The Committee Book — No. I
First Sunday. The repast. Homecoming. Two hundred and twelve plates on the day we buried a man who had been a deacon for fifty-one years.
I ran that church kitchen for forty years. Kitchen committee. Never took a dime. Everything I learned in there was written in pencil in one spiral notebook by the woman who ran it before me, and in blue ink in the margins by me, and that notebook is in a drawer in a building that may not be there in twenty years. So I wrote it out. Two hundred and twenty-two things, arranged by the day they belong to, with the counts beside them.
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I. Everything that comes with it
Two of them are the kind of thing you tape inside a cupboard door and use for the rest of your life.
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II. Why it is not a recipe book
There are a hundred places to find out how to make macaroni and cheese. There is nowhere to find out that a full pan is thirty-six plates, that it takes ninety minutes and not thirty-five, that it has to sit an hour before anybody eats and therefore needs five eggs and two tins of milk instead of four and one, and that it is the dish people judge your whole kitchen by.
That is not a recipe. That is forty years of standing at a serving window, and it was in a notebook in a drawer.
Every entry in this book ends the same way, and the last line is never a flourish. It is what the dish is for.
III. The notebook
Mother Inez Pruitt ran that kitchen before me and started the book some time in the sixties. I wrote in the margins for thirty years. Some of what I wrote was wrong and I crossed it back out.
Six of those pages are in this package, set down the way they are. I have not tidied them.
IV. What is in it
Not by dish. By the day it belongs to.
| Chapter | Entries | |
|---|---|---|
| I | First Sunday — communion Sunday, and why the count they give you is never the count | 18 |
| II | The Repast — the meal after a funeral; the fixed menu, nothing fried, and the plate that goes home with the family | 18 |
| III | Homecoming — two hundred and seventy plates, two kitchens, two serving lines, planned in January | 16 |
| IV | Wednesday Night — one pot, one pan, thirty tired people and ninety minutes | 14 |
| V | Family and Friends Day — the Sunday strangers eat your cooking and go home and talk about it | 12 |
| VI | The Holiday Table — Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, Easter and Juneteenth, each with its own plate | 24 |
| VII | Potluck — thirty dishes you did not make, arriving at thirty temperatures | 12 |
| VIII | The Sick-and-Shut-In Plate — the plate that goes to the people who cannot come any more | 10 |
| IX | A Pan for Forty — what a pan holds, what it feeds, and what changes when a dish gets four times bigger | 18 |
| X | Holding and Hauling — the hour and a half between the oven and the plate, which nobody writes down | 14 |
| XI | What a Pan Costs — eleven dollars, forty plates, and the envelope that went back on Monday | 12 |
| XII | Cooking It Down — I cook for one now. I still make a pan for six. | 16 |
| XIII | The Window — twenty things that did not get past me, and why | 20 |
| XIV | Mother Inez — what she said, what she wrote, and the day she handed me the drawer | 18 |
V. Who is doing the cooking
I am seventy-two. I ran the kitchen at my church in Jackson, Mississippi for forty years — kitchen committee, volunteer, never took a dime — and I handed the drawer to a younger woman two years ago because I cannot stand up for a whole service any more.
Folks at that church still call me Mother Earlene. I did not give myself that and I do not introduce myself with it.
My husband Clarence is gone. My daughter Tonya is in Houston and my son Marcus is in Chicago and my granddaughter Aaliyah is at school, learning to cook off a telephone and learning some of it wrong.
I am not a chef and I have no title. What I have is forty years of feeding two hundred people on days that did not allow mistakes, and a notebook that nobody was ever going to read.
VI. Asked and answered
Chapter twelve is the whole answer and it is the chapter I needed somebody to write for me. Every number in this book divides by four and lands in a nine by thirteen dish you already own, and every single entry has a line at the bottom telling you how it goes down to one or two plates.
No. A holiday is a Homecoming with fewer people. A family funeral is a repast. A Tuesday is a Wednesday night. The days are the same days.
Yes, with the amounts. But the recipe is the smallest part of each entry. What is in here that is not anywhere else is the count, the timing, the order things go in the oven, and what happens to a dish in the hour and a half before anybody eats it.
It is cooking that was done between 1974 and two years ago on an ordinary stove, in ordinary pans, by a woman with no equipment anybody gave her. I do not know a thing about air fryers.
It is church food. There is butter in it and there is smoked meat in it. I am not a doctor and I do not give advice about anybody's health. If you have been told to watch your salt or your sugar, that is a conversation for you and your own doctor.
Six numbers run through the whole book and they are on the first page: 165°F for poultry, 160°F for ground meat, hot held above 140°F, cold below 40°F, two hours out of temperature — one above 90°F — and a day of thawing for every four pounds of frozen turkey. I kept a thermometer in my apron for thirty years.
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VII. Written down, finally
Two hundred and twenty-two things, arranged by the day they belong to, with the counts beside them.
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