The Biscuit and Cornbread Contest

By the time I was 11 and in the 6^th grade at Seal-Mathis Elementary Mama began to insist that I enter the 4-H Cornbread and Biscuit Contest that was held each spring at the high school in Sneedville. I always believed that her interest in this contest was because she loved cornbread and biscuits and felt that it was a skill I should learn.  After all, these were the only two bread items we ever ate at home. Mama seemed to feel that it was her duty to teach me every skill she knew so that I would be adequately prepared to be a wife.

The first year I entered the contest I only did so because Mama said I should; I had never tried to make cornbread or biscuits, but knew that I would probably learn how someday. Upon Mama’s insistence, I entered both contests and went home to tell her I had done so.  Days passed, but Mama never brought up the subject of teaching me how to make cornbread or biscuits.  I thought this was a little odd, but Mama was one to keep her word so I just waited until she got around to giving me my first lesson.  I waited until we were three days away from the contest; I finally asked Mama when we were going to learn how to do them.  To this she responded, “Don’t worry about it,” so I didn’t. The next day I asked the same question and got the same answer. I was getting anxious so on the day before the contest I asked when we were going to do the biscuits and cornbread.  Mama said, “Don’t worry about it; I’ll take care of it.”  I didn’t know what she meant by this, but knew that Mama kept her word.

On the Saturday morning of the contest I panicked when I awoke and ran to the kitchen where Mama was preparing breakfast.  She greeted me with, “There’s your biscuits and cornbread,” and pointed to the counter.  On the counter were neatly arranged bread baskets, one with HER biscuits and one with HER cornbread. I started to protest and ask questions, but she interrupted me saying, “Your Daddy will take you to town as soon as you have breakfast and get dressed; your two breads are ready.” Stunned and confused, I could tell that she had no plans to say anything more.  I ate, picked up my baskets and got in the truck to go to town. 

When we arrived at the high school cafeteria and I joined about 20 other contestants.  I placed each of my baskets where they went and tried to remain calm despite my growing disease over what I would say if the judges asked me whether I made the biscuits myself.  The judges were Mrs. Walker and Mr. Haston.  Within twenty minutes of my arrival the contest started, and by this time I was in a major panic mode about whether to lie or not about who had made the biscuits if I were asked.  Slowly Mrs. Walker and Mr. Haston moved down the line to each basket, tasted a portion of the offering and moved on.  I tried not to think about the process and pretend that I was someplace else more pleasant and less stressful. I heard our two judges ask some random questions or make a few comments, but I was too far gone in anxiety to know what they said.  Finally they came to my offerings and I looked at my feet and prayed for silence.  I don’t remember them sampling my biscuits or cornbread.  I only remember them several minutes later as they came to the end of the table.  Both Mr. Haston and Mrs. Walker walked to the front of the room and announced the winners. I came back to reality when I heard my name called for a blue ribbon on ‘my biscuits’ and ‘my cornbread’. I walked up to the front took my ribbon and felt awful.

Daddy and I returned home and Mama greeted us at the door.  She said, “How did you do?”  I said, “I won on both of them.”  She said, “Good” and that was it.  We never talked about it again until the next year when the same scenario was repeated with me winning again with Mama’s biscuits and Mama’s cornbread.  I did this same behavior for three years in a row; I won first place each time.  Mama and I never discussed the issue, ever.

It’s now 45 years later; Mama is dead, and I sit here trying to make sense of all of this.  The only possible explanation I can offer is that Mama had me enter the contests for her sake so she could have the reassurance that she was one of the best bread makers in the whole county.  It never was about me.  It was HER contest all along; a contest that she had wanted to enter and win when she was a young girl herself but never had the opportunity to enter or win.

The Transition From Winter to Spring

At our house winter was spent with Mama and Aunt Ruby totally occupied with quilt making.  The process actually began before Christmas when they decided how many quilts tops they would make during the upcoming winter season and what patterns would be featured in these quilts.  By January they were hard at work cutting, sewing pieces together and arguing about who was the best seamstress. 

Aunt Ruby was not the perfectionist that Mama was.  From her perspective, few things in life required precision; if you could make it work in some sort of way, it was good enough; end of story.  According to Mama, Ruby’s stitches were crooked; her seams did not join as they were supposed to and she was ‘sloppy with her work’ from beginning to end. The arguments never ended with any type of resolution.  Mama fussed and gave orders; Aunt Ruby carried on with her sewing.

By February they were rushing to get their quilt work done because Spring was coming and a new focus was about to unfold.  On the cold wintery days of February they did their quilt work, but on those few warm days that occurred in February they turned their attention to getting the sweet onion bulbs in the ground that had been prepared for them in the fall.  If they got these bulbs in the ground in February they would have fresh green onions to go with their lettuce in May. The only quilting I remember them doing in March was adding some finishing touches to quilts that had been done in January and February.

The winter months on our farm also led to preserved foods rather than fresh foods.  We ate pinto beans, Irish potatoes, side meat and ham from the smoke house, and homemade hominy. We grew our own corn for the hominy.  This corn, brand named Hickory Cane, was white with larger kernels than the corn used to make our corn meal. Hominy often cooked slowly on the stove while Mama and Aunt Ruby quilted. It took at least two days to get the hominy ready to eat since one day was devoted to a ‘lye soak’ to soften the large kernels.  On the second day, after a very thorough washing off of the lye solution, the soft kernels simmered to a delicate state just perfect for consumption. Often canned mustard or turnip greens were added to the meal. Of course, a pan of fresh cornbread completed this special meal.

By March Mama’s and Aunt Ruby’s focus turned to lettuce beds, hunting for fresh creasy greens and watching the onions sprout. This was a season of sweet anticipation focused on gardening and planting; however, as cold days came and went less frequently, they were eager to get outside to begin a new season. 

As always farm life revolved around seasonal changes.  These seasonal changes were my connection to a larger universe and what I needed to learn about survival on our planet. Sometimes I think our modern lifestyle of shopping and sport events has lost touch with this connection.