Reunion Beach Elin Hilderbrand (best selling autobiographies .TXT) 📖

much more to the point. She is funny and wise and such a good mother. Does it really matter if she knows the exact origins of pebble leather?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tuscany to be exact. Pebble leather doesn’t matter now. I hope the important truths got through.”

“I am certain that they did.”

“I tried to be steady. Of course, I had my husband for that. I could always count on him. To love me or push me, either/or. I wonder if I came across as someone who could be counted on, because, Lord knows, I counted on him.”

“You could be counted on. After all, love pulls all the threads together, and evidently always will. I’m sure your daughter believed she could count on you.”

“She did. And there were times she thought I was nuts.”

“Nah.”

“Here and there. Not every day. But here and there I could go a little crazy. I loved the word ‘ballistic,’ because it was how it felt inside to be me, firing on all pistons. Whatever a piston is.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“No, it doesn’t. I hope my children go ballistic once in a while. After all, it’s in the family.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

Dottie picks up a tumbler of vodka on the rocks. “Is this mine?”

“Yep.”

Dottie sips. “It’s delish. I had to give up Dewar’s, it made me puffy. Vodka is a streamliner. Thank you.”

“I’ve been thinking, Dot.” Pat studied his tumbler of whiskey as though it were a chalice. “There’s no comparison. Skillet cornbread is preferable to pan.”

“I am not going to pick up this argument on this side of heaven. Listen to me. Once and for all. Pan cornbread.”

“Skillet.”

“Pat, use your head. Pan is cake-like whereas the skillet cornbread is dense. Skillet style gets hard like quick-dry cement if you don’t eat it right away.”

“You’re supposed to eat it hot, that’s the point.”

“But you can’t always eat it hot. I’ll give you this: I do like the crust on skillet baked. But that’s all I like. You get crust with the pan, too, but it’s thinner, like the top of a pancake.”

“Not the same. Skillet baked gives you a thicker kind of carpet-like finish.”

“Carpet? What are you talking about? Aubusson? Wall to wall? What? I hate comparisons of objects to food. Food is food. Besides, it’s the lard that makes a golden crust.”

“I’ve had yours.”

“And?” Dottie asked and waited.

“It’s pretty spectacular.”

“So why argue with me?”

“What else have we got to do for all eternity?” Pat laughs. Soon, Dottie is laughing with him until she isn’t.

“Pat, follow my logic. If you studied cornbread south of the Mason-Dixon Line, the baking style is a matter of geography and genealogy. Our recipes define our regions. Would you agree? We’re South Carolinians. Okay, we make cornbread in a skillet or a pan. But traditional Tennessee skillet cornbread does not go down the same way that Georgia skillet cornbread might. You’ve got the Alabama version. And the Virginia style. Hell, we could go all night with the variations, but the truth is, in my opinion and experience, the pan is the key to the best cornbread.”

“Dottie, I respectfully disagree. You need a seasoned skillet. One that is used for the sole purpose of making cornbread.”

“But if we’re going to have this discussion for the millionth time, you will just have to trust that I know best because I make the best cornbread.”

“Trust mine. Skillet. Skillet style cornbread is popular in every region of the South,” Pat insisted.

“Popular does not mean better.”

“It can.”

“Not always,” Dottie countered. “We could argue that every region has a pan and skillet recipe. It’s cornmeal based, Pat. And think about it. The variations. You have the Italians with the polenta. That’s just moist cornbread stirred wet for hours until your arm almost falls off into the bowl, and instead of reattaching it, you just throw some tomato sauce on it and call it a day. Did you know I’m one eighth Italian?”

“You remind me every chance you get.”

“Well I am. So that’ll tell you that the Italian and South Carolinian, the Lowcountry South Carolinian in me, knows her way around a bowl of cornmeal.”

“No doubt. But there’s always something new to learn.”

“You said my cornbread was excellent.”

“It is. But I don’t know how we choose the best cornbread if we don’t include the variations. Think about it. There’s the bayou. Louisiana, the Mississippi Delta. You’ve got coastal, inland, and New Orleans proper, which is actually its own country as far as I’m concerned. They do a crumble version of the old skillet standard.”

“You can’t count them. Cajun is a separate palate.”

“Completely. But I would argue that Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina are similar—at least when it comes to cornbread. And they make it like me, Lowcountry style. It involves a can of creamed corn. Keep the secret.”

“What about firecracker cornbread?” Pat asked.

“Never heard of it. I think you made it up.”

“I most certainly did not. Hot chilis and niblets stirred in. Fresh niblets right off the cob. Boil them until soft and into the batter.”

“A fad for sure. I don’t think I ever had it.”

“You wouldn’t. You never went to a dive bar.”

“Only when there was no alternative. I can think of a couple of book tours in Florida when I could barely find my way out of the everglades. I think I stopped at a dive bar somewhere in there. With Nita Leftwich. Do you know her?”

“I never had the pleasure. The best food is in dives, Dottie. They use lard. Butter. Fat. You know, the essentials in your kitchen.”

“They were. It’s so funny to me now. I worried my whole life about calories. Now I wish I’d just had the butter every time instead of those margarines with the dumb names. You know, like that landfill-friendly I Can’t Believe It Ain’t Butter. Why don’t they just call it whipped car wax because you can’t digest it. Take it off the market. I’d call my butter I Can Believe It’s Butter because it is authentic butter from the cream