Food, Family and Memory

We eat Mimi’s Sauce with just about everything. Now, I am fully aware that I said “we eat Mimi’s Sauce…”

Fish, chicken, pork, burgers, fries, veggies –  Mimi’s Sauce is the condiment of choice for my kinsmen and me. It is simultaneously basic and brilliant and can be the foundation for many a saucier sauce or simply delightful in and of itself. Spread on a turkey sandwich or as a dip for Cajun steamed shrimp, I am sure you’ll find a favorite use for Mimi’s Sauce. 

Many fried chicken establishments across The South have their own “Special Sauce.” This dipping sauce ranges and varies among the different spots, carefully guarded and some establishments even charge a quarter for an extra sauce.

A quarter – that’s big money! And you know what? We pay it, because one little pack is not enough for our chicken and fries!

My mother, having fallen down the stairs and broken her leg on June 8, has left the hospital and moved to something called a Sub-Acute Rehab Facility. I believe, based on keen observation, that that means “not as bad as being in the hospital but we will still wake you in the night to take your vitals and you will still have a roommate who watches game shows all day long at a volume calculated to shatter Plexiglas.” It also means that the food is still bad.

My mother, as I believe I have mentioned many times, is a superb cook, and even in these days of waning appetite and dietary restrictions she still appreciates and desires sophisticated and well-prepared food. At the rehab facility, I joined her for lunch yesterday and witnessed both menu choices: roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy or Chicken a la King and mashed potatoes. Cubes of carrots were served as a side, and dessert was a gelatinous apple filling sered in tiny pie shells. It was not inspiring. I watched my mother pick at her food, keenly aware that she needs to eat, particularly to eat protein, in order to build and keep her strength up so that she can participate in physical therapy and go home. It wasn’t looking good.

I cannot trace the exact moment, but somehow we started off on the wrong foot. And like a big wave, our discontent swelled over time, neither of us knowing the origin of it. We had both dug our heels in the sand.

When my sister-in-law, Kris, turned the big 4-0, my brother threw her a party. A really big one. Kris had always been a fan of Rita Coolidge, so naturally, Alan booked Rita for a private concert to honor his wife. He went all out.

As the big day approached, my one-day-to-be-husband urged, “You should really get along with Kris.” I agreed. I thought it was time to bury the hatchet.

So I did.

I went to a hardware store and bought a hatchet. I also purchased a beautiful gift bag that I filled with sand. Actually, cat litter. Where else can you get sand? And I buried that hatchet.

Defining the dress code of the Gents, that was easy….BUT OH, THE DRESS CODE for women…that was serious. Pant suits were just coming in big and the Maitre’D would have none of it. It was here, at the Plaza Hotel, with all the Management taking notes, that I rewrote their dress code with sketches and fabric swatches, as I tried to educate those huffy puffed-up doormen.

I explained carefully to them that they must never allow entrance, if the fabric on the pant suit was the least bit shiny… like Polyester… that was a no no. They liked that, since it left them with some power… Imagine having to make sketches of what a woman could wear to a doorman... Who were we trying please here in this Boys Club of the Oak Room? Why the Mad Men of course! Only linen darling... or flat dry wool or men's tweeds... Oh dear...