Ronda Rich: The comforts of a Southern kitchen

At his news conference last Thursday, President Biden said of Georgia’s new voting law, “It makes Jim Crow look like Jim Eagle.” Jim Crow was not a person, but unlike most former presidents, he has a museum: The Jim Crow Museum of Racist Memorabilia. The name came from a song written by Thomas Dartmouth “Daddy” Rice. From the museum webpage: “Rice, a struggling ‘actor’ (he did short solo skits between play scenes) at the Park Theater in New York, happened upon a black person singing (a song titled ‘Jim Crow’) — some accounts say it was an old black slave who walked with difficulty, others say it was a ragged black stable boy. Whether modeled on an old man or a young boy we will never know, but we know that in 1828 Rice appeared on stage as ‘Jim Crow’ — an exaggerated, highly stereotypical black character. “Rice, a white man, was one of the first performers to wear blackface makeup... His Jim Crow song-and-dance routine was an astounding success that took him from Louisville to Cincinnati to Pittsburgh to Philadelphia and finally to New York in 1832. He also performed to great acclaim in London and Dublin. By then ‘Jim Crow’ was a stock character in minstrel shows, along with counterparts Jim Dandy and Zip Coon. Rice’s subsequent blackface characters were Sambos, Coons and Dandies. White audiences were receptive to the portrayals of blacks as singing, dancing, grinning fools.” President Biden and other Democrats apparently want us to believe there has been no racial progress since then. Democrats should display some humility when it comes to African-Americans and voting since it was members of their party who opposed civil rights legislation, defended slavery in the 19th century and promoted “black codes” in Southern state legislatures that denied many rights to former slaves. Those were elected Democrats who stood in schoolhouse doors, denying access to black children. Democrat sheriffs clubbed people in the streets during demonstrations and sicced dogs on them, among other indignities. It was also the party that required “poll taxes” and “literacy tests” for blacks, violating their right to vote. The Georgia law leaves in place many voting options, in addition to showing up on Election Day. It eliminates signature matching, which should appeal to both parties. Vote tabulators will no longer have to subjectively decide the authenticity of two signatures. Instead, voters will receive an ID number with their mail-in ballots or applications. Those numbers must match. In person voters who do not have an ID can easily obtain one. How is doing a better job of ensuring ballot integrity and boosting confidence in election outcomes racist? Critics claim the new law negatively affects African American voters. Do they think Blacks are so incompetent they can’t do the minimum required in order to vote? For years Democrats have expanded voting laws to include registration at the DMV, early voting, and absentee voting with no excuses (still allowed under the new law). The Georgia law, which is being duplicated in other states with Republican majority legislatures, seeks to prevent vote harvesting and voting by people who don’t exist, or who have moved out of state. Today’s Democrats like to claim “voter suppression” when Republicans attempt to make sure every ballot is legitimate. We can’t afford to repeat Donald Trump’s claims of suspect voting behavior, miscounting and questions about machines and illegal voters that he alleged characterized the 2020 presidential election. Most people are willing to accept the defeat of candidates for whom they voted if they believe the system was fair and the tabulations accurate. Achieving that end is the purpose of the new Georgia law. It’s not about Jim Crow, or for that matter, “Jim Eagle.”

Whenever a Southern woman is feeling lost or has a need to busy her hands, more often than not, she will make her way to the kitchen the way a sinner will run to the altar. “Idle hands are a devil’s workshop,” Mama always said. It was plum dark on a winter’s eve, and I was piddling in the kitchen. I had roasted a pan of broccoli followed by a pan of toasted cauliflower. While they cooked, I cleaned out the fridge and wiped cabinets of coffee spills. Tink sat at the enormous handmade table with the lazy Susan — that had been his father’s — and read news and checked emails. I felt his eyes on me and looked up. He was watching intently as I wiped the kitchen island. “Did your mama make you clean the kitchen?” he asked. I nodded. “Every night when we finished supper, she’d say, ‘Now, Ronda, clean up the supper dishes. I’m goin’ back to the sewing room.” It was usually around 6:30 or 7 and Daddy had not come home from the garage yet. Mama took herself back to the sewing room that she had installed in a guest bedroom — her sewing customers sat on the bed pushed against the wall and talked to Mama as she wrote down their orders and their measurements. Her sewing machine was under a window that faced the front yard. When Daddy’s old truck slowed to a stop and turned carefully into the driveway, shining his headlights toward the window, she finished the seam she was stitching, clipped the thread, turned off the machine light, and pushed back her chair. By this time, I had scrubbed the cast iron skillets, washed the dishes — Mama never owned a dishwasher and there still isn’t one in her old home — and wiped down the stove and counter. “Ronda, hand me a plate,” she said as she got the old Coca-Cola tray on which she served Daddy supper every night. “I need to dip your daddy up a plate.” Then she’d turn to Daddy who was hanging up his hat over the calendar with the signs of the moon that our people faithfully followed and asked, “Ralph, do you want buttermilk or sweet milk?” Daddy settled into his chair, boots off and tray in his lap. While he ate, Mama went to the sewing room and got up some finger work that needed to be done, like hemming or buttons sewn on. Then she joined us in the den while I watched TV, Daddy read the newspaper, and Mama enjoyed being with her family. When Tink was gone for several weeks on a television shoot, I increasingly found myself in the kitchen at night, baking a pie for someone or fixing food that I could eat on for a couple of days. I’d sweep the floor, then mop it. It seemed to take forever for me to quit and leave the kitchen. Sometimes it’d be midnight. It was comforting to me. From the time a child is born to a Southern mother, she will be taught both the necessities and the joys of a kitchen. When I was barely old enough to see above the kitchen table, I’d stand and watch Mama as she grabbed a hand of lard or Crisco, mash it into the White Lily flour, pour buttermilk in, and mix it together with her hands. No spoon. Then, she’d pinch off a piece of dough and deftly make the prettiest biscuit you’d ever seen. When I was 10, I cooked the family’s Thanksgiving turkey and trimmings, then baked a chocolate layer cake. I found an old cookbook with a somewhat elaborate recipe for Swedish meatballs and rice. Mama always laughed about my “specialty.” These days as we turn increasingly to that which is familiar, it isn’t just the food that is comforting. It’s the kitchen itself and all the memories it cooks up.