by Eddie Rhoades
www.bittersweetgardens.com
True story: My mother passed by the stove and felt the heat and said “This stove is on.” Looking inside she found some biscuits that resembled charcoal bricklets. After she thought about it awhile she remembered she had put those biscuits in the oven three days ago. She let them cool off and threw pan and all in the trash. Later in the day her youngest daughter stopped by and noticed the burnt stuff in the trash and said “Mother, what’s this?” Mother told her what had happened and the daughter thought it was hilariously funny. She glued the biscuits back to the pan and used whiteout to write on the pan “Mema’s Home Cooking.” Then she hung it on the wall where it remains to this day. Someday her kids may fight over this as a family heirloom.
Although I was one of five children my mother always made me feel special. Just for me she used to make fried bananas. I love fruit and the bananas were hot and melted inside a silver dollar sized pancake smothered in syrup. They were heavenly delicious. Nowadays I am not supposed to have fried things (cholesterol) or syrup (calories) or the pancake (carbohydrates).
This topic of food brings back memories of when my mother left us for a while and Daddy had to fix our supper every night. The first night he took an iron skillet and heated up a concoction of tomatoes, macaroni, onions and corn. Us kids looked at it and said “Daddy, what is this?” He answered “It’s goulash.” Well we had heard of goulash so even though it looked odd, we ate it. The next night, in the same skillet, he mixed up macaroni, lima beans, cheese and peppers. We all looked at it and said “Daddy, what is this?” again he said “It’s goulash. This went on every night with some wild concoction of different ingredients which was always called goulash. Believe it or not all this talk about food is making me hungry. I think I’ll whip up some traditional family goulash.
BittersweetGardens.com 
Daddy’s Truck
By Robert Rhoades
It seems Daddy was working for a printing shop in Atlanta in the late 40’s and early 50’s named Gate City Printing. It was a small printing shop and all they could afford was itenerant pressmen like my dad and his brother, Jack. From time to time there were other workers like Spud, the 16 year old who looked 25. And Junior Salmon worked there, too. There are lots of stories about them that will be revealed later.
But daddy was given a truck because the owners, Johnny and Barbie, were so fond of him. It was a 1936 Chevrolet paneled sedan delivery truck. It had a few dents because it was the company delivery truck. The clutch didn’t work too well. The steering column came loose regularly (while driving). And the rings were shot. It burned so much oil that there were no mosquitoes between Gate City printing and our house in Clarkston. But it was well received because daddy and Jack could ride together to work in this car!
This truck had no back seats and that was good! Daddy would throw one of the matresses from a large bed into the back. Then all the kids would pile in while mom and dad drove us to Augusta. The trip took about five to six hours so somewhere about twelve or one o’clock in the morning we would arrive at our grandmother’s house. I, being the youngest, would usually pass out before we got to Conyers. The rest would be asleep before Thompson.
Many times we would follow the same routine and go to Lake Altoona. I loved waking up to breakfast at the lake. Anytime I smell fresh coffee and bacon frying it reminds me of those early days.
Daddy finally sold the car for $35 so he would have money to take my mother out for their anniversary. She was mad at him that night and refused to go anywhere. We sure missed that truck.
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