Kinston may not have a thriving job market, decent infrastructure, strong tax base, affordable utilities, well-funded schools, courteous drivers or an art/music scene, but it does have food.
It’s a popular misconception that “Kinston” was derived from the word “Kingston” in an attempt to sever ties with England. Actually, “Kinston” is a Latin word that means “buffet.” According to 2009 U.S. Census data, there is a buffet per every 4.7 people in Lenoir County. The phrase “Riding the Gravy Train with Biscuit Wheels” was the official Lenoir County slogan until it was changed to ‘Stop Here for Gas on the Way to the Beach” in 1968.
One thing we Kinstonians do have going for us is the ability to comfort loved ones after a death in the family. While cards are nice and flowers are OK, nothing says “we’re going to get through this” like a table full of fried chicken.
There was a death in the family this week, and afterwards a few people gathered at my parents’ house to discuss funeral arrangements. As soon as I walked in the door, I was asked if I wanted a piece of pecan pie. The question was offensive, and I felt as if my manhood or citizenship were being called into question. Of course I wanted a piece of pecan pie. What am I, an idiot?
I’m at the point where desserts are only part of the equation at birthday parties and during the holidays, which truth be told is probably enough — but this pie was special. You could look at this thing and tell it hadn’t been picked up from the gas station on the way home from work. There was a bit of a glow around it, as if ordained by the big guy himself. I’m not sure what heaven looks like, but one would assume it tastes like this fantastic piece of pie.
This pie was so good it felt wrong to be eating it. It was the culinary equivalent of cutting the Mona Lisa into six pieces and handing it out with a napkin and fork. Something with the ability to bring such joy to a person should never be destroyed, yet it would be a waste not to eat it.
Being the youngest person in the room made it easy to grab the rest of the pie and overpower those who tried to block the door. Once outside, I started running and didn’t look back. I woke up the next morning in a Wayne County corn field with crows pecking pie crumbs off of my face.
The pie was made by Mrs. Ruth, a woman from a generation that weathered such storms as the Depression, World War II and the Happy Days spin-off “Joanie Loves Chachi.” I don’t know what she put in that pie, but its addictive powers frankly make crystal meth look like a bland sugar cookie.
Maybe this will start a movement to get people off drugs and onto pie. Wouldn’t you just love to see pumpkin pie labs sprouting up all over the county? Flour would overtake cocaine as the white powder of choice, and junkies could move away from the needle and the spoon and onto the Easy Bake Ovens.
While attending funeral services in La Grange as a teenager, I began to notice a man who seemed to be at every funeral. I know La Grange is a small town and everybody sort of knows everybody, but this guy had his mail delivered to the funeral home. Everybody knew his name but never knew his association with deceased.
Finally, one of my uncles hipped me to the fact that the guy attended the funerals so he could go to the house afterwards and eat like a king.
Apparently, someone eventually tried to bust the guy by asking how he and the deceased were connected.
“Old Jasper let me pull in front of him when I was trying get out of a parking lot one time,” the Funeral Food Marauder said. “We bonded over that.”
I’m worried that future generations will be clueless when it comes to comfort food or even food in general. Over the last few decades, the feminist movement has tried to shame women out of the kitchen, and most of the men who are open-minded enough to help with meals insist on grilling an entire goat or consider microwaving a TV dinner “cooking.” This scenario is probably what produced the worst/greatest dessert I ever witnessed being delivered after a funeral: A plate of Tootsie Rolls cut up into little squares.
Friend of the Free Press Jonathan Massey walked into my office today holding a jug of Gatorade. He tried for five minutes to get me to take a swig. He’d for some reason removed the label from the bottle, which immediately made me think it was air conditioner run-off or antifreeze.
To put my mind at ease, Massey picked up the jug and took a swig, but I still refused. I asked Massey point blank if this was Free Press Editor Bryan Hanks' way of getting me back for the harmless little tribute to him that I wrote for the July 16 edition of the paper. Massey refused to answer.
Turns out young Massey had purchased a jug of lime/cucumber flavored Gatorade. That someone in the Gatorade research department thought a lime/cucumber flavored beverage would be appealing to Massey’s demographic is telling. Some genius over at the Gatorade company has figured out that combining two flavors that should never be in contact with each other — be it lime and cucumber or saffron and Quaker State — is appealing to a 25-year-old male with disposable income and a facial tick.
When the people of Massey’s generation start funeralizing their dearly departed, I don’t think people will be crashing the services for the food. Then again, Cajun-flavored Q-Tips might catch on.
Jon Dawson’s columns appear every Tuesday and Thursday in The Free Press. Contact Jon at 252-559-1092 or jon.dawson@kinston.com. Purchase music, books and stomach pumps at jondawson.com.