Roy Exum
When you are from a big family, there are few things you don’t encounter. When you have an extended family, there is virtually nothing you don’t encounter. Or conquer. So let me open by telling you my youngest brother was gay. Oh, when I found out over 30 years ago I was aghast – embarrassed and hurt by what I later learned was my own ignorance and prejudice. Don’t worry – before Franklin died 15 years ago he taught me more about love and acceptance and people than anyone I have known before or since.
There was a day back in the late ‘80s when I was so sick, struggling from infections, that Mother took me to our family “hospital,” which is our family farm where I have healed a lot of times. Early the next afternoon Franklin came speeding up the drive with a horrified look on his face – he’d just learned he had inoperable cancer and maybe three months to live. One lung was full of the disease and it had spread to other places.
Within two days I was taking him to Emory and The Mayo Clinic. Yes, I was the one so sick on the back seat but I was taking him – we would stop for nothing! It’s funny how God can give you a hard-fisted wake-up and by then I could have cared less about his sexuality – he was my brother and he wasn’t going to die. I pray you’ll never have to find this out but there isn’t any “give up” when your family is involved.
Despite the longest odds you can imagine, our team of doctors got him 10 more years and every day he savored, not to mention the rest of us. With one lung gone and his aorta badly mangled, somehow we got him 10 more years. Yes, he had to be “exiled” to Palm Springs – the dry desert air a big factor. One Christmas he came home and darn near died from pneumonia but we had a heckuva run for 9½ years and, by then, my heart had totally transformed from a caterpillar into a butterfly.
I’m not good chronologically but I’ll never forget the Thanksgiving afternoon at Crawford Long Hospital in Atlanta where I sat watching him trying to breathe. The doctors had removed a badly-diseased lung, and rather than give him oxygen, they had to let him learn to breathe on his own. That afternoon was also a huge lesson because homosexuality, racism, feminism and any other “ism” has meant nothing to me ever since. I learned to see people in an entirely different view. Franklin taught me to love agape – totally.
Several years later I was in a bad spot with different infections. I wasn’t doing well at Mayo Clinic and had undergone six surgeries within two weeks and they were pumping in antibiotics by the gallon. They agreed that I could come home for several weeks -- I’d lost weight, suffered from PTSD, and was a wreck. It was a huge mess and the Mayo “psychs” realized I needed a couple of weeks “to come up for air.”
This was in the middle of January and the roads in Chattanooga were thick with ice. Franklin called, demanding I come to the desert. He’d already booked the flight and that two weeks turned out to be a Godsend. Chattanooga was in ice, but Franklin and I were in everyday sunshine. The two of us talked about everything as I dutifully took my IV meds, going back and forth to the hospital twice a day for a two-hour drip.
By then I had grown to understand a person’s sexuality has nothing to do with the giant they are within. We had great dinners, with a mix of straights and “queers” alike, and it was one of the most magical times of my life because I could see that, while all of us are different in many ways, we are also so very much alike. I have kept up with many of Franklin’s friends, too.
Franklin died in 2001, and my older brother Kinch died in 2004 (we believe his cancer came from Agent Orange in Viet Nam). My last brother Jonathan died in August so with my sisters living far away, I’m the last one of us still here. For 65 years I had at least 30-40 at every Thanksgiving table yet today it is only me. (Don’t worry, I was part of a glorious crowd last Thursday) so with the stage now set, I need to share what made this Thanksgiving absolutely incredible.
On Sunday my dear friend, John Divine – who was Franklin’s partner – wrote a story and posted it on Facebook about celebrating Thanksgiving with my family. It is an automatic heirloom. Ellen, who is now living in Ohio, was every bit as swept away as I was. Reading it, and remembering it, was the nicest thing that has happened to me in ages. John is still like a brother to us and we’ve been together through a lot of thick and thin. I hope you will see who he truly is.
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THAT DAMNED HOMINY
By John Divine -- Sunday, November 27, 2016
Almost 30 years ago, I went to my first Thanksgiving at the in-laws. Of course, we didn't use the term in-law back then and ‘partner’ was a term used for law firms and square dancing. "John is our good family friend." Or if it was someone from the paper, "You know John from the City Room?"
I had a bit of an advantage that also added to the awkwardness: I knew most of the family from work. But for those who hadn't heard the latest breaking story at the Chattanooga News-Free Press, or more likely, had heard but thought, "Oh, it just can't be," there was that moment when it hit them that Franklin and I had matching gold bands.
Of course, nobody said anything about it, at least not right there. Well, except for Helen's best friend, Fran. "I think it's just wonderful. I do hope you'll let me come over and help you cover some chairs." Then, whispering with that knowing eye, "You let me know if Helen pulls anything on you." Franklin's niece waited until the following Sunday at church to make sure she had it straight, "You live with Uncle Wiggily, don't you?" When I somehow pulled a "yes" out of my throat, she assured me, "I just wanted to know," the twinkle in her eye assuring me all was well.
Another advantage was knowing the menu because Helen had featured all of her best family meals in The Chattanooga Cookbook. Therefore, seeing chopped hard-boiled eggs in the cornbread dressing--a recipe from Mississippi--was no surprise. I knew they cooked real cranberries, unlike my grandmother, who unmolded canned sauce into a silver repoussé compote.
I heard Helen tell Franklin she was tossing a green salad rather than having their traditional cranberry aspic with chopped pecans and oranges, because it was too much work and Annie, another kind of good family friend who had cooked and run the house for years, had been invited strictly as a guest. That explained why I saw a loaf of French bread by the oven instead of rolls or biscuits. (The next year, I started making rolls.) But Sister Ellen had baked the pecan tarts and I saw the crystal bowl of ambrosia in the refrigerator.
Soon it was time for Roy to return thanks. Helen quickly got between Franklin and me so we were only holding other people's hands, not each other's. Then we had to go around and offer something for which we were thankful. (In my family, people freshened their drinks after the blessing.) Finally, we got to hit the sideboard: two turkeys, a ham, dressing, wild rice, fresh green beans and suddenly I was staring at a dish full of hominy.
Hominy?
Revolting. Hominy was something you kept in the bomb shelter and ate once every two years when you rotated cans. Isn't it made with lye? I took about four kernels to be polite while Franklin and his siblings enthusiastically served themselves full portions.
Now it wasn't hominy straight from the can. It was creamed hominy, cooked for at least an hour with the thickest cream available, butter, a dash or two of Tabasco and salt and pepper so by the time it was served the thick sauce would have made acorns taste good. But it was still hominy and they acted like it was molded pâté at a Colonial Dames reception. Helen explained to the children that hominy was an Indian food and, therefore, certainly eaten by the Pilgrims at the very first Thanksgiving.
Year to year, four kernels grew to five and then six and so on until I made peace with an entire half serving. It wasn't so bad mixed with the dressing. One year, when Franklin was in the hospital after one of his wrecks, in came Helen with a basket of Thanksgiving dinner, complete with hominy. The next year, Helen was out of town for Thanksgiving, so Brother Jonathan made the hominy.
Because he bragged how his was better than his mother's--and it was--thereafter he did the honors, telling us in great detail how he let it cook down not for just one hour but three, how he used more cream and more butter and liked red pepper in addition to the Tabasco and how, after cooking, it was better to put it into a casserole dish to finish in the oven.
The next Thanksgiving there was a new in-law at the table. I watched Gaston--whose grandmother had helped write the original Charleston Receipts cookbook of idiosyncratic Southern dishes--eye it suspiciously and whisper, "What is that?" He and I didn't dare look at each other at the table until the last course for fear of bursting out in laughter. I had previously been in awe of Gaston; now we were bonded.
Then there was the year Franklin wanted to have friends over the Sunday before Thanksgiving. "No fancy or experimental food," he decreed, insisting on a ham because there was no way it could delay dinner. (Three months prior an inventive entrée of mine did not appear until nearly midnight.) He agreed to roasted asparagus and asked, "Do you think you could make the hominy?"
"What?"
"I thought it would be nice to have something traditional," he said.
I did perhaps the meanest thing I ever did to him. I railed, "Are you stupid? Hominy is not high holiday fare--your mother had a large family to feed and hominy was five cans for a dollar! I hate that damned hominy and so does everyone else!"
Oh, to remember his crestfallen face makes me wish I could take it back more than anything I've ever said. I quickly suggested Mrs. Manson's scalloped potatoes and said, sure, if he wanted us to serve Baskin-Robbins pistachio ice cream cake for dessert, it would be lovely.
That Franklin was a finicky eater made the whole hominy cult even more curious. If he didn't care for my dinner, he would put his fork down and say, "I think I'm going to put in a Stouffer's." It got to be where there were about three basic dinners I could fix to please him. And occasionally I would fix creamed hominy, albeit a 30-minute version, to go along with pork and he'd clean his plate. By then inflation had raised the price to three cans for a dollar.
Thanksgivings came and went. Sometimes Franklin and I went out of town. We separated. We got back together, and when we did, he said no more family holidays. My first thought was, "No more damned hominy, ever again!"
Before the holidays came that year, before I joined him in California, Franklin died suddenly. The Sunday before Thanksgiving we buried him at McDonald Farm. A few days later, we gathered for a sad, sad holiday without him.
But, never fear, there was that damned hominy.
More Thanksgivings came and went. One year, Jonathan was mad at his mother and wouldn't come. In walks Aunt Martha, the crusty old doctor who hated family and holidays, proudly bearing a pot. "I made the creamed hominy," she said, beaming (something she did rarely) as if she'd split the first atom.
Then Helen remarried. Her husband misunderstood my role in the family and got the absurd notion Helen and I had once dated. He told her to banish me or else and, even after he was banished in due time, there was never again a big Thanksgiving dinner at Helen's. The silver lining? Bye-bye to that damned hominy.
Since then, I've gone to my friend LeAnne's for Thanksgiving here in Atlanta. Her friends are fun and it's an invitation that's never rescinded, even if you miss one year or you wake up too late to make rolls and bring beer bread instead. Her son Nick makes bread pudding, something of which I'm usually not a fan, to die for. There's ham and turkey and all sorts of decadent side dishes, like mashed potatoes with bacon.
Now Helen is gone. Dr. Martha is gone. Jonathan is gone. Time takes away disappointment and you remember the good times. Family traditions you found odious seem to beckon. Thus, the day before Thanksgiving found me wondering, "Who is making the hominy?" Someone somewhere had to make it. I went to the store after work. How on earth did a can of white hominy go to a dollar and nine cents?
The Helen in me refused to pay such an exorbitant price for something I had ridiculed for so long. Yet Thanksgiving morning, the thought was still nagging. While my roll dough was rising, I went to the 24-hour Kroger for hominy. Although the regular cans were 10 cents more than Publix--again, the Helen in me said "no way"--the huge can of Mexican-style hominy was $2.99. Could Mexican hominy be that different?
I got back and dumped it out into a large pot. Was I imagining things or did Mexican hominy look and taste different from the regular kind? These bloated white kernels had pronounced brown edges, which I didn't remember. If Franklin were watching, he would instantly turn up his nose, judge it inferior, lecture me for trying to save $4 and state emphatically he wouldn't touch it. But he wasn't there, so I added heavy whipping cream, butter, salt, pepper and Tabasco and stirred. It tasted so awful I almost threw it away right then.
I lit the flame on low and went back to making yeast rolls. After 15 minutes, I stirred. It still tasted awful. Certainly I had made a huge mistake gambling on Mexican hominy. I would wait until just before my housemate got home from church to throw it out. In the meantime, what did I have to lose by letting it cook slowly? Maybe it just needed more salt and pepper and a little extra butter. I even toyed with the idea of adding rosemary or cheese as if we were in the South of France.
Forty-five minutes later, when I figured it was time to discard before my housemate returned, I checked it. It looked a lot more like what I remembered. I tasted it. Wow--the magic of slowly cooking in heavy cream and butter had done the trick. All it needed was that dash or two of red pepper to make it worthy of Jonathan. I put it into a Pyrex dish and into the oven until it was time to leave. A last-minute sprinkling of paprika made it look festive.
When I set it with the other, tastier offerings at LeAnne's, it occurred to me I ought to warn people it was one of those dishes, like gefilte fish, that few, if any, might appreciate. But I got distracted and next thing I knew, we had returned thanks and half the people had been through the line. I saw the dish of hominy next to all sorts of wonderful offerings and saw someone taking a huge helping, saying, "I can't wait to taste this corn pudding."
I couldn't bear to watch. I prayed the woman's taste buds were dulled from drinking. Nobody complained. Nobody asked for the recipe either.
Just as Helen always gave us hominy to take home, I returned with plenty. Tonight, as I sat down with leftover turkey, dressing and cranberries, I got some hominy. I don't like re-heated leftovers, so I ate it cold, just like I used to the weekend after Thanksgiving back home.
That hominy was damned good.
Taste buds transported me into that sphere in which time is suspended. I could feel the silver goblets with water condensing on the outside. I could hear Aunt Martha saying she would never come back to her sister's ever again.
I could smell the coffee Franklin was making in the kitchen for dessert. I heard Roy's laughter. I could hear Helen and Fran say they were so glad to have a pro-choice president (Bill Clinton). I could hear Lauren claiming she needed a ride across town to counsel a friend in spiritual need. I could see Mary Cady trying to read between the many lines. If I looked out the window, I'd see Jonathan's "El Kuh-MEE-nuh."
I thought of all the dirty dishes Ellen and I would have the best time washing and drying together. Surely the phone would ring and Kinch or Susan would be checking in from their comfort zones far away.
It was just a few seconds and I was back. I started to cry but instead smiled, thankful for wonderful times that don't seem wonderful until they're gone.
I love that damned hominy.
* * *
As you may imagine, I was totally transcended and immediately sent John a note of thanks, explaining how all of us adored his story. He soon wrote back with the line, “The next time I come home I’ll bring the damned hominy.”
royexum@aol.com