Grammy Oaks can cook.

            Growing up, I shared the house with two adults and six other all-devouring, ever- running, Energizer bunnies.  I have often thought that scientists need not look into outer space to find black holes.  The way seven children can use, abuse, consume, and destroy all things, is evidence enough for me.

            Due to our overabundance of mouths to feed and the monetary constraints inherent therein, my family seldom dined at restaurants.  There was a daily ritual: Everyone was home from school around 3:30pm, unless someone had a practice to attend.  Dad came home from work between 4:30-5pm, and spent some quality time outside watering his other children.  About the same time, Mom began her task of preparing our evening meal – any daily rendition of which could probably have fed a family of four for an entire week.  Fortunately, she had a plethora of little imps to assist in the food preparation and younger child care-taking while she orchestrated the kitchen activity.  I however, was typically banned from the kitchen, my energetic overzealousness and the insatiable hunger unique to growing boys being more of a hindrance than help.  When the final product was achieved or imminent Mom would tell one of the imps to tell everyone else that dinner was ready.  Normally the telling consisted of a chain of loud shouting from imp to the next closest imp followed by a manhunt for the Big Dog, whose presence was required for dinner to begin, and who could typically be found somewhere in the yard or in his shed tinkering.

            Once everyone had gathered around the (very large) table, the boys standing until Mom had sat down, we joined hands and prayed to God to thank Him for providing for our family. Oftentimes Dad would pray, which meant we had a somewhat long wait before we actually got to eat.  But other times he would delegate the “giving of thanks” to one of the imps.  My own personal blessing was short, sweet, and to the point.  “ Dear Lord, I thank you for this food, I thank you for the hands that prepared it, and I pray that you will bless it to the nourishment of our bodies, in Jesus’ name, Amen.”  I was probably the first five-year-old to use “nourishment” correctly in a sentence.  When I prayed, the point was to finish it quick and dig in.

            My mother is a superb cook. At first it was of necessity. Preparing a meal for that many people is hard enough, but one that they will actually eat and not gag at is a whole other feat entirely.  As her little imps have grown into lesser demons and moved on to terrorize college campuses across the southeast and to spawn little imps of their own, Grammy Oaks has begun to perfect her already prodigious skill.  I have had countless meals at my mother’s house that I would consider the best meal I have ever had.  I cannot name a restaurant where I have had a meal that I enjoyed better than one that Grammy Oaks made.

            I have found that food tends to taste exponentially better with an abundance of hunger and fatigue.  I once ate the Mugshot burger after a full day of playing ultimate Frisbee at a tournament in Tuscaloosa.  My meal was free and I was given a t-shirt to prove I was a pig.  Immediately after that meal, my team and I went to Cold Stone Creamery where I proceeded to devour a large chocolate milkshake.  Part of why I ate so much and enjoyed it so thoroughly was because I was so tired from running and hungry from not eating all day.

            I’ve also found that being hungry and tired is directly related to my attendance at ultimate Frisbee tournaments.  Last weekend, I played in a tournament at Talladega.  On my way home my car began to overheat so I pulled over to the side of I-459.  I called my dad, a tow-truck, and waited.  And waited.  And then my Dad got there and I sat in his truck in the air-conditioning with him.  And then I waited some more. 

Mom called us on the phone, “When are you boys gonna be home?  I’ve got dinner waiting in the oven.”

“Food!” my stomach bellowed.

We waited some more. 

Finally, the trucker arrived, did his thing, disembarked with my car, and we headed home.

That meal will forever go down in the record books of Joe Oaks’s life as one of the best in history.  Not just my lifetime; history.

Grilled shrimp and chicken with a green pesto sauce called, chimichurri, accompanied by roasted potatoes and steamed broccoli.  Every bite of chicken was juicy and tasty, with an accent of crisp pancetta.  The shrimp tasted as if a whole world of seafood had been grilled and dipped in the tangy chimichurri sauce and then shrunken down to bite size.  The shrimp were pre-hand-shelled (which is a big deal in my book) and each one was fresh, perky, and delectable.  The broccoli was crisp while the potatoes were firm, but not over-cooked.  The perfect combination bite of a portion of chicken, piece of shrimp, and sliver of potato was like putting heaven in my mouth.  A tangy, tasty, crisply-fresh, heaven.