The winter season reverberates with deep nostalgia, often based around sensory memories of music and food. Songs and recipes are passed down from generation to generation, allowing people to live in the same sounds and smells as their parents and grandparents. Bluegrass has always had a deep appreciation for a great meal, from “Hot Corn, Cold Corn,” to “Keep My Skillet Good and Greasy.” It’s such an established relationship, we even put together a BGS roundup of “Songs to Whet Your Appetite” a few years ago. For further listening, check out this Apple Music Playlist, Bluegrass Feast: Songs About Food, and our archive BGS Podcast about chefs and their kitchen playlists, The Shift List.
This season, we asked our readers to submit creative writing about the marriage of music and food, to make our ears ring and our mouths water. In this collection, Miriam Story and Shatazha Mattingly remember their grandparents’ singing while cooking up biscuits and empanadas. Stay tuned for fake teeth and flying ladles.
“Six Biscuits, Every Time”
by Miriam Story
It’d be the weekend and we’d have to be up by 7 o’clock for the adults’ errands. Poppy had silver partials on his uppers and lowers, and he’d soak them in Efferdent overnight in a tiny tupperware dish perched on the edge of the sink. They’d stay there until he’d eaten his breakfast, brushed his real teeth, and gelled his wiry hair to this side and that. But in the couple of hours he was partially toothless, he clowned out and sang off-key, delighted and encouraged by groans and grimaces. As Nana’s back curved over the stove, cast iron skillets on every burner and one in the oven, he would bound down the hall like a horse, clapping his hands and hooting. My cousin andI, tucked into bed– this is before they differentiated us: boy and girl– curled away from the white sunshine. And we’d know he was coming. There was no missing it: he would bust open the door doing his vocal warmups for what he called “The Bikit Song.” Gums hidden by his sunken leather cheeks, he’d nuzzle his face into the back of our hair and sing between kisses, how many bikits can you eat in the mornin? how many bikits in a day? And this would go on with no particular melody and no more than those two lines until we sat up, bleary and laughing politely.
Miriam Story originates from Russell Springs, Kentucky. While she enjoys writing about her Appalachian roots, she thinks her favorite subjects are gray beaches, a good pot roast, and Jimmy Carter. Follow Miriam Story on Instagram at @mermstory.
“When Things Were Different”
by Shatazha Mattingly
I watch her start with a twirl around the kitchen, which turns into angelic dance moves. I’m never in the kitchen for the preparation part. That’s okay, because what I love is the creation and the foolishness in between. The kitchen looks the same as always with three potted plants in the windowsill right above the sink – that she always forgets to water – and her fascinating wine red and cheetah print decorations scattered here and there. My only regret is that I’m never allowed to stay more than one to two nights.
The smell of melted butter wafts through the kitchen, her signal to begin sautéing the chopped peppers – for that kick she likes – and the chopped onions ’til softened. She has this specific way that she sprinkles in sofrito and garlic, and she uses the same pose to add in white wine, followed by a can of tomato sauce. She never uses measurements. She always says, “The eyes measure the pit of the stomach.” I don’t even think she knows what that means.
As she works, I pull out my crayons and colorbooks that she hides in the little compartment drawer in the table doors – I think it’s laughable that the table was originally an office desk. But she has a knack for maximizing space with having as few objects as possible.
I sniff the air – the kitchen has become fragrant. She is now fully in her element, and my stomach is grumbling in anticipation. She hits high notes effortlessly, while swaying her hips in tandem with the beat – she’s magical. Later, I will discover that the song she sings with such passion is about a woman who loves a cheating man. I don’t understand why she plays that song first to get her in her zone.
Nevertheless, she has made the kitchen her stage, a performance only I can see. “Sing and dance with me my love,” she says, in that accent that felt like home.
The look I give her in response earns me sympathetic eyes.
She knows the words, without me ever allowing them to flow past my lips. She takes a second, and then giggles while pausing in her dancing to add in the ground beef and an array of seasoning. Still no measurements, and I bet the empanadillas will be just as perfect as always.
She stays focused for a while, cooking the ground beef. After the beef is nice and brown she’ll stir in a smidge of vinegar – dip her finger to taste – and then adjust seasonings by adding salt and pepper if needed. Perfection.
Then, our comfortable bubble goes from her and me, to three.
I hear him before I see him. She is singing – yet another heartbreaking song – while assembling the dough into discs. In all his glory, Abuelito sways his way into the kitchen. He bee-lines straight for her – his air, as he calls her. He dances with her, not skipping a beat, with one hand on her hip and the other in the air. One of his old tricks. As she becomes engrossed in the music, he steals a scoop of the picadillo filling and then steals a kiss as a distraction. I see her watching him out of the corner of her eye, a small smile playing on her lips. But she never allows him to get away with anything. As he tiptoes towards the door, a ladle flies across the kitchen aimed at the back of his head. It misses, but Abuelito pretends to be hurt anyway.
My picture is almost complete; I just need to add clouds and a sun to the sky.
Abuelito can’t stay away too long and eventually sits down with a book at the refurbished table with me. The tobacco and woodsy smell from his aftershave float in the distance between us, while her singing and the music play in the background. She’s standing at the counter, placing calculated scoops of filling to the middle of the dough. My favorite part is when she folds them into what she calls “little half moons” and presses in the edges to seal them. When she dips them into the bubbling oil, she begins dancing again.
Without turning around she says, “You don’t have to understand to feel, love. It’s okay to let the music guide you. Music connects us all in one way or another, just like food can.” Her English comes out crystal clear over the thrums of the music.
I don’t look up, because I can feel his eyes on me, he thinks the same too. He’s different from her though, his words aren’t words at all. It’s silence filled with love and encouragement, and with that – I get up and dance. With her everything feels otherworldly.
An entire song later, she lifts the empanadillas out of the oil and places them on a paper towel that covers a plate. When we sit at the table – originally meant for four – we talk, laugh, sing a little, and eat while basking in the aroma that only this kitchen can provide. I may never understand the words or perfect the dialect, but I’ll always remember how the music feels.
Abuelito is the first to go, and now, I hold her close to my chest. A stylish urn – wine red – her new stage.
Shatazha Mattingly is a first-year MFA student at Western Kentucky University originally from Nashville, Tennessee. She currently writes reviews for advance reader copies by indie authors and has her own book-related column, “The Literary Radar,” with The College Heights Herald. Follow Shatazha Mattingly on Instagram at @shatazha.
Stay tuned for more opportunities to share your own writing or art on BGS in a future collection!
Collection edited by Rachel Baiman and BGS staff.
