Authors: Roy Blount Jr.
Long Time Leaving (16 page)
For instance, I wrote this in the
New York Times:
When I heard that Krispy Kreme doughnuts had reached New York, and furthermore had become stylish, I hustled down to Twenty-third Street and ate five.
Don't do that. I was thinking I was twelve again. I grew up eating Krispy Kremes, in the South.
You owe it to yourself to eat two, though. While they're hot. And I don't mean while they're fashionable (inside the New York store hangs a poster autographed “All my love, RuPaul”), I mean while the
HOT DOUGHNUTS NOW
sign out front is lit, which means you can go in and see the original glazed, yeast-raised rings of sweetness coming off the conveyor belt behind the counter.
Even after they've cooled down, Krispy Kremes are the best doughnuts in creation. (They may be outclassed by French Quarter beignets, but those are beignets.) When they're hot, they are to other doughnuts as angels are to people. They're not crispy/creamy so much as right on the cusp between chewy and molten. Fried nectar. Pastry souffle. No
ugh
in these doughnuts, unless you eat five. Having been brought up on Krispy Kremes, I have bit into the various forms of doughnut available to New Yorkers over the years and thought, “Why so
heavy
? Don't they
realize?”
After all, Krispy Kreme originated in 1937, in Winston-Salem, and its presence has long been established, in an unaggressively scattered sort of way, around the South. One always assumes that New York knows what it's doing and can have whatever it wants, so I have refused to harbor the suspicion that the nation's cultural capital was self-denyingly resistant to Krispy Kremes because, among things constituted of dough, they are the diametric opposite of good bagels. I figured there must be some climatic reason why Krispy Kremes had not come North.
Now they are a craze, on the same block as the Hotel
Chelsea. It's as though a boyhood friend, whom one has come to think of as ineluctably regional, has suddenly made it in Gotham without changing a bit. I'm not jealous. I only wish I had changed less myself, and could still eat five.
And I hope that New York's acceptance of the Krispy Kreme is not ironic. Southern food in New York is often served up in quotation marks. For instance, at a restaurant called Live Bait. Like life, a hot Krispy Kreme goes by so fast that if your tongue's in your cheek you miss something.
That's in the newspaper of record, there. You could look it up. So you can imagine how authoritatively I chuckled when, at a grocery store on the Upper West Side called Gourmet Garage, I came upon a tray full of cold Krispy Kremes for sale beneath a sign that said
FRESH FROM THE ANTE-BELLUM SOUTH
.
“Well, now,” I said to the man behind the counter. “They can't be any
too
fresh.”
Since the man behind the counter, of course, spoke no English other than “Time for my break,” he just narrowed his eyes slightly like a pestered zoo animal.
“I mean, if they date back to circa 1859…,” I went on, looking around out of the corners of my eyes for somebody who might share my amusement. The only thing I descried in any of my fellow shoppers’ expressions was impatience.
Until, suddenly, a young woman with a plug in her ear leapt upon me out of nowhere and demanded, “How does the tune to ‘Ramblin’ Wreck from Georgia Tech’ go? We have the lyrics. How does the
tune
go?”
“Well, now, I'm not all that great at carrying a melody,” I said, “but I've been singing that song my entire life. In fact—”
“I'm a rambling wreck…” she prompted me.
“From Georgia Tech and a heckuvan engineer,” I sang. “A heckuva heckuva—”
“Helluva,” she snapped.
“Well, I was raised in a Christian home,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes slightly.
“Just an expression,” I said. “Well, not
just
an expression, but …What do you want to know for?” I asked in an undefensive sort of way.
“Shooting a film,” she said, and after glancing around out of the corners
of her eyes to make sure people had noticed what business she was in, she was out the door.
I followed, thinking that I might fill the filmmakers in on some of the great Yellow Jacket broken-field runners of my boyhood—Billy Teas, Leon Hardeman …But she was gone and there were no signs that any principal photography, as they call it, was going on in the vicinity. She was probably a production assistant who had been sent running up and down Broadway jumping in and out of stores looking for somebody with my accent. No telling how many blocks she'd had to scour, to find somebody from Georgia. The budget of this movie was probably millions of dollars. And I didn't get a nickel.
I haven't profited from my doughnut expertise, either. The Krispy Kreme people offered to send me a free dozen, but they'd be cold, and I'd feel beholden, and anyway I can
afford
donuts. What I need is a retainer.
*
As it happens, I have the greatest collection of food songs anywhere in private hands—including Andie MacDowell singing a little number that I wrote the words to: “Pie.” She sings it in
Michael,
a movie with a big pie scene. People make whole food movies—
Soul Food, Fried Green Tomatoes,
that one about the Italian restaurant with the Louis Prima songs. (The five most prolific recorders of food songs were Louis, Louis, Louis, Fats, and Slim: Armstrong, Jordan, Prima, “Waller, and Gaillard.) I'll bet somebody, somewhere, is about to embark on a film project that could use a highly paid consultant in the field of songs involving food.
Say you want something on your sound track to help make the transition from nighttime to breakfast. Depending on the mood and what your characters have been up to with one another, I could recommend Lee Wiley's “Chicken Today, Feathers Tomorrow,” Zuzu Bollin's “Why Don't You Eat Where You Slept Last Night,” Johnny Cash's “Beans for Breakfast,” Lightnin’ Hopkins's “Breakfast Time,” Dicky Williams's “I Want You for Breakfast,” or the Freight Hoppers’ “How Many Biscuits Can You Eat This Morning?”
Maybe your movie is set in Memphis. I've got King Curtis's “Memphis Soul Stew,” Dan Penn's “Memphis Women and Fried Chicken,” Memphis Slim's “Sweet Root Man,” the Memphis Jug Band's “She Done Sold It Out,” the Memphis Seven's “Grunt Meat Blues,” and twelve different Memphis Minnie food songs, including “Good Soppin’ ” and “Pigmeat on the Line.”
I don't claim to have every food song ever recorded. I don't even have Cecil Gant's “Owl Head Soup”—yet. But do I have Slim and Slam performing “Mama's in the Kitchen, But We've Got Pop on Ice”? Sure. Harry “The Hipster” Gibson's “Who Put the Benzedrine in Mrs. Murphy's Ovaltine?” Absolutely. “Chocolate Porkchop Man” by Pete “Guitar” Lewis? “Anyone Here Wants to Buy Some Cabbage?” by women of Parch-man Penitentiary? Uncle Dave Macon's “Eleven Cent Cotton, Forty Cent Meat”? Yes, yes, yes. “Save the Bones for Henry Jones ('Cause Henry Don't Eat No Meat),” as sung by Ray Charles? Uh-huh, and also by Johnny Mercer.
And I have “Feast of the Mau Mau” by Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, “Hamhark and Limer Beans” by Champion Jack Dupree, “Sal's Got a Sugar Lip” by Johnny Horton, “Pizza on the Ground” by the Austin Lounge Lizards, “Gimme Some of That Yum Yum Yum” by the Harlem Hamfats, “Who'll Chop Your Suey When I'm Gone?” by Margaret Johnson, “In the Garden Where the Irish Potatoes Grow” by Dr. Smith's Champion Horse Hair Pullers, “Got No Bread No Milk No Honey but We Sure Got a Lot of Love” by James Talley (remember him, from during the Carter administration?), Clyde Edgerton's “Quiche Woman in a Barbecue Town,” Wynonie Harris's “Keep on Churnin’ (till the Butter Comes),” Buster Benton's “Spider in My Stew,” John Lee Hooker's “Onions,” Louis Armstrong's “Big Butter and Egg Man,” Jimmy Buffett's “I Wish Lunch Could Last Forever,” Nellie Lutcher's “Princess Poo-Poo-Ly Has Plenty Papaya,” Elvis's “Crawfish,” Z. Z. Hill's “Home Ain't Home at Suppertime” (it'll tear your heart out), Slim Gaillard's “Avocado Seed Soup Symphony,” Louis Jordan's “A Chicken Ain't Nothing but a Bird,” Fats Waller's and Jasmine's “Hold Tight (I Want Some Seafood, Mama),” and Gene Autry's “Methodist Pie.”
I've got food songs sung by Little Richard, Little Milton, Little Jimmy Dickens, Little Feat, Little Temple, Little Sparrow, Mighty Sparrow, Little Joe and the Thrillers, Little Jack Melody and His Young Turks, Little Son Joe, Li'l Son Jackson, Lil’ Ed and the Imperials, Bea Lillie, Lil Johnson, Lonnie Johnson, Robert Johnson, Luther “Guitar Junior” Johnson, Jimmy Johnson, Pete Johnson, Earl Johnson, Sherman “Blues” Johnson
and His Clouds of Joy, Eddie Johnson and His Crackerjacks, the Chips, the Box Tops, Buckwheat Zydeco, Gravy, Greasetrap, Stringbean, Peaches and Herb, Biscuit, Cracker, and Cake.
And Junior Brown, James Brown, Charles Brown, Ruth Brown, Greg Brown, Maxine Brown, Sterling Brown, Tiny “Bam” Brown, Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown, Dennis Brown, Paula Brown, Les Brown and His Band of Renown (accompanying Doris Day on “Booglie” Wooglie Piggy”), Eddie Williams and His Brown Buddies, Roy Brown and His Mighty Mighty Men, Milton Brown and His Musical Brownies, and Brownie McGhee. And Blind Boy Fuller, Blind Mamie Forehand, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Willie McTell, and Blind Roosevelt Graves (and his brother, Uaroy), Blind Blake, and Blind Joe Reynolds.
Is it a family picture you have in mind? I've got the Andrews Sisters, the Boswell Sisters, the Chenille Sisters, the McGuire Sisters, the Pointer Sisters, Sister Carol, Sister O. M. Terrell, and Sister Rosetta Tharpe. The Holmes Brothers, McGee Brothers, Mills Brothers, Neville Brothers, Smothers Brothers (anybody know any food songs by the Louvin Brothers?), Carson Brothers and Sprinkle, the Beach Boys, Beastie Boys, Big Wheeler with the Ice Cream Boys, Famous Hokum Boys, the Happiness Boys (“I've Never Seen a Straight Banana”), the Sweet Violet Boys, Blue Scott and His Blue Boys, Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys, Johnny Lee Wills and His Boys, Jimmy Revard and the Oklahoma Playboys, A. E. Ward and His Plow Boys, Buddy Boy Jenkins, Sonny Boy Williamson, David “Honeyboy” Edwards, the Nugrape Twins, the Collins Kids, the Bennington Children's Choir, and Rude Girls.
That was a good group, Rude Girls. I have their “Chitlin Cooking Time in Chatham County.” Not to mention “Peach Picking Time in Georgia,” by Jimmie Rodgers (and by Willie Nelson, and by Kenneth Threadgill), “Honeycomb” by the other, lesser Jimmie Rodgers, and Jimmy Rogers's “My Last Meal.” And speaking of picking: “Pickin’ Peas (Down the Long Pea Row)” by the Carlisles. “When It's Tooth-Pickin’ Time in False Teeth Valley” by Homer and Jethro, “Pickin Wild Mountain Berries” by Con-way and Loretta, and “Pickin Off Peanuts” by Seven-Foot Dilly and His Dill Pickles.
I've got “Good Jelly Blues,” “Jelly Whipping Blues,” “Jelly Jelly Blues,” “Hot Jelly Roll Blues,” “Jelly Bean Blues,” “Fine Jelly Blues,” “Sugar Blues,” “Sugar Mama Blues,” “Fat Mama Blues,” “Sizzling Papa Blues,” “Ration Blues,” “Food Stamp Blues,” “Red Cross Store Blues,” “Grocery Blues,” “Fort Worth Hambone Blues,” “Stewmeat Blues,” “Grunt Meat Blues,” “Meat Cuttin Blues,” “Butcher Shop Blues,” “Sweet Potato Blues,”
“Yellow Yam Blues,” “Bakershop Blues,” “Baking Powder Blues,” “Dough Roller Blues,” “Custard Pie Blues,” “Candy Man Blues,” “Candy Store Blues,” “Honey Blues,” “Honey Bee Blues,” “Yellow Bee Blues,” “Stinging Bee Blues,” “Milk and Butter Blues,” “Milk Cow Blues,” “Milkcow Calf's Blues,” “Milk 'Em in the Evening Blues,” “Fisherman's Blues,” “Fishman Blues,” “Fish Girl Blues,” “Rice and Gravy Blues,” “Vitamin A Blues,” “Plain Food Blues,” “Your Greens Give Me the Blues,” “King Mackerel and the Blues Are Running,” and “I've Got the Yes! We Have No Bananas Blues.”
The great majority of food songs are Southern. The group called Southern Culture on the Skids has recorded thirteen that I know of, including “Fried Chicken and Gasoline” and “Too Much Pork for One Fork.” I also have “Hambone Am Sweet” by Four Southern Singers. And both Asleep at the Wheel's and Phil Harris's renditions of “That's What I Like about the South.” And Moon Mullican's “Southern Hospitality,” “Southern Deep-Fry” by someone named C. McAlister, and Margaret Johnson's “Folks in New York City Ain't like the Folks back South,” which is full of food references, for instance, “The horses and the numbers keep most of them alive. All they eat is hotdogs when eatin’ time arrives.” Maybe you're making a Southern movie about what folks in New York City are like. I could help you on that.
But not on a pro bono basis. I ain't giving any more of my gravy away. I can't afford to; I live in New York.
As
I was when I wrote this. Now I mostly rusticate, in western Massachusetts.
I
should have specified the limits of my venality. After my piece appeared in the
Times,
the Krispy Kreme people had asked me to come address their employees. I answered that it wasn't kosher to parlay a rave review into a speech fee. They came back with the idea of my addressing their employees for nothing. That, to me, was an even less appealing idea. After this piece here appeared in the
Oxford American,
the Krispy Kreme people sent me a dental retainer, such as you use for a while after your braces are removed. (Had somebody's child outgrown it? I didn't try it for fit.) All in good fun, and I did accept some Krispy Kreme glasses and a T-shirt (does anybody say no to a T-shirt?) but declined proffered doughnuts for the reason stated above. And see “The Worm Bubble,” p. 65.
I
t was the late, great Roger Miller who asked: “How can a chicken eat all the time and never get fat in the face?” A different chicken koan occurs to me:
So many things are said to taste sort of like chicken. What does chicken taste like?
It's a question I hesitate to raise. I wouldn't want it to lead to gourmet chicken tastings—people sitting around nibbling on the formerly free-range drumsticks of a rather amusing Rhode Island Red and staring off into the distance, saying, “Hmmm. Undertones of kitchen scraps— mostly vegetal—with a tang of pokeberry, and what is that, watermelon
seed? Maybe just a hint of other chicken, and a nice grasshoppery finish.” But what if chicken were to lose its savor? So many things would taste sort of like nothing.
