The 24-hour birthday dinner

 

Judy amidst the flowers
Photo by Mary Dulle

Mary Dulle brought me dinner last night, a belated birthday celebration. The wonderful thing about it is that it has fed me almost twenty-four hours. She got fried chicken from The Rim, my favorite fried-chicken restaurant—really, they have a full menu, but I think it would be heresy to order anything but the three-piece chicken dinner. Sides were, of course, green beans and mashed potatoes. Sometimes the mashed potatoes from The Rim are truly good—and sometimes they’re bland. Last night, they were truly good—a faint herb seasoning. We feasted and chatted, having not caught up on each other for a couple of weeks. To top it off, Mary brought a peach and cherry crisp she had made that afternoon—crumbly, wonderful, better than cake. Not only that, she arrived with fresh flowers, a book I will enjoy prowling through, and a bottle of chardonnay, a label new to me but one that she said a mutual friend recommended.

So today I have been feasting on last night’s dinner—fruit crisp for breakfast, cold chicken, warm green beans and potatoes for lunch. Only thing missing was Mary’s company. No, I haven’t touched the chardonnay yet—no day drinking—but when I have a glass and watch the news tonight, it will make last night’s dinner have lasted twenty-four hours. So grateful.

It's also been a twenty-four-hour research time for me. I discovered a treasure trove of information about Helen Corbitt in the archives of the Arkansas Gazette and the Arkansas Democrat. Corbitt visited Little Rock and Hot Springs so often that then-governor Orville Faubus declared her an honorary citizen. She also wrote a column for the Democrat in the seventies.

I found lots of interviews with her that gave me the view I’d been wanting. Until I happened onto this, I’d had a lot of information, opinions and comments about her but nothing from her. No glimpse of that famed Irish wit except what others reported on. Yesterday and today I began to see it come out, along with practical advice on cooking and a determination to get women back into the kitchen. That of course is the thesis of my study: that Corbitt was active in encouraging women to get back in the kitchen after the explosive introduction of convenience foods in the fifties—mixes and prepared foods and TV dinners and all that designed to cut down on women’s time in the kitchen. As Corbitt once said, “I’m old fashioned. I like to cook.” She wanted to reawaken that attitude in women—and she did a darn good job of it.

In one place, she told the story of a couple about to divorce. The woman went out, bought a cookbook, returned to her kitchen, and began to cook real dinners for her husband. She gained eleven pounds—but they were still together. For me, that’s the stuff that will make an interesting book—along with some recipes.

But staring at archival material all day wears you out. I had to rush because I only have a seven-day free subscription to the paper, which gives me access to the archives. Still, I found at night I was worn out with it and could do no more. Now, I’m through with Arkansas but still have Dallas and Houston to go. Woe is me. I need stronger readers.

Sophie has been coughing uncontrollably again. Actually she’s gone from that deep, from-the-toes cough to a sound like she’s trying to clear her throat. Poor baby must be miserable, but she steadfastly resists the Benadryl that would help her, even in pill pocket. Tonight I served it with her meal, and she ate it and is quiet, but at three in the morning I have to dredge up all my patience to pry her mouth open, insert the pill pocket and then hold her mouth shut while petting her and talking lovingly. She looks at me with sad eyes that say, “Why are you doing this to me?” My explanations fall on deaf ears.

I think all of it would be better without the heat. We are all worn down, and I won’t even begin to tell you how much in my garden is dead. I am so sad. Life goes on, however—that’s my new mantra.