The Southern Sympathy Buffet

In the South, the first call when someone passes isn't to the undertaker.

That honor goes to the church casserole committee. You think I'm kidding, but it is one of the beautiful things I grew up with, and I don't think I'd have it any other way. To understand this, one must consider that a good portion of the oldest Southern families are Celtic, meaning they are Irish, Welsh, and Scottish.

How deep is it? I grew up in a county named after a signer of the Declaration of Independence, and my family was around when he did it. He was a Welshman who, for some reason, possibly a Civil War in the UK, wanted his surname of Gwynedd to be a little less Welsh.

Those of us who happen to be of Celtic extraction, the Welsh in particular, are basically hobbits. We believe in and act on extraordinary hospitality, and in times of stress and distress, we understand that folks just need to eat some things off until they can handle the new world they find themselves in.

We don't just mourn our dead; we feed the living like it's our God-given duty. Some folks light candles. We bake cornbread. It's just how we're raised. You might not be able to bring someone back, but you can sure make sure the grieving don't starve.

You share stories, the laughs of things gone wrong, celebrate the things gone right, and take some time to catch up and remember why in the hell you still love the family member that's in front of you in the first place.

Sometimes, it can be an impromptu family reunion that nobody planned, but some of us needed.

I'm not sure exactly how it works in many places, but I know in Georgia and the surrounding states, there's usually a small room somewhere near the back of the funeral home with coffee pots that compete with fuel tanks in size. The lighting is normally dim. If you wanted to imagine eating in a cave, that was my experience.

In one calendar year, I attended the funerals of no less than 17 extended family members. I met a lot of people I didn't know I was related to and got my cheeks pinched more than should ever have been legal.

From fried chicken and macaroni to deviled eggs that might be older than the dearly departed, anyone who had a significant time walking the path of life with the family or deceased will bring a dish. There's always one mystery casserole. No one knows what it is, but somehow, it's always gone first. And we don't care where it went.

This is one time when most judgment is restrained, unlike many of the other social events we engage in. It would just be rude. The deceased is in state in the next room, and we're still not convinced about just how far away they are.

Ghosts are a thing, folks.

There's something healing about a warm biscuit or a slice of pecan pie. Green bean casserole is a safe bet; tofu, not so much. You've gotta read the room, or at least all of the rooms you've shared in the past. My Aunt Myrtle once said she couldn't cry over Uncle Joe until she'd had a proper plate of barbecue. But that was fair; he had his preferences and about 35 years of marital runway.

Every family's got that one aunt who brings fried chicken so good that people almost look forward to funerals.

Call us strange, but we know what we like and what makes the heart warm. When you lose someone close, you'll take any tiny scrap of warmth you can get. This ritual makes it a little more comfortable when Uncle Tom can't handle being home alone and wants to sleep in the viewing room one more time.

I've seen it. I understand it. There is a special place in Heaven for Tommy Wages. When he buried a spouse for you, it wasn't over for him. He'd show up at your house to check on you, a week, a month, six months until you'd healed as best as could be expected.

There's a reason no one shows up with soufflé. It doesn't pair well with grief or potholes. If it can't survive a car ride and a jostle, it's not invited. It's just more tears for someone, and there are enough to go around already.

Funerals bring out the best in Southern cooking and, sometimes, the worst in Southern gossip. "Sister Ethel brought store-bought cookies? Well, bless her heart." This is usually deflected with a well-placed side-eye, and Sister Karen learns the hard way what her parents should have instilled in her: Children are to be seen and not heard, and at this moment, Karen is acting like a child.

Someone always brings a banana pudding, and someone else always says, "Mine's better, but I didn't have time." And again, no one cares. When the heart is sore, banana pudding is banana pudding, and you are just thankful somebody cared enough to bring it.

In the end, it's not about the food. It's about showing up, in the most Southern way possible, with a covered dish in hand. Because nothing says "I'm here for you" quite like a tray of deviled eggs and a hug except for my daddy. He despised deviled eggs like a vampire who hates garlic stewed in holy water.

That would be a match penalty, and he might haunt you for it. He had a favorite curse for folks who did things like that and would announce loudly, "I reject this madness, and I place a curse for all time upon you: May all your children be born nekkid." That didn't seem to scare anyone, though.

By the time the funeral is over, the family's fridge will look like the Tupperware aisle at Walmart exploded. The grieving family ends up with enough food to open their own Cracker Barrel. It’s all fun and games until you're eating lasagna for the seventh meal in a row, and they will be eager to share.

Take it.

You're doing a public service.