Comfort Food

Mashed potatoes, fried chicken, pecan pie. Old men and women, trailed by an occasional grandchild, slide trays along the line at Luby's, fingering the rolls for freshness, eying the meatloaf and swiss steak, settling most often for the daily special: an open face roast beef sandwich smothered with mashed potatoes and gravy for $3.27. Tall glasses of ice tea sweat at the end of the line next to the urn of Farmer Brothers coffee.

Today I am 51 and my father is treating me to dinner. His refusal to wear his teeth limits his choices to what he can gum down so he gets to choose the place. Trudging along, I pass up salad (I can have that anywhere) and hot entrees (too heavy for this hot day).

I move on to the vegetables where I become 12 again, barefoot, brick red from long hours in the field. It is dinner time and the kitchen table is laden with wilted lettuce, fresh black-eyed peas, summer squash swimming in fresh churned butter, and aluminum tumblers filled with ice cold tea. And my favorite, fried okra, each geometic slice coated with a crispy brown cornmeal crust. We eat until all the dishes sit empty, satiated, rewarded for our day's hard labor in the field.

The amazingly auburn lady behind me slides her tray back and forth, pulling me back to the present, and I lift the small serving dishes from the line: black eyed peas, a big wedge of cornbread, and two servings fried okra.