after she discovered she was already pregnant, I sometimes thought one reason Mama talked me into my marriage was so she could really put on the dog herself entertaining and cooking for all her friends at Bingo Bonanza, and some relatives in Austin she hadn’t seen in a coon’s age, and lots of people I’d never even heard her mention before. We must have worked on that invitation list a whole week, and sometimes the fur could fly between me and Mama.
“Who is this Bunny Woodside?” I remember nagging at one point.
“Why, Bunny and Elmer Woodside ran the diner over on Henderson where me and your daddy used to eat breakfast every Sunday morning after church before you and Gladys were even born. Fine folks.”
“And didn’t you call Angie Jane Currie trash when she got nabbed snitching some crystal poodle at Rose Jewelers?”
“I certainly did not,” she huffed. “And it so happens they dropped all the ridiculous charges and apologized to Angie Jane when she showed the cops exactly how that itsy bitsy poodle on the counter simply got caught in her big sleeve while she was looking at a very expensive ballpoint pen for Lucky’s birthday. Angie Jane’s a very respectable lady, and she was mortified by what happened. So there.”
“Yeah, likely story,” I snickered sarcastically.
“And speaking of trash, young lady,” she said as she jabbed at a name with her pencil, “I think you could’ve picked a more respectable bridesmaid than this Sally McDonald down at that shelter.”
“Now, why would you say something hateful like that, Mama? Sally’s one of the sweetest friends I have, and Lyman’s also crazy about her.”
“All I know is what you’ve told me, and you said the girl don’t even know who her daddy was and her mama mops toilets over in River Oaks.”
“Mama, I never said anything of the sort about Sally’s mama mopping any toilets, and don’t know why you try to make everything sound so ugly. It so happens Mrs. McDonald’s simply a professional housecleaner, and there’s not one thing wrong with an honest job like that. She’s not had an easy life, you know, and had to bring up Sally all by herself.”
“Housecleaner,” Mama muttered as she lit a cigarette. “We just call ’em maids.”
“Well, I can tell you, Mama, Mrs. McDonald’s certainly more respectable than your and Daddy’s old buddy here, Jake Tyrell with those hideous tattoos all over his body.”
Back then, Mama had graying hair that got real stringy when she’d forget to go to the beauty parlor, and let her be exasperated and she’d pull pieces of hair down over her forehead with her fingers, which made the hair look even messier than it already was.
“Listen, Miss Priss,” she started as she puffed away and twisted her hair, “Jake was young and just didn’t know any better when he was in Vietnam, and Phoebe Tyrell told me the only way he could get rid of those things later on was by having some dreadful laser surgery that left burns and scars.”
“Well, it used to give me and Gladys the creeps seeing that awful dragon’s head and snake tail peeping out from under his shirt when y’all would go bowling, and I used to wonder what others must think.”
“Well, young lady, aren’t you calling the kettle black considering that lizard the man you’re gonna marry has running up his arm?”
“I hate it,” I admitted frankly, “but at least Lyman doesn’t have tattoos all over his body.”
“You don’t see any of that when Jake dresses up,” Mama went on, “and as for what others think of him, I’ll have you know that Myron Schumann told me Jake’s one of the most liked and respected members at the Masonic Lodge.” She stubbed out her weed, grabbed a handful of toasted pecans and pushed the bowl in front of me, then took a big slug of Coke. “You also seem to forget that Jake’s company is the biggest distributor of tequila in the whole state of Texas, and that one time he helped me and your daddy out of a bad financial jam.”
“What jam?” I asked.
Mama hesitated a moment like she was thinking or debating what to say, then continued, “Oh, that’s right, you would’ve been too young to remember, but sometime I’ll tell you all about it. And of course we’re inviting Jake and Phoebe. They were both crazy about you when you were a child and always brought you and Gladys a present on your birthdays.”
Just as long and involved were our discussions of what food would be served at the wedding reception for forty. Frankly, I would have been perfectly happy with just wine and booze and some nice canapés in the church hall since, after all, me and Lyman decided not to have a formal wedding, but as usual, Mama had her own ideas.
“What in hell are you talking about, girl?” she roared. “You don’t get married every day, you know, and being as you refuse to wear a real wedding dress the way I did and let everybody else dress up, the least we can do is serve a nice buffet at the house. You just tell me, precious, what special you want me to fix and I’ll fix it.”
Okay, I gotta admit I couldn’t have been more touched by Mama’s care and concern in the matter, but what did kinda scare me was how she’d react when I told her what I’d really love to serve at my wedding reception.
“You know what me and Lyman were thinking about?” I said to her.
I could see the wheels turning in Mama’s head as we sat at the kitchen table and nibbled on a tub of fresh pimento cheese and crackers while she looked off into space.
“Sweetheart, what if I did a few chicken pot pies, and maybe a big pot of Brunswick stew, and what about a real fancy stuffed country ham?” she suggested without paying the least attention to my question.
“Like I was saying, Mama,” I went on, “what me and Lyman were thinking about, and what wouldn’t be so much work…what we think everybody would really love is Pink Pig’s pit-cooked barbecue and ribs. Whadda you think of that, Mama?”
She smeared pimento cheese on two more crackers and handed me one. “Anybody can serve that,” she grumbled.
“I know, Mama, but everybody on God’s green earth loves barbecue, and nobody caters it better than Pink Pig out on Memorial—the barbecue, the slaw, the dirty rice, the cobbler…”
“Wait just one minute, ma’am,” Mama interrupted as I began to reel off some of the dishes they could handle for a crowd. “The only slaw and baked beans and rice ever served in my house are my own. If you and Lyman and the others have to have that barbecue, it’s your wedding, but I’ll fix everything else—including my ham hock collards and banana pudding. Why, the very idea: Texas barbecue without a mess of collards and big pan of banana pudding. Everybody loves my banana pudding. You can order the barbecue and whatever, but just leave everything else up to me. I may even get Tammy Lee Stroud to give me a hand.”
“I’ll help you, Mama,” I said.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” she kinda snarled. “No bride fixes the food for her own wedding. That would be uncouth.”
Well, I think Mama must have worked a whole week in the kitchen by herself or with Mrs. Stroud, and, in fact, I never did figure out exactly when she found time to get a permanent and how she went about making herself look so nice for the wedding in a lacy, floral muumuu that actually gave the impression she might have lost a few pounds. The ceremony itself was short and sweet just like I wanted, me and Lyman howled like kids when everybody threw shredded confetti and pelted us with rice on the way to the car, but nothing prepared us for the way Mama and Gladys and Lord know who else had decorated the house with colorful ribbons and balloons and Lone Star banners and for the array of dishes lined up on Mama’s long dining room table that she’d covered with the Belgian linen tablecloth Granny had given her before she died from diabetes.
Of course, I myself had ordered the barbecue and links and ribs from the guys at Pink Pig—ten pounds of just the smoky brisket itself—and, of course, nothing would do but for Mama to serve them on her silver-plated