Darlene's Digest

As the shadows lengthened, the men began gathering around the tables like wasps drawn to sweet fruit, cozying up to their women and trying to talk them out of some of the food before the feast officially began. Ma Ivey ruled her dirt yard like an empress, and wasn’t above slapping a reaching hand with a wooden spoon when they drew too close. Finally though, the last of the cane was put through the mill and the syrup cooked down, and as the night sky filled with stars the feast began to a chorus of tree frogs and crickets serenading the workers. They lined up before the platters of roast pig and venison, quails, turkey, and doves. Even a possum or two joined the potatoes in the smoldering coals. There was fish stew and slow-cooked turtle, gator tail and fresh bass, and plenty of home-brewed ale and scuppernong wine to wash it down. The ever present corn was there, too, as meal, mush, bread, pone, grits, and “roasenears,” cooked in the hot coals. Julia grinned to herself. There would be

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"Possum hangin’ in the tree, Raccoon on the ground; Raccoon say, you stingy rat, Shake them ’simmons down!” Julia paused in her singing and frowned down at the spoon stirring through the cake batter. “Possum hanging in the tree?” Where had that come from? “Goodness, I’m becoming countrified!” She chuckled, looking out the kitchen window at the activity in the yard. Rand was doing the morning chores in preparation for their trip to the Iveys’ farm. For a moment she watched him as she stirred, indulging herself in a fantasy that theirs was a normal marriage, two people on the Florida frontier, making a new life together. But it was as much a fantasy as singing raccoons. --SMUGGLER'S BRIDE If it's autumn in North Central Florida, it's persimmon time! They're starting to come into our farmers market and I snagged a few. These are still at the firm stage and may not make it to the cakes. I also like them sliced up over my breakfast cereal. However, the season is long e

  ...when Captain Doyle returned there was a full report. A peace treaty had been negotiated restoring Great Britain and the United States to their antebellum status. “But what of the prisoners?” Charley asked Captain Doyle. “A Yankee trader from France bound for Charleston put into port a few days back. That is how we heard the news. The governor is not interested in having a gang of Americans roaming through Kingston, and asked if we would ‘host’ them for a while longer until they can ship out with their countrymen.” It was that simple. Men who two days earlier would have run each other through or blown each other to pieces, now were up on deck toasting each other’s countries with carefully rationed grog. Captain Doyle wisely put a limit on the amount of alcohol served, knowing that it wouldn’t take much to re-ignite the conflict on a smaller scale. “Captain Fletcher told me I do not understand men, Mr. Bryant,” Charley said in bemusement later that night. “I have to agree with him.”

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