I love humor. It is my favorite quality in a human. If Samuel Clemens was still around, he’d be my top candidate for Sexiest Man Alive. (Or perhaps a close second behind Hugh Jackman. He sings; he dances; he has super powers. Mercy!)
My favorite moments are ones bathed in laughter. Not just a chuckle or snicker, but those spontaneous side-splitting, can’t-catchyour-breath moments when laughter consumes everything in its path. To me, there’s nothing better.
I remember years ago sitting at the kitchen table with my mother and my beloved great Aunt Georgie as we sorted through recipes. Having long been the butt of many a cooking joke, I decided to learn some recipes of old-time family dishes we’d shared for generations. Knowing well my culinary history, Aunt Georgie was a bit skeptical, but she agreed.
She’d start out the same way each time I asked her something.
“Now, Laysa Lynn,” she’d drawl. “I don’t know how much flour I use in that. I just add some ‘til it looks right.”
“Well, I don’t know what looks right,” I’d say, “I only know it’s done when the fire alarm goes off. Are we talkin’ a tablespoon or a cup?”
“It depends how much milk you already put in,” she’d say, “and don’t go to askin’ me how much milk I put in because I don’t measure that either.”
We sat with a pile of recipes, some clipped from old magazines, some written in her handwriting or that of my grandmother or greatgrandmother. Then she’d clarify.
“I know it says to do this, but I don’t do it that way.”
“How do you do it?” I’d ask.
“I don’t know. Little of this, little of that. Whatever I’ve got in the cupboard so I don’t have to go to the store,” she’d say.
“Well, I have mustard and Oreos in my cupboard, so I’m guessing those won’t substitute for much.”
Then I came across a recipe of mine I could share with her.
“You like chili?” I asked, holding the index card up in my hand and giving it a fl ick with my fi nger.
“Yes, I love chili. Read me your recipe, child.”
Reading my own handwriting from age 5, I solemnly read aloud, “Lisa’s Chili. Step 1: Open can. Step 2: Put burner on 4.” I glanced up before reading Steps 3-5 which were Stir, Turn off burner and Eat. (My chili recipe at age 40 hasn’t changed much, by the way.)
Aunt Georgie stared at me, her face becoming red and contorted. Her shoulders and belly began to bounce in unison. She dropped her hands to the table and let go of her recipes. Pressure was welling and I could see her squinted eyes beginning to water behind her eyeglasses. There was not a sound, until –
A beautiful, full-bodied raspy bellow of merriment escaped her. She took her glasses off, wiped her eyes with her apron tail, and laughed. The harder she laughed, the harder my mother and I laughed. About the time you thought she was done, she’d start to say something, shake her head and here we’d go again. Laughter echoed through the house. It was infectious.
Conventional wisdom says some subjects are simply off limits when it comes to humor. Say, a lady’s weight, catastrophes, serious medical conditions and death. But during an alfresco dinner the other evening at my West Coast gal pal’s farm, her brother Tony broke all the rules. He told the story of the night his wife died.
Denise had a history of heart problems and, at age 43, underwent a triple bypass. The surgery went fine and Tony and their son decided to leave for a meal while Denise was in recovery. While they were gone, Denise coded. She was dead for several minutes before being successfully shocked back with a defi brillator.
As she was coming to, Tony entered the room. Denise asked a couple of questions, then looked perplexed as she rubbed her hand over an electrode just under her left shoulder.
“What’s this?” she whispered.
“That’s your nipple,” Tony answered.
Her face slowly twisted. “My … nipple?”
“Yes. You had heart surgery. They had to move it. It was in their way,” Tony deadpanned.
Doctors and nurses burst into laughter at the stressed out husband, as did we hearing the story. Denise shook her head, “And I’ve still stayed married to him all these years!”
Family, friends, crow’s feet and laugh lines. God bless any recipe that starts out like that.
LISA KELLEY IS A WRITER, MASTER GARDENER, ANIMAL LOVER AND ALL-AROUND GOOD OL’ SOUTHERN GAL WHO ALSO HAPPENS TO PRACTICE LAW AND MEDIATE CASES IN DOWNTOWN BENTONVILLE.