I was the kid who associated visiting Grandma with long, nauseating van rides and assorted cookie wafers, which my sisters and I affectionately called pink, yellow and browns. :) Grandma lives in the tiny no-consequence town of Jerseyville, Illinois which I know and love almost as well as my own not-
as-tiny town, Kingsport. A couple of times each year we'd drag ourselves out of bed at whatever unseemly hour of the morning my mom had chosen (and gotten my dad to agree to), visit the bathroom, brush our teeth, and plop drowsily in the van. Ugh. But who am I kidding; the anticipation of seeing our Grandma made the early morning misery bearable.
We'd arrive anywhere between eleven and twelve hours later, depending on how many stops we'd had to make and how quickly we'd managed to rush dad through them. He didn't seem to foster the same sense of urgency we girls did, and why on
earth did he insist on drinking coffee?! But we always got there, eventually, and then the good times began...
Jerseyville was where we all got our bike ridin' on! Our neck of Tennessee is far to hilly to afford the casual bike ride, but Jerseyville is as flat as...well, as one would expect the midwest to be, I suppose. We'd ride around the little neighborhoods, through one of the the cemeteries, past massive fields with row upon row of corn, and up and down State Street, the "main street" of that great metropolis. We could ride to the City Park, the library, and Dairy Queen in, oh, 15 minutes, and--get this--we could do it all by ourselves! Perks of a small town.
The week's menu was, and still is, a topic of great interest and importance. Not long after a trip date is established we call in our orders and Grandma Marcella, the once upon a time waitress, takes them all down mentally and doesn't miss a single detail. There is usually vegetable soup (pretty much the only thing she makes that I don't like, though it is famous among the family), ham and beans (my favorite), mashed potatoes, and more desserts than one tribe of aunts, uncles, and first and second cousins could reasonably consume in a month. We're all quite content, to say the least.
One of the special things we all looked forward too when we were little was getting to sleep in Grandma's bed. There are three of us girls and I think we usually stayed six nights, enough for each of us to get two turns. The schedule was strategic, with the last night being the most highly coveted. She'd tell us stories about life when she younger, and if I asked her, she'd tell me how she made certain recipes. Then to fall asleep before she did, as snoring would inevitably ensue. Should it get just too loud to endure, we were allowed to nudge her and tell her to roll on to her side. I still don't think I understand why that made any difference.
One thing Grandma and I share is our love of fried catfish. Mmm-mmm...let me just tell you, I don't advocate fried foods and truthfully, I eat them but rarely. Usually I end up picking the coating off fried chicken and shrimp, but fried catfish...just don't knock it til you try it! Sometimes we'd drive half an hour or so to Kampsville Inn, cross the ferry, and order platters of the stuff. Other times we'd go (still do, actually) to White Spot, a little diner there in Jerseyville, and order catfish sandwiches. They give you more tenders than you can eat, ensuring leftovers that Grandma reheats in the oven or in a skillet later. While I am sure fried catfish is not a delicacy unique to the southern Illinois region, it's something I eat
almost exclusively there. A fish sandwich anywhere else just isn't the same, in my experience. I keep trying them to no avail. They just aren't as good.
The last morning of the trip was always sad. I'd fight back tears as I hugged Grandma goodbye, and watch her waive from the storm door as we drove away in the dark morning hours. It was always such a long time until we'd be back "home," as she calls it. It's funny how some people will refer to a place as your home when you've never even lived there. It does feel kind of like a home, of a sort.
I visited Jerseyville in July and it is still the same wonderful old place it's always been. Grandma still cooks like crazy even when there's no one to feed. We still get fried catfish and it still tastes wonderful. I'm happy to tell you that she no longer has to buy me pink yellow and browns; I've acquired a taste for actual desserts and want to share one with you here. I called Grandma last year and asked her for this recipe which she recited from memory. Forget anything hand-written. I've never known her to read a recipe in her life (well, what little I've known of it), and one day we will all probably wish she'd kept a very detailed collection. This is the dessert I almost don't have to request anymore; she knows it's just what I want when I finally get to her house.
Jell-O Cake
1 big packet strawberry-banana Jell-O
3/4 of a large angel food cake, more or less depending on preference
2-3 bananas (not overly ripe)
1 container Cool Whip
Pecans
Tear the angel food cake into small-ish pieces and fill a 9" x 13" glass baking dish. Make Jell-O according to instructions, and let chill for a little while in the fridge, maybe an hour. You don't want it to solidify at all. Slice the bananas into thin discs and sprinkle among the cake pieces. Pour the chilled Jell-O over the cake, and store in fridge until solid (several hours). Cover with Cool Whip and then sprinkle with pecans. Take one bite of this simple, refreshing goodness and think of Grandma.
Now that is a delicious summertime dessert! But why save it for summer? It's delicious all year long.
This dear old lady will celebrate her 87th birthday in five days, Lord willing. She's a cancer survivor by the grace of God, chef extrordinaire, and Grandma of 12...not to mention great-Grandma to 15, and great-great-Grandma to 1! Though she'll probably never read this as I don't think she's ever used a computer, I send her my love and prayers.
Happy birthday Grandma!
