As so often happens with large groups of people, our lives centered on eating. The smell of sausage coaxed people from their beds in the mornings while the odor of popcorn marked their return. In between, we ate our way through Helen's pantry with Thanksgiving-like abandon. We devoured chicken and pastry, Calabash-style fried shrimp, turnip salad, stewed green beans, candied yams, Brunswick stew, chicken-fried steak and hush puppies galore. And that was just on Monday. Burly and Fanny shared chef's honors, while Hugo made runs to the Food Lion down the road. I'd never lived in a group before, not exactly being the sorority type, and so I found myself, for the first time, caught up in the rhythm, the noise, the ebb and flow of human routine en masse. It was fascinating, as was the glimpse into the secret shadows of people I thought I knew. Bobby D., to my great surprise, proved to be a meticulous dishwasher, treating the utensils of eating as lovingly as he treated the food. He'd wipe each plate carefully before placing it in the dishwasher, then don sterilized gloves to place the freshly washed china back on the shelves.
