Violets for the Soul

My siblings and I were blessed to have loving parents who encouraged us to be our best and do the right thing.

In challenging times, we’d often be reminded:

“Can’t never could.”

“Say what you mean and mean what you say.”

“Always take the high road.”

“Cream rises to the top.”

“There but for the grace of God go I.”

These old adages and others were a mantra of sorts as Mother and Daddy taught us to live by the Golden Rule and obey the 11 commandments.

There were the original 10, of course, that Moses brought down from Mount Sinai after his meeting with God.

But in our house, there was a No. 11:

Thou shalt not cause a guest in our home to feel uncomfortable at any time, for any reason, under any circumstance.

The 11th Commandment was an unwritten rule that was strictly enforced. And woe be unto anyone who dared not comply. In my memory, that never happened.

Southern hospitality was ingrained into my very being from an early age. It seemed a natural extension of what we learned at Sunday School: We were simply doing unto others as we would have them do unto us.

Mother and Daddy loved to cook, and they welcomed any excuse to bring people together over good food. Daddy’s culinary efforts focused mainly on his secret recipe for dry rub, grilled T-bones and Frank X. Tolbert’s red chili. Mother mastered the old favorites of her German/South Texas/Louisiana heritage and stayed on trend with recipes from her stacks of Southern Living, Gourmet, House Beautiful and Bon Appétit magazines. There was always something new to try.

All this at-home cooking was necessitated in part by the limited number of places to eat out in our hometown, population 2,498. Daddy’s favorite “French” restaurant, for example, was a greasy spoon that served “French” fried steak, French fries and French salad dressing.

And we didn’t have the convenience of today’s delis, bakeries and specialty markets. If you wanted something out of the ordinary, you found a recipe and rolled up your sleeves. Back in the ‘70s, for example, my parents spent a Saturday afternoon making croissants from a recipe in the booklet that came with their newfangled kitchen gadget, a Cuisinart food processor.

This time of year, with temperatures finally dipping and the holidays on the way, I think back to those days focused on family, friends and food. I still have Mother’s handwritten menus for breakfast, lunch and dinner for each day of Thanksgiving week, an entertaining marathon we jokingly referred to as the “Olympics of Eating.” We’d look forward to welcoming her brother and sister-in-law and their children from Metairie, Louisiana, a few miles west of New Orleans, and some years we’d squeeze in more aunts and uncles and cousins driving in from as far as Key West. All would come bearing dishes reflecting our family’s heritage and adventurous palate.

It was such a happy time. I can still smell the aromas from the kitchen and hear the laughter around the table. Maybe that’s what heaven will be like.

That generation is gone now, but we try to keep their memories and traditions alive. I was fortunate to inherit some of Mother’s cookbooks and recipe files, and they remain among my most cherished possessions. As my own cookbook collection grows (almost 200, but who’s counting), I think she’d especially like my favorite, published in 1991 by the Junior League of Jackson, Mississippi. The title says it all: “Come On In!”

The book’s clever design explores the theme of hospitality through images of doors of all types, sizes and materials. The cover shot features a simple screen door leading to an inviting back porch. Inside, grand entrances mingle with a latticed garden gate, the door of a small country church, the rustic entry of a 19th-century farmhouse – even the humble doors of an antique pie safe.

The margins make for interesting reading with tips, trivia and humorous little anecdotes. I especially love one on page 113 that tells of an elegant dinner party many years ago where finger bowls garnished with slices of lemon were passed: “One of the guests squeezed the lemon into his bowl, added sugar, and proceeded to drink what he assumed was lemonade. The host of the dinner, rather than embarrass his guest, followed his example, as did the other members of the party.”

That’s the very essence of the 11th Commandment: Above all, thou shalt not cause a guest in our home to feel uncomfortable at any time, for any reason, under any circumstance.

If only we could apply that concept to our communities, our country and our world.

We could learn a lot from the doors of my favorite cookbook. Like us, they reflect widely different backgrounds, styles and cultures, from the squeaky screen door to the beveled entry with gleaming brass hardware. Yet each offers the same message of warmth and welcome, of love, acceptance and inclusion.

As diverse individuals, we could – no, we should – do that, too. Everyone deserves a place at the table.

That reminds me of another of my mother’s favorite sayings: “I shall not pass this way again,” part of an old quote that goes like this:

“I shall pass this way but once; any good that I can do or any kindness I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.”

It’s easy, really. All we have to do is open the door and say, “Come on in!”