cornbread lessons

When I was nine there was nothing more exciting than watching my Nana take hot cornbread out of the oven. She was coaching me for the fourth grade 4-H baking competition, and more than the blue ribbon, I wanted my grandfather, Big Daddy, to look at me the way he looked at Nana and say it was the best cornbread he had ever eaten.

My first lessons revolved around reading recipes and measuring ingredients. I mastered these and quickly moved on to the mixing bowl. Nana was in charge of the skillet and oven, which made my last hurdle the decision of when to take out the finished, golden cornbread. Looking back to 1987 in the sleepy town of Lawrenceburg, Tennessee, waiting for the cornbread was the best part of cooking with Nana.

We would talk about school and piano lessons. We wondered about politics and who would win the presidential election. We talked about the Murray Ohio factory and Davy Crockett Park, when Big Daddy was in the Air Force and stories about when she learned to cook cornbread. It was a time when we could and did talk about everything important when your age is one digit.

We would also listen to the radio. Huntsville, Alabama, had a station called ‘Beautiful 97’ that had the sweetest grandmother easy-listening on the waves. Nana thought that the news was too full of horror stories and politics, and although she would watch to see what was going on in the world, her favorite was music. She said nobody should have a dismal day if they had a radio. When 96.9 changed to rock and roll Nana was glad that satellite radio adopted ‘Sunny’, another easy listening venue without the commercials.

My problem with cooking lessons was that I always wanted to take the cornbread out of the oven before it was ready. Nana was always telling me to be patient. Like all good things in life, I would have to learn to wait. My most important lessons in patience started in Nana’s kitchen.

Big Daddy was always excited to eat anything that Nana had cooked. It never mattered what she set in front of him; he was always complimentary and would tell her that it was the best he had ever eaten. He would rock back in his chair and say, “Mom, that meal was great. It was almost perfect. I think you need more practice.” She would smile. He would smile.

The world smiled when they smiled at each other.

Nana has told me several times about when Big Daddy proposed to her. It was my favorite story. She was a cool 21 years young with auburn curls and an hourglass figure. She said they had gone to see a show at Crocket Theater. (She never remembered which show it was. She said they went to see all of them. Maybe that is the reason why she loves to watch the AMC showcase now.) He was walking her home when he stopped her, took her hand, and asked her to marry him. “Of course I said yes,” Nana always said, “And since it was dark outside, I had to run the rest of the way home to see the ring.” Big Daddy didn’t have a car then, nobody had a car actually, and street lights were things only they had in the ‘city’, not a country town like Lawrenceburg. Nana said it was the most beautiful ring she had ever seen, and all of her sisters liked it, too. “Those were the good ‘ole days,” that story always ended. And she would smile. And I would smile.

I was so proud of my cornbread entry the day of the competition. My plate with three perfectly golden triangles was screaming for attention from the judges. I am sure that I had picked out my very best blue jeans to wear to try to impress the judges. After all, I had been given the seal of approval from all the important people. Imagine my disappointment when I brought home a green, participant ribbon. I was not destined to be the cornbread queen. Nana comforted me and told me that sometimes it takes time to develop blue-ribbon cornbread skills, and she was sure that she probably would not have won a blue ribbon, either.

But Nana would have won the blue ribbon. Nana was Martha Stewart before Martha was even born. Nana made Kleeman’s Chicken on Egg-bread better than Kleeman himself.

Big Daddy was convinced that there must have been some mistake in the judging. After all, he had eaten cornbread from the same batch, and “it was almost perfect. Where do they get these cornbread judgers anyway?” He was always in my corner.

We have made countless triangles of cornbread over the years and somehow have not yet made a perfect batch. We have been amused by each other and solved most of the world’s problems in her kitchen. (Why won’t politicians seek our advice before they do things?) Nana has told me before, “I always have an opinion and a solution that hardly agrees with anyone else.” This is probably why we got along so well.

As I think back, there are important lessons I gleaned from Nana’s kitchen:
* Always set the table for every meal, even if you’re having sandwiches.
* Make everyone feel welcome.
* Carry the cricket outside; don’t step on it.
* Men will do any chore for chocolate cake or chocolate pie.
* Some stories are worth being told many times.
* Pick a sports team and be their biggest fan.
* Silence can be the best answer.
* Keep important pictures on your refrigerator.
* Let your loved ones know they are special.
* Compliment the cook.
* Always be patient. Wait for the cornbread to turn the right shade of golden brown before you take it from the oven.


Last Christmas my husband and I were unable to travel home for holiday festivities with our family. We decided to have our own mini-feast in newlywed tradition, and I made cornbread dressing using Nana’s recipe. After the second bite he looked at me and said, “This is the greatest dressing I have ever eaten.”

Although he had never met Big Daddy, that look was priceless. He made me promise that I would not tell his mother that he said my dressing was better than hers.


I called Nana and told her that we won the blue ribbon after all.


** This was a story I wrote as an entry for a book about grandparents. It didn't get chosen for the book, so posting it here is my green ribbon. (What's wrong with those judges, anyway?)
** I sure am homesick.
** For more 4H memories, go here.