Earth to Betsy by Beth Pattillo

Author:Beth Pattillo [Pattillo, Beth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-49975-2
Publisher: The Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2012-08-23T00:00:00+00:00

The ritual of the mother-daughter banquet must certainly date back to Roman times. I can envision the first-century equivalent of the ladies auxiliary setting up long tables in the catacombs and dishing up their version of poppy-seed chicken casserole. I can even picture the apostle Peter waiting tables. Okay, well, maybe not Peter, but definitely some of the lesser-known disciples. Like Thaddaeus and Bartholomew.

At Church of the Shepherd, the mother-daughter banquet dates only from the 1950s. And while the church has steadily declined in the past twenty years as succeeding generations of daughters moved to the suburbs, they always return for this particular event. And they bring with them granddaughters and great-granddaughters so that Church of the Shepherd rings with the sounds of little girls’ shrieks and maternal chatter.

The women of the ladies auxiliary are in their element. Margaret Devereaux is the most in her element of all. Because if a return to the glory days means a full sanctuary to the men, to the women it means a packed fellowship hall. Margaret sweeps around the room adjusting an inflatable palm tree here and a hula-skirted iced-tea glass there.

The incongruous tropical decorations notwithstanding (I’m still not sure what they have to do with a bridal fashion show), the ladies have done a nice job of decorating for the festivities. The fellowship hall exhibits more vigorous signs of life than at any point in my tenure here. I was the first one in the makeup chair, so I wander into the kitchen to see how things are going with the men while my mom and the rest of the ladies get powdered, buffed, and varnished.

The Judge has taken charge of the kitchen, but in a hands-on fashion—not the purely dictatorial role I would have expected.

“Get those rolls in the oven,” he orders Fred Mason, the chair of the membership committee, even as he flips mounds of greens in a humongous bowl. Judging from the deft flicks of his wrists with the tongs, it’s not the first time The Judge has tossed a salad.

Booger’s here too, among the cadre of kitchen soldiers, and he pauses to give me a wink and a smile. “The Judge runs a tight ship,” he says, but there’s no resentment in his voice. I can tell by the smile on his face that he’s having a great time. For once he’s just another pair of hands in the kitchen, not Booger the Homeless Guy.

Fred passes me with a tray of rolls bound for one of the four industrial-size ovens. “The Judge was a cook in the navy,” he says. “In case you didn’t notice.”

The Judge a navy cook? It’s hard to reconcile my mental images of him seated on the bench in his black robe, banging his gavel, with the traditional picture of a musclebound Popeye slinging hash.

“The Judge helped cook the dinner?”

“Reverend Blessing, The Judge is the cook. He even made the rolls from scratch.”

I had no idea The Judge had culinary leanings. Since I’ve been at the church, I’ve made it a point never to enter the kitchen when a big meal was being prepared.

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