Twain's Feast - Andrew Beahrs [137]
The last thing’s the corn bread. Not sweet—I know enough to know that that’s exactly the mistake Twain would expect me to make. Corn bread isn’t cake. Corn bread is corn bread. It shouldn’t just melt away in your mouth; if your teeth aren’t fully involved, something’s wrong. To get a good crust, I plan to use my cast-iron skillet (known, in our house, as the World’s Greatest Pan). I’ll heat the skillet in the oven, drop in a knob of butter, then blend the melted butter into a bowl of buttermilk and cornmeal and salt.
When I pour the batter back into the hot, slick skillet, the edges will immediately form up; in the oven it’ll make a good, chewy crust. When it’s done, I can turn the golden circle out onto a platter. But I’ll do all that at the last minute, so the bread will be hot and ready for more butter.
Right now the chicken is finished; the bowl waits to be filled. Chess pie cools on a rack. The greens simmer, sending up their steam; the kitchen is heady with smoked pork. There’s time for me to take a deep breath before our friends arrive.
But the instant I’m out of the kitchen, my plan for a quiet moment evaporates. Erik’s in the mood for tag; Eli chases him around the living room, balancing Mio in the crook of one arm, motioning for me to intercept. I zoom in to cut Erik off. He jukes past, shooting out the front door, down the steps, and along the edge of the massive juniper bush that runs from the sidewalk to our front wall. I’m a step behind. The bay’s morning fog has burned away, the sky washed clear; and as I catch Erik, sweeping him up, swinging him over the juniper’s edge, part of me suddenly sees the bush as a tremendous waste of sunlit ground.
Twain started with radishes; this spring it’s time to think about a garden.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people shared their work and knowledge during the writing of this book. I’m particularly grateful to the following: Frank and Judy Oberle, John and Linda Cover, Frank and Helen Wolfe, Robert Eagle, Rena Obernolte, Bud Abbott, Marguerite Whilden, Tory McPhail, Cliff Hall, Jannette Vanderhoop, Bret Stearns, Kristine and Robert Keese, Jim Dina, and Bill and Amy Proulx. Thanks also to Dianne Jacob, Scott Simpson, Terry Esker, Vernon Kleen, Ronald Westemeier, Jay Miller, Sumadu Welaratna, Marilyn Latta, Hilary Sandler, Linda Coombs, Patti Phillippon, Lydia Matthias, Lisa Monachelli, Kay Carroll, Craig Borges, Nancy Rabelais, Kevin Craig, Ray and Kay Brandhurt, Pete and Clara Gerica, Poppy Tooker, Barbara Brennessel, Darra Goldstein, Sandra Oliver, and Cameron Monroe.
The staff at the Mark Twain Project, headed up by Robert Hirst at Berkeley’s Bancroft Library, deserves special mention: Neda Salem, Vic Fischer, Michael Frank, and Lin Salamo were all welcoming and enormously helpful from the first day I came knocking. I’m grateful for their dedication to sharing their remarkable depth of knowledge about Twain, as well as for their infectious enthusiasm.
Paula Marcoux and Pret Woodburn, Terry and Lynn Myers, Bill and Chris Merritt, and Dora, Paul, and Reilly Cullen were all terrific hosts, and often sources in their own right—I hope to be able to return the hospitality to each of you soon. Thanks also to Cameron, Stephanie, Angela, Miranda, Ryan, Dave, Karin, Brio, Nathan, and Natalie, for the steady support (and for sharing a last celebratory lunch).
I’m tremendously fortunate in my agent, Emma Sweeney, and my editor, Laura Stickney. Emma’s enthusiasm, encouragement, and guidance continued long after she found the book its best possible home. Laura has been a constantly insightful, focused, and dedicated presence; I’m very grateful for her sharp eye, steady hand, and sure instincts.
I can never thank my family