would put the recipe together in her head and imagine it on her table. She would say, “This recipe calls for eggs in their biscuits—they look good in the picture but I can’t imagine.” For her, and most of her Southern sisters, a recipe is just a guide—they swap out ingredients, add things, and take others away.
There was only one place where Mom’s amazing recipes weren’t appreciated: her mother-in-law’s.
My grandmother’s approval was the one thing my mother wanted and the one thing she’d never get. There’s a saying: “If I’m too much, then go find less.” I think less is exactly what my grandmother wanted in a daughter-in-law. She wanted her to cook less, talk less, be less. But my mother could never do less, and I could never get enough of her. Don’t get me wrong, my grandmother loved my mother, but it was in her own way. My grandmother was a great cook in her own right. Her caramel cakes were famous, and that was her dish. And what a dish to have!
It wasn’t a series of family dinners that got my mother banished to cups and ice; it was one meal, and I remember it like it was yesterday. My mother had offered to bring her yeast rolls to save my grandmother time in the kitchen. The problem was my mother made, hands down, the best yeast rolls you’ve ever tasted. There was nothing wrong with my grandmother’s rolls, except they weren’t Mama’s, and they needed salt. My mother also brushed a little melted butter on her rolls fresh out of the oven. My grandmother didn’t think we needed the extra calories. I was excited to have her rolls, but my mama gave strict marching orders to not say a word about her rolls being better than my grandmother’s. To do so would have been the ultimate sign of disrespect, and my mother respected her mother-in-law and her kitchen, so we all followed orders.
The meal was going great until my grandfather, unaware that there was a different roll maker in the house, said the one thing that should never be said.
“Well, Jennie Mae, I do believe these are the best rolls you’ve ever made.”
As if that weren’t bad enough, my mother, forgetting that my grandmother may or may not have had a voodoo doll with her name on it, said with pure unassuming and honest glee, “Oh, thank you! I made the rolls this time.”
Oh, my poor mama thought she had finally found the golden ticket for full approval, but the opposite happened. For the next family dinner, the answer to the age-old question What can I bring? was met with the most unexpected answer: “You always work so hard; I think it’s time for you to take a break and just come on over.” My mom was so confused.
“You don’t want me to bring anything?”
“You know what? We do need you to bring some of your good cups and ice,” my grandmother said.
My grandmother wasn’t wrong. My parents have owned a stand-alone ice maker for as long as I can remember. Them bringing ice was standard, but Grandmother was really saying, Don’t bring anything—especially your rolls.
My mother couldn’t imagine going to a meal without a dish, so she pried for anything she could bring. Finally, my grandmother said, “What if you bring a nice salad?”
My mother is a fine Christian woman, but the Lord is still working on her. When I tell you that woman brought every salad known to man, I’m not lying. I think she made up salads. I know this because I was the child labor that loaded them into the car.
Green bean salad, pasta salad, pretzel salad, layered salad, overnight salad, every salad you can imagine except the pear salad—you know, the canned pears with a dab of mayo, cheese, and a cherry on top? My mama said, “I don’t love it, but I wouldn’t kick it out of bed,” which means if she was hungry enough, she’d eat it.
Nothing was said, but it was loud and clear. Mom would never NOT bring food, but she would leave the rolls to my grandmother.
I was home from college and had forgotten about the Great Roll Call and asked Mom why we couldn’t have her rolls at Grandmother’s house. She reminded me and I said, “What if I’m the one that makes them?” Our eyes locked. “You could show me how to make your rolls, and she has to let her granddaughter bring the rolls. Then, we can always say that I made them, even if it’s your recipe. They’ll be Ellen’s rolls.”
Mom called her house. “Before you start all of your cooking, Ellen wants to bring the rolls.” As expected, there was little hesitation. “Well, I think she’s ready,” I heard Mom say, followed by “Even if they aren’t, we’ll grin and bear it.” I wasn’t offended. She was saying what needed to be said to get the good rolls to the family dinner.
I followed Mom’s recipe to a tee, and the rolls were perfect! Again, our family was on the same page. These were Ellen’s rolls, and it was no big deal. We all sat at the table, and right on cue, my grandfather said it again: “Jennie Mae, these are the best rolls you’ve ever made.” Except this time, my grandmother grinned from ear to ear and looked right at me. “Ellen made the rolls this time; I can’t take a bit of credit.”
My mama tried to hold her composure, but, quicker than a hot knife through butter, she blurted, “She used my recipe! These are my rolls that you never let me bring. They taste just like mine.”
“Welp! That was good while it lasted. Good job, Mom,” I said, tossing my napkin in defeat.
After that meal, my mother went back on cups and ice and salads when going to family dinners, where she remained until my grandmother passed.
1 This was the newspaper that was based out of Tupelo, so being part of their paper was a big deal.