A Little Salty to Cut the Sweet Read online

  If you’re not familiar with Sophie Hudson already, you’re about to find out why all of us who know her want to be her best friend. Whatever your love language, Sophie can speak it. If you need to laugh, she’s your girl, but don’t be shocked to find yourself moved to tears minutes later. She’s all the things you love most in a woman of God. Have a blast with her!

  BETH MOORE

  New York Times bestselling author and speaker

  This is Jerry Seinfeld in a skirt and a huge heart for Jesus. This is laugh-out-loud, hold-your-side funny. This is one unstoppable book—once you start reading, there’s no stopping!

  ANN VOSKAMP

  Author of the New York Times bestseller One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are

  Sophie Hudson has managed to capture all the heart and humor of growing up Southern in A Little Salty to Cut the Sweet. I devoured this book—I laughed out loud, I cried, I smiled, I talked back. For the first time in my life, I’ve found a book I wish every woman in my family could read together. There isn’t a woman, no matter where she is from, who won’t connect with the heart of this book. But the Southern women? They will feel it deep in their souls. That’s the kind of book this is—the kind you read and feel and love and share.

  ANNIE F. DOWNS

  Author of Perfectly Unique

  The very first blog I ever read was Sophie’s BooMama blog, and I have read it every day since for the last six years. Her writing style keeps me coming back with her mix of HILARIOUS stories and the ability to make everyday things interesting. Sophie is the epitome of all that is Southern, and her writing brings that familiarity with it that makes you nod your head and say, “Uh-huh” and “Yes” if you were raised anywhere in the Southern states. A Little Salty to Cut the Sweet has made me laugh until I cried and has made me a little nostalgic for my family and childhood. It was everything I had hoped it would be and more!

  KELLY STAMPS

  Author of the kellyskornerblog.com

  Well, it’s official: I’m in love with this book. Sophie Hudson is hilariously appreciative of her very Southern roots, and she shares tales of all the experiences (and the lovably eccentric relatives!) that shaped her. Threads of love, family, and faith hold the stories together . . . but it’s Sophie’s laugh-at-life humor that sings forth from every page. She writes as if you’re sitting on her front porch drinking a tall glass of sweet tea, and it’s impossible not to come away from each chapter without feeling like you know her a little better. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun reading a book.

  REE DRUMMOND

  #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Pioneer Woman Cooks

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  A Little Salty to Cut the Sweet: Southern Stories of Faith, Family, and Fifteen Pounds of Bacon

  Copyright © 2013 by Sophie Hudson. All rights reserved.

  Embroidery by Soledad Nuñez. Copyright by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Cover background pattern copyright © Bill Noll/iPhoto. All rights reserved.

  Floral illustration copyright © yewkeo/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Jacqueline L. Nuñez

  Edited by Stephanie Rische

  Published in association with William K. Jensen Literary Agency, 119 Bampton Court, Eugene, Oregon 97404.

  Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.

  Scripture quotations marked The Message are taken from The Message by Eugene H. Peterson, copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hudson, Sophie.

  A little salty to cut the sweet : Southern stories of faith, family, and fifteen pounds of bacon / Sophie Hudson.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-4143-7566-3 (pbk.)

  1. Hudson, Sophie—Anecdotes. 2. Hudson, Sophie—Family—Anecdotes. 3. Hudson, Sophie—Childhood and youth—Anecdotes. 4. Mississippi—Biography—Anecdotes. 5. Families—Mississippi—Anecdotes. 6. Christian life—Mississippi—Anecdotes. 7. Mississippi—Social life and customs—Anecdotes. 8. Southern States—Biography—Anecdotes. 9. Southern States—Social life and customs—Anecdotes. I. Title.

  CT275.H66727A3 2013

  976.2'064092—dc23

  [B] 2012049653

  ISBN 978-1-4143-8593-8 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8390-3 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-8594-5 (Apple)

  Build: 2013-05-10 15:34:35

  For Papaw Davis, who always told the best stories

  CONTENTS

  A Little Literary Disclaimer

  Introduction: Because I’m Crazy about My People

  Chapter One: Not to Mention That Her Apple Tarts Would Change Your Whole Life

  Chapter Two: When the Biggest Portion of All Is the Love

  Chapter Three: When the Fine China Is, Um, Refining

  Chapter Four: The Saga of the Homemade Biscuits

  Chapter Five: When the “Immeasurably More” Pretty Much Rocks Your World

  Chapter Six: Mother’s Got a Bell! A Ringy-Ding Bell!

  Chapter Seven: The Night We neither Camped nor Fished

  Chapter Eight: A Denominational Showdown in the Frozen Foods Aisle

  Chapter Nine: For Better, for Worse, and in the Increasingly Likely Chance of a Heatstroke

  Chapter Ten: Lordy, Lordy, Look Who’s One Hundred-y

  Chapter Eleven: When Prayer Meeting Includes a Cocktail Hour

  Chapter Twelve: Because Nothing Says “Welcome” like Rifling through a Handbag

  Chapter Thirteen: Watching TV with My Daddy

  Chapter Fourteen: The Unexpected Ministry of the Cowbell

  Chapter Fifteen: Saturday Lunch and the Fine Art of Funeral Planning

  Chapter Sixteen: Because Nothing Says “Happy Anniversary” like Eight Pounds of Bacon

  Chapter Seventeen: It Only Takes a Spark to Get a Kindle Going

  Chapter Eighteen: That Whole Table Thing Is Pretty Symbolic, Y’all

  Recipes: And Now It Is Time for All the Food

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  A LITTLE LITERARY DISCLAIMER

  THESE STORIES ARE TRUE—for the most part. I mean, you’re reading my perspective on these true-for-the-most-part stories, and my perspective may differ from other people’s. I think it’s good to remember that. Plus, every once in a while I changed details and names because, well, it seemed like the right thing to do—lest I start some sort of family feud, you understand.

  I also changed the names of some towns and altered some locations. Real life happens all over the place, and since I didn’t want you to need a map in order to follow along, I consolidated the action to a few towns that exist only in my imagination. From that perspective, I guess the stories are 90 percent true-ish as opposed to 100 percent absolutely true.

  I know. I’m overexplaining. It’s what I do when I’m trying to make sure I’m covering all my storytelling bases.

  There’s a chance, I guess, that you’ll find yourself wondering why I don’t chronicle some big family falling-out, why we never seem to argue or disagree or fuss,
so let me assure you that we most definitely do all of the above. You know that old Keith Whitley song called “I’m No Stranger to the Rain”? Well, we’re no strangers to the drama. I will say, however, that my grandparents set a high standard in terms of how they expected us to treat each other, so even when we’re aggravated, we’re much more apt to talk about it than to storm out of a room. On top of that, this book is not meant to be An Airing of the Grievances; it’s meant to be a celebration of family.

  Consider yourself warned that I may have been prone to some exaggeration and embellishment every once in a while, but that probably goes without saying, since I’m Southern and all.

  Don’t roll your eyes, people. It’s in my blood.

  INTRODUCTION

  Because I’m Crazy about My People

  ONE OF THE GREAT BLESSINGS of my life is that I grew up in a family of storytellers. Some of my earliest memories involve sitting in Mamaw and Papaw Davis’s den while my mama, my aunt, and their cousins took turns telling tales. The stories always featured real people and real-life events—like, for instance, Uncle Herman and Aunt Elsie, or one of the Keenans who lived down the road, or their cousin Tom Alex (pronounced “Ellec,” a peculiar Mississippi pronunciation that puzzles me to this day)—and they were always hilarious.

  What the stories were not was mean spirited. And there was never any profanity. In fact, the liveliest the language ever got was when my sweet Papaw would react to something by saying, “Well, I’ll be John Brown.” I had no idea who John Brown was, of course, but that’s sort of beside the point. Because as I sat and listened to my mama imitate her uncle Owen and heard my aunt howl with laughter over something that had happened at the Moss Rose General Store, I learned very quickly that a good story doesn’t require “all that foul language,” as Mama might say. And with the exception of an unfortunate season in my early twenties when I regularly experimented with all the curse words in all their various forms, I’ve remembered the lesson.

  Way back in ye olden days of 2005, I was the mama of a two-year-old and, according to my husband, a person who might benefit from a creative outlet that didn’t involve Elmo, VeggieTales, or Blue’s Clues. I’d been reading blogs for a couple of years, and one night while I sat in the rocking chair in our guest room and watched our little guy play in the tub, I decided I was going to start one of those blog things and maybe try to get back in the swing of writing.

  I had been a habitual journal keeper from my early teens until my late twenties, but after I got married, I abandoned the writing in favor of some fairly obsessive housekeeping and decorating. After all, it’s tough to commit to keeping a journal when you’re repainting your bedroom for the fifth time in a year and scouring T.J. Maxx and Marshalls for the latest shower curtain shipment. As a wise philosopher once said, “Discounted linens wait for no woman.”

  But that night in the guest room, I realized that I was ready to write again. I needed to write again. And I figured that if two or three people wanted to hop on the wide-world Interweb and read what I wrote, that would be delightful. I thought my daddy, my sister, and my brother might be interested—maybe even a few friends from college. I knew from the get-go that my mama wouldn’t touch the blog with a ten-foot pole since she often reminds us that she doesn’t even know how to turn on the e-mail, but I was okay with that.

  For about six years I kept up my regular routine of blogging in between piling up clean clothes on the guest room bed, finding new and inventive ways to incorporate bacon into our meals, and watching more than my fair share of Bravo after our little boy was asleep.

  I know that last thing probably sounds super shallow.

  That’s because it is.

  But sometimes, after a long, hard day, I need to hear Ramona on The Real Housewives of New York City say that she’d wear a certain item of clothing “in a heartflash.”

  It comforts me.

  Then one day in April 2011, I was folding clothes from the aforementioned guest room pile when an expression that Papaw Davis used all the time came to mind: I think I need a little salty to cut the sweet. He’d say it as he pushed back from the table after devouring a helping of Mamaw Davis’s homemade blueberry cobbler, and it was always a signal that he might need one more piece of fried chicken to balance out his sugar intake. I don’t know about y’all, but that tendency to temper an overly jellied biscuit with one last piece of thick-sliced bacon or to alleviate the effects of too much homemade banana pudding with a sliver of beef tenderloin is at least one family member’s story at every holiday gathering. And as I stacked folded towel on top of folded towel that afternoon, I thought about how that expression applies to more than just food.

  For the first time in my life, there was a book I wanted to write. And it blows my mind just a little bit that you’re about to read it.

  Mamaw and Papaw Davis didn’t live to see me graduate from high school; honestly, I have no idea if either of them knew how much I liked to write. But make no mistake: their example and their legacy are precisely why I treasure our family stories and why I feel privileged to share them. They couldn’t have known how deeply I was soaking in the words and the expressions and the testimonies and the laughter that surrounded me when I would perch on the edge of a breakfast room chair and listen to the grown-ups hold court. But I was taking it all in—and I’ve never forgotten.

  So that’s all a very long-winded way of saying that, for me, this book is my twenty-first-century version of Mamaw and Papaw Davis’s kitchen. I haven’t really figured out a way to serve you some of Mamaw’s sweet tea and apple tarts while you read, much less her homemade chocolate pie, which could make even the staunchest Episcopalian lift up holy hands and offer the Lord spontaneous songs of praise and thanksgiving.

  But the welcome mat is out, the crazy is on full display, and there’s always room for one more around our table.

  I hope you’ll feel right at home.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Not to Mention That Her Apple Tarts Would Change Your Whole Life

  SO, I HAVE A THEORY.

  It’s not a theory about science or religion or politics. Oh, heavens, no. That would be a complete departure from the very fiber of my personality.

  But I do have a theory about memory. More specifically, I have a theory about how we remember people.

  Are you ready?

  Prepare to be underwhelmed, my friends.

  My theory is that we typically have one dominant “fallback” memory that becomes our go-to mental image when we think about somebody.

  Now that I’ve typed that out, by the way, I’m thinking that maybe it’s not so much a theory as a loose, unverifiable observation.

  But let’s just run with it. Because whenever I think about Papaw Sims, for example, I picture him leaning over his deep freeze and asking if I’d rather have chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry ice cream. Whenever I think about Uncle Joe, I picture him dozing in his recliner with a stack of paperwork on his lap—and a ten-key adding machine within arm’s reach. And whenever I think about Mamaw Davis, my maternal grandmother, I picture her looking over her shoulder and grinning while she’s standing at the stove. Maybe even scooping a little Crisco out of the can.

  The mental picture of Mamaw standing at the stove is one of the most enduring images of my childhood, mainly because she stood at that stove so faithfully. She cooked three hot meals a day, seven days a week. There was never anything made from a box, either—no powdery macaroni and cheese or Hamburger Helper. Oh, no, ma’am. There was hot cornbread, beef stroganoff over rice, pot roast with carrots and potatoes, fried chicken, creamed potatoes, fresh peas, fried squash, fried okra (I have to pause for a moment whenever I mention Mamaw’s fried okra and give it the reverence and honor that it is due), egg custard pie, pound cake—I could go on and on.

  We didn’t have all that food at one time, mind you, or else we’d have alternated trips to Mamaw’s table with trips to the cardiac care unit, but there was always something delicious and homem
ade on that stove. Mamaw didn’t think she was doing anything special—she was just taking care of her family the best way she knew how—but I think her children and grandchildren can all testify to the fact that those meals she cooked ministered to us like a good Sunday sermon. And she didn’t have to say a single word.

  For at least one week a summer—sometimes more—my mama and my daddy, along with my aunt Choxie, who is Mama’s sister, and Chox’s husband, my uncle Joe, would ship my cousin Paige and me off to Mamaw and Papaw Davis’s pretty white farmhouse in Moss Rose, Mississippi—about thirty minutes from my hometown of Myrtlewood. Since Paige would have been born in the early 1900s if she’d had any say in the matter, she thrived on Mamaw and Papaw’s farm. She was perfectly content to pick blackberries, walk through the chicken coops, amble about in the pastures, and count cows. I, on the other hand, was a total scaredy-cat, wary of tall grass that made me itch and bumblebees that refused to be swatted away.

  I had issues when I was indoors, too. When Paige and I would go to bed at night, exhausted from our day’s adventures, I’d usually make it ten or fifteen minutes before I’d sprint down the hall and crawl into bed with Mamaw and Papaw. Every floorboard creak sounded to me like imminent danger, so I settled into sleep much more easily underneath the cool hum of the AC window unit in my grandparents’ room. No way could the boogeyman get me in there. Not on Papaw’s watch. He was broad shouldered, barrel chested, and utterly devoted to his family—a security blanket in human form.

  Papaw had some health problems when I was ten, and not too long afterward he and Mamaw decided to downsize and find a smaller house with a lot less land. Somebody later told my mama that Papaw was thinking ahead—he was worried something would happen to him and Mamaw would be stuck with the responsibilities of the farm. On top of that, he didn’t want her to be living in a relatively remote area all by herself. So they sold the farmhouse (and the farm) and moved to a blond brick house that was just catty-corner from Moss Rose’s Methodist church.