Category: Laginappe

This will come as a shock to you, but there are some foods that people eat…that they won’t admit to eating.

For instance, Vienna sausages. I love these little mini salt bombs. People turn up their noses in disgust or make gagging sounds when I mention them. The first canned Vienna sausages were produced in America around 1900. They have been on shelves and in lunch boxes for more than a century…someone has been eating them.

Sardines, in mustard or hot sauce, with crackers make me happy. My wife prefers that I eat them outdoors. I’m happy to oblige. I can hear you now: “They smell…they have bones in them.”

Listen to my complete defense…they taste good…poor reputation and all.

In my family, pork n’ beans were a staple. I volunteered to open the cans so I could steal the little chunk of pork floating in the sauce. To me, it was better than finding the prize in the Cracker Jack box.

One of my favorite meals, a meal that I would be satisfied with at Thanksgiving, on death row, or mourning the loss of a loved one, is a plate of pork n’ beans as a side…and a main entrée of link sausage with mustard on white bread.

Still, highbrowed folks look down on the amazing little pork n’ beans.

Many people look down on McDonald’s.

“We…don’t ever eat there.”

“It’s not real food.”

That’s fine, Mrs. Astor. About seventy million people eat at McDonald’s every day. Somebody likes it.

And just a heads up, I’ll cut you over a McRib. I know it’s not rib meat…but it’s heaven on a bun.

Lots of food is looked down on. I’ll add to my list of likes: SPAM, frozen Salisbury steaks in TV dinners, canned chili, canned tamales, whop biscuits, and Jell-O of any kind.

Now, it’s okay for people to look down on these things. Some people aren’t as refined as I am. I can accept that.

But it’s funny how we can decide some things are “beneath” us. We are too good to wear certain brands, drive certain cars, and eat in certain places.

If we aren’t careful, we can also decide that certain people are beneath us.

James 2:4 reads, “Have you not made distinctions among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?”

We are quick to make decisions about people and judge others before we have all the details. They may not look like we do…they may not dress as we do…they may not have the things we have.

But we usually don’t know their story.

All we can see is the outside…we can’t see their heart…only God can.

We are created in the image of God. Genesis 1:27 says, “So God created man in his own image; he created him in the image of God; he created them male and female.”

Did you catch that?

We are created in the image of God.

The person we shy away from, dismiss, or quietly decide we are better than…bears the image of God.

You like tofu…I like potted meat.

We are different. That’s okay. We don’t have to like the same things. Give me some grace for my uncouth ways.

But let’s remember to extend grace to those around us. They are created by God, and they have a story.

Because you are loved…extend love.

Living on the Coast, we take things for granted. We have an abundance of places to get good…fresh…seafood. We can pay someone to prepare it, or we can go down to the dock and get it right off the boat. Be wary of someone selling shrimp out of a van in Kansas.

We can also go down to the river and watch the boats come in and go out. And…if you watch closely enough, you might be able to find a dolphin breaking the water in the wake of a shrimp boat. You just don’t have that everywhere.

One of the things I’ve done all my life is ride down to the beach and look at the Gulf. There is nothing like cruising the beach. My parents did this with us when I was a kid…my wife and I did it when our girls were small…and now my oldest daughter does it with her sister in the passenger seat. Growing up by the water and seeing the amazing sunsets is just a part of life on the Coast.

These things…because we experience them over and over…can become common to us.

A real, honest-to-goodness shrimp po-boy can easily become nothing more than something to fight off hunger pangs. But if you live in a place where shrimp comes breaded in boxes at the grocery store next to the frozen fish sticks…you wouldn’t take a po-boy for granted. If the only dolphin you have seen was on television or in a tank…you haven’t truly seen the beauty of one of God’s most graceful creatures breaking through the water to draw in air.

If all you have ever seen is concrete and hard landscapes, a Gulf Coast sunset might change you forever.

We can do things and see things so often that we fail to appreciate them. Take, for instance, the song “Amazing Grace.” Most people I know, churched or unchurched, can sing at least a little bit of “Amazing Grace.”

If we are not careful, though, we can sing along with the music and miss what we are singing. It was God’s amazing grace that saved a wretched sinner like me. It is God’s amazing grace that not only saved me…but that will usher me into heaven one day. God’s grace is amazing. Let’s not take it for granted.

Every morning I try to tell my wife, “I love you.” My girls won’t go to bed, even though they are both teenagers, without telling me goodnight and “I love you.”

Repetition can steal sincerity from our words. “I love you” can become just something we say…no different from “Talk to you later” or “Have a good day.”

Hopefully, you have people in your life to whom you routinely say, “I love you.” The next time you do this…mean it. Don’t just mouth the words.

We treat the word love too casually. I love Moon Pies. I love hot dogs. I love Jell-O with “stuff” in it. But I don’t “love” these things like I love my wife and daughters.

So let’s appreciate the blessings of life that are at risk of becoming common. Sing songs of the faith…but mean what you are singing. Tell people you love them often…but earnestly. See God in the everyday things like a sunset or a good shrimp po-boy.

When I tell people I’m from Mississippi, many of them are quick to tell me about all the bad things associated with my home. Yes, we have our problems. Like many other places, we still struggle with race issues. In many economic studies, it’s easier to find out how we rank if you start from the bottom and work your way up. Our state bird, in my mind, should really be the mosquito. And we have a hot season that runs generally from early spring until just before Thanksgiving. People point out that parts of the state have run-down areas; these are rearranged every few years by tornadoes and hurricanes. So, yes, we do have some problems. But I’ve found that most of those folks who point out all the problems in Mississippi…have never lived in Mississippi. They have never called it home.

Having lived all my life on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, I want to brag a little…or a lot…about the place I call home.

Every so often, there are studies published that focus on charitable giving as a share of income. Mississippi has a long history of ranking among the nation’s most charitable states when giving is measured as a share of income. That’s pretty impressive for a state that so many people look down on because of our economy. Take that, Wall Street.

Let’s think about that for a minute. Mississippi historically ranks at the bottom or near the bottom in average household income. Giving someone $100 when your paycheck is big is much easier than giving away money when you are trying to keep the lights on and food on the table. But we do it anyway.

Mississippi generosity isn’t just tied to cash. Giving sometimes comes as a casserole, cutting a neighbor’s yard, having a fish fry to help someone who is sick and needs a hand, or simply stopping on the side of the road and helping someone whose car is in revolt…because someone helped you when you needed it.

This is the place I call home.

Part of this charitable mindset comes because in most places in the state, you can’t swing a pair of white shrimp boots without hitting a church. The church taught us to give, because we had been given much. The church allowed us to see what generosity looked like when people were hurting. In some places, you can’t look up without seeing a Starbucks. In Mississippi, we have more churches than Starbucks, McDonald’s, and Dollar General combined.

This is the place I call home.

Mississippi is also packed full of culture. I used to have a Mississippi T-shirt that said, “Yes, we can read. A few of us can write.” It then listed Mississippians such as William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Tennessee Williams, John Grisham, Willie Morris, Shelby Foote, and Walker Percy.

Yeah, I think they might have known their way around a sentence.

Mississippi has produced more than its share of great writers. The same holds true for music. Musicians such as Elvis, Jimmy Buffett, Jimmie Rodgers, B.B. King, Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Faith Hill, and even Britney Spears have called Mississippi home. Add to this long list people like Jerry Clower, Medgar Evers, Morgan Freeman, and Jim Henson.

This is the place I call home.

And there is more…

Mississippi has also given the world Barq’s Root Beer, Pine-Sol, the soft toilet seat, and the first bottled Coca-Cola. Mississippi is also where the teddy bear story began, after President Theodore Roosevelt famously refused to shoot a bear during a 1902 hunting trip in the Mississippi Delta. And Mississippi’s Dr. James Hardy performed the first human lung transplant and the world’s first cardiac transplant using a chimpanzee heart.

Somewhere today, someone will devour a plate of hot, crisp catfish…and there is a good chance it came from Mississippi, and they don’t even know it. We supply so much of the nation’s chicken that I feel like it should replace the mockingbird as the state bird.

To the rest of the world, “You are welcome.”

This is the place I call home and the place I love.

I was recently talking to my brother, who traveled for much of his career. He said that he has been all over and he hasn’t really found anything in other places that he misses. He said a Wendy’s in Ohio tastes about like a Wendy’s in Mississippi.

I love this place.

I love the smell of the Gulf. The Gulf is part of my internal compass. No matter where I am in the state or when I’m out of state…I know where the water is. I know that’s where home is.

That’s where you find oysters, shrimp po-boys, and some of the most beautiful sunsets God ever painted. That’s where some of the most generous folks in the country live. That’s where I enjoy good food, good books, and wonderful people surrounded by moss-draped live oak trees. That’s where I worship. That’s where people I love are buried, and I will probably be buried one day. That’s where my girls were born. That’s where I met my favorite person in the world and coerced her into marrying me.

I’ve traveled enough to know there are beautiful places all over this country. There are places with better weather, better roads, better economies, and probably fewer mosquitoes. But when I’m away from Mississippi, some part of me is always looking for the water. I don’t have to see it. I just need to know which way it is.

That’s the place I call home.

And if you enjoyed this little trip around the place I call home, I hope you’ll come back and spend some time with me here at The Notebook. I’ll be sharing more stories, devotions, and quotes from time to time. If you’d like to have them sent your way, consider subscribing to The Notebook.

I’d be glad to have you along.

          I think one of the signs of growing older is that we spend more time thinking about the “Good Old Days.”  I have lived all my life in Pascagoula, Mississippi. Pascagoula is known for shipbuilding, aliens, and as the birthplace of Jimmy Buffett. To me, it’s just home, and it dictates the pace at which life should be lived. I love going to the mountains and hanging out at the beach with my little family…operating on “beach time.”  But I also love fast-paced places like Chicago and New York City. I love seeing different cultures, meeting different people, and trying new things. But there is nothing like home. One of the joys of every extended trip I’ve been on is seeing the first road sign that says, “Pascagoula.” I can relax; I’m back where I’m supposed to be.

          Pascagoula is like many small towns. The new businesses decided to move out on the highway, and downtown became the hiding place of lawyers and city offices. Thankfully, this is changing. We actually have places to go without leaving the old part of town…or as I call it “The good part of town.”  As a child, downtown was where you got your blue jeans for school, toys, medicine, and books from the library. The first sign that summer was drawing to a close was when my mother would take me and my two brothers downtown to get jeans and shirts for the new school year. I liked the clothes, but I hated the reasoning behind the trip. I was a chubby kid. Some marketing genius labeled us as “husky.”  I would rather just be called chubby. My mother could find pants that fit me in the waist, or she could find pants that fit me in length…but she could never find a pair that fit both. We would leave my pants to be hemmed. When I got them back, they had to cut half the leg off to make them the right length. I had bell-bottoms when they were popular and a long time after they were popular.

          One of the businesses downtown was the only place you could get Boy Scout/Cub Scout uniforms. I wasn’t really interested in joining either of these groups, but I did like the uniforms. The uniforms consisted of a shirt, shorts, a hat, a belt, and a neckerchief slide. I’d had shirts and pants and belts…but I had never been privy to a neckerchief slide. I decided that I needed one, even if it forced me to enlist. I remember the day my mother took me to the store, and I was issued the official Cub Scout gear. She actually bought it, but it sounds better to say it was issued. Fate was on my side. Something happened, and our troop never formed.  But I had my uniform and slide. Life was good.

          My favorite place downtown was McLellan’s. It was the classic five-and-dime store. When I walked in, it was like I was entering another world. It had old wooden floors that squeaked when you walked. The original shine had long since been walked off, but it was replaced by a shine from the smoothness of the boards. Like many people, my dad got paid on Fridays, and we were allowed to walk downtown and get a toy. Did you catch what I said there, “We were allowed to walk downtown…” I remember going all over town, going to the library, going fishing at the river without any fear. I don’t know what’s changed. I have some theories…coming to a sermon near you. My favorite purchase at McLellan’s was Matchbox cars. A boy could never have too many cars to play with. I remember one time my parents got me a racetrack for my Matchbox cars for Christmas, and they also got me a toy truck that looked like the kind that delivered new cars to the car lot. We had Christmas at my grandparents in the “country,” and I remember thinking how cool it would be if these new cars got into a fiery crash. I promptly stuffed plastic Army men inside the cars and ramped them off into the fireplace. A child today who did that might be sent to counseling. My dad thought that was unnecessary and had other ways of helping me through this troubled period of my life. It’s not something I’m proud of, but you have really crossed a line when you get a spanking on Christmas morning.

          The greatest thing about McLellan’s, though, was the smell. It smelled of polished wood and popcorn. Popcorn in little paper bags that got wet from shaking it into your mouth. You didn’t have time to use your fingers; they were busy checking out the latest thing you “needed” from the toy aisle. Popcorn in paper bags and at the theatre always tastes better than the same popcorn at home. I think it tasted so good at McLellan’s because we were just excited to be there. We would also walk downtown, drag home boxes, and make forts and spaceships out of them. That still happens today.  It just looks different. Kids aren’t dumpster diving behind the local five-and-dime. No, their parents spend months picking out the perfect gift and pay more than they should, only to have the child play with the box it came in.

          But I’m sitting here thinking about the smell and salty taste of that McLellan’s popcorn. It makes me think about parents who did whatever they needed to do in order for three boys to have clothes that were as nice as everyone else (even if the label said Husky) and spending money on toys that weren’t needed, but couldn’t be passed up because of the joy they brought to a little boy’s eyes…just before he set them on fire. Life in Pascagoula is good…but it was really good when McLellan’s was around.

As a somewhat fully functioning adult, I was thinking the other day about the dreams I had as a child.

Every child has dreams. Doctors, lawyers, firemen, nurses, and teachers all originate in the hearts and minds of dreaming children. Family can play a part in this. Police work seems to run in the veins of some families. Often, preachers beget preachers. What we see as children impacts our dreams.

Likewise, geography may shape our dreams. You won’t find many kids here in the Mississippi heat who aspire to be hockey players. Nor will you find a child in Kansas breaking the news to his parents that he wants to be a shrimper.

Growing up on the Mississippi Gulf Coast in Pascagoula, there were many young boys of my generation who dreamed of operating the drawbridge.

Pascagoula sits on a little point of land that is almost an island. Rivers wrap around the western and northern perimeter, and the Gulf lies to the south. If you have a fear of bridges and need to flee, you will have to head east toward Mobile.

While the drawbridge fascinated young boys, it caused those in a hurry to say things that would later have to be confessed in prayer.

I vividly recall one day riding in the backseat of my parents’ car over the drawbridge into Pascagoula when a shift change was taking place. The man coming on duty was carrying a guitar. There was a small television set in the booth.

And you got to work the drawbridge.

I had a dream.

More than one person has told me that they dreamed of riding on the back of the garbage truck growing up.

The garbage truck, to young eyes, is impressive. It’s loud. Garbage trucks don’t tiptoe around in the morning. They beep and bang, I think, in part to let sleeping folks know they’re already at work.

I remember my brother-in-law telling me that one time, when he was in high school, he overslept because he had mistaken his alarm clock for the sound the garbage truck made while backing up.

What got my attention was the place on the side of the truck where the workers stood.

For kids who explored town on bicycles, riding through neighborhoods while hanging on for dear life seemed like an adventure not often found in Pascagoula.

I had a dream.

Most of those dreams, of course, never panned out. But one dream I think about occasionally took place while I was attending Central Elementary.

Around the fourth grade, we got a new student by the name of Polly.

Polly was confined to a wheelchair. She struggled when she spoke. Watching her struggle saddened me.

In my child’s mind, I just felt like if someone had enough money, they could take Polly somewhere and she could be cured.

At the time, I lived and breathed baseball. I made up my mind that if I ever got rich playing baseball, I would “cure” Polly.

Oh, if life were that easy.

Sorry, Polly.

These were the things I dreamed about. Things that had I achieved them, I thought would make me happy.

One dream I never had was… being married and having children.

While some kids, especially little girls, grow up dreaming about their wedding day, it never really was something that was on my radar. I wasn’t against the idea. It just wasn’t something I aspired to.

But now, after twenty-five years of marriage and two teenage daughters, I have come to realize something:

Sometimes we don’t know we are dreaming until we find ourselves in the middle of a dream.

Perhaps today you look back at your life and realize it hasn’t turned out the way you had dreamed it would. Maybe the dreams you had as a child never panned out.

Pause. Think about all the ways you have been blessed. Think about the people you love. The people who love you. The things you never planned but wouldn’t trade for anything.

And realize that perhaps you are in the middle of a dream right now.

          There is much debate about what warrants a position on the Thanksgiving table. I have a highly unpopular view in my family that if all the dishes we prepared at Thanksgiving were really that good, we would eat them throughout the year. I’ve never been sitting in my office thinking, “Boy, I hope Angela has made a green bean casserole for supper.”  Green bean casserole is one of those things you tolerate (notice I didn’t say like) or you don’t. Thanksgiving dishes can split otherwise decent people into hardened factions. Cranberry sauce either consists of fresh cranberries cooked down in a mound of sugar, water, and a touch of orange juice, or it comes in a can and makes a sucking noise as it flops out. There is a whole generation of people who were raised believing that cranberry sauce came with ridges. Pick your side, but do so carefully because whatever you choose will be served from now until your last Thanksgiving. Dressing is also up for debate. Does it have stuff in it…like oysters, for instance? Does it have sage in it?  Does it have ground sausage in it?  These are all things that need to be discussed with your preacher prior to your wedding.

          The one thing that seems to cause less debate is turkey. Now I’ve heard some heathens don’t do turkey at Thanksgiving. Turkey is passed over for substitutes. Never trust a man who eats lasagna on Thanksgiving. That’s the kind of behavior that makes old church ladies whisper during the invitation hymn. Some people are intimidated by the process of cooking a turkey and will say that it’s too much trouble. That’s the kind of laziness that should cause concern for the future of our nation. Now I’m not saying that you have to cook a turkey on Thanksgiving.  You don’t have to wear shoes to a funeral either. Just know that neglecting either will cause people to talk.

          When I was a kid, my mother and later my brother were in charge of cooking the turkey. My job was to sit and watch the little red thing pop up when it was done. I took this job seriously and probably added to the cooking time by constantly opening the door to check and see if we had a pop-up yet. To me, it ranked right up there with watching the TV and seeing the ball fall on New Year’s Eve.

          I also remember a Thanksgiving where, after resting a moment after eating, my brother Bob decided it was as good a time as any to make a new door between rooms. Saws came out, and construction commenced. Most families watch football on Thanksgiving. We altered load-bearing walls. That’s probably better left to another story.

          Somehow, as an adult, I have assumed the role of chief turkey cook in our home. I’m not sure exactly how this happened. But I do remember vividly the first turkey I cooked for Thanksgiving. Like my family growing up, Thanksgiving was big in Angela’s family as well. On the occasion of my first turkey cooking, we gathered at her grandmother’s house, Mrs. Sybil. Just a heads up here, when you want someone to cook something they have never cooked before, you might want to not have them do it on Thanksgiving, with the centerpiece of the meal.

          Mrs. Sybil was a special lady. When I came to know her, she was older and bent over from age. But I remember that at her house, she was always humming or singing hymns under her breath. And she always bobbed her foot up and down to keep time with the song that only she could hear. She was the first person I told of my intentions to ask Angela to marry me. She was so happy. Partly because her granddaughter was getting married, but also because she knew something that no one else knew yet.

          On that first Thanksgiving turkey test, I had done my homework. I had researched the art of turkey preparation. I assembled all the ingredients, picked out a sturdy pan, had my turkey roasting bag, and was ready to cook. I even had a turkey that had the little red pop-up timer. What could go wrong? Overconfidence is dangerous around a hot stove and family. I removed the neck from the cavity and filled it with all the things I remember seeing in our turkeys growing up…butter, chunks of onion, oranges, garlic, and spices. I also had a pot on the stove with orange juice, butter, and spices that I used to baste the turkey every 30 minutes.

          When the popper popped…it looked good. It smelled good. I was pleased. As I was beginning to take it from the pan to a platter, Mrs. Sybil quietly pointed out something that saved me.  On the other end of the turkey, the…well, you know…was a little white bag of something. I didn’t know about this bag. When I pulled the neck out of the cavity, I assumed that was all the “parts.”  I didn’t know that the modern-day turkey was prepped like an Egyptian mummy. Apparently, Butterball believes a turkey ought to enter eternity with all its belongings. There isn’t a more embarrassing thing to do than to take a set of tongs and extract a hot bag of turkey organs before serving your family.

          That Thanksgiving taught me a couple of lessons. There was a practical lesson I learned: always look at both ends of the turkey before beginning the cooking process. There was also a lesson buried in my faux pas. I learned that the event was more important than the actual food itself. Most people can’t remember a single Thanksgiving menu from ten years ago, but they can remember who sat at the table. I remember those Thanksgivings with my family and now Angela’s family, but I really don’t remember any special dish. I remember watching for the timer to pop up. I remember tearing out a wall, just cause. I remember the look on Angela’s grandmother’s face when she saw the edges of that little white bag sticking out of a freshly cooked turkey. Thanksgiving, even if you eat cranberry sauce that makes a sucking sound when it slides out of the can, is really about family, kids’ tables, stories, and remembering who’s missing from the table.

Until the next page…

Scott Sullivan

The Notebook

Editor’s Note: This story is adapted from my upcoming book, A Taste From My Past, a collection of stories about family, faith, laughter, tears, and food growing up here along the Mississippi Gulf Coast.