Month: June 2018

Satterfield’s Farewell

We bid farewell to a good friend today.  A favorite restaurant is closing this week, so we ate one last lunch there.  There are other restaurants in town where boiled peanuts are served as an appetizer, where waitresses are friendly, and where the food is good.  But we will miss Satterfield’s.

This is a place where we’ve taken several out-of-town visitors to experience good southern food and atmosphere.  It’s a spot where we’ve happily bumped into friends and enjoyed an impromptu reunion.  We treasure the memories of conversations on the porch, meals in the sunken dining area, and the delight on the waitress’s face when our grandson ate everything he had ordered – and it was a lot!  We even had our favorite parking spot.

Many final experiences are enjoyed without knowing it’s the last time you’ll be there doing that.  In this case, the owner announced a few weeks ago that the restaurant will be closing.  Happily, he’s just slowing down, not stopping.  So some recipes and menu items will live on at another restaurant in town, but we will miss Satterfield’s.

One of my first thoughts when I read about the plans was, “where will that guy eat?”  ‘That guy’ being a regular customer.  He’s been there every time we’ve been for lunch, sitting at the same table.  I wrote about him here.  So, today I asked our waitress about him.  She said he was wondering the same thing.

We are certainly not the only ones feeling the melancholy today.  One waitress said, “it’s hitting me now.  I’ve been in denial for three weeks, but today it seems real.”  Other customers were ordering everything on the menu, to taste it all one last time.  Some were taking selfies with their favorite waitress.  One woman was there alone, her husband’s poor health having kept her away in recent months.  But she had made special arrangements today to come have lunch.  The staff pampered her with extra attention. 

That’s the biggest thing we will miss.  The love that was served with the food.

Farmer Jess

There weren’t any chickens wandering the yard, but there were cows and goats and sheep, even a pony.  And a mule!  I can’t remember when I’ve been close to a mule!  


On the land I saw, there wasn’t a farmhouse, but there was a barn.  With a refrigerator filled with fresh milk.  Customers buy the milk on the honor system, leaving the money in a box on top of the refrigerator.  Isn’t that a refreshing idea?

 

 

 

I was visiting this bucolic place with my friend Carol.  Carol taught me that cheddar can be a verb.  She makes her own cheese.  I was impressed by the stories of her process and begged to see the farm where she buys her milk.

Carol opened the refrigerator door and selected the gallon of milk with the deepest layer of fat, knowing more fat makes a richer cheese.  Regulated milk has a minimum of 3.25% fat to be called whole, but this was clearly richer; I’d estimate close to 20%.  Carol takes the milk home, pasteurizes it, adds enzymes and time – lots of time, to make cheese.  I know there are other considerations, including wax or cheesecloth wrapping, but my knowledge is limited to taste testing.


I don’t need another hobby, but I can see the fascination with this process.  The simple act of making homemade yogurt is a regular routine at my house, so the cheese making process is enticing.

But the farm.  The farm is entrancing.  A cool morning, hills in the distance, not another human soul to be seen or heard.  I know there are times when things are busy, but not the morning we visited.  Even the farmer, Jess,  was away.  He’s away every day – at work.  That’s right.  Getting up at 4:00 a.m. to milk the cows; maintaining his pastures, fences, buildings; providing care and keeping his animals healthy, working until near midnight each night (including another milking session) is not enough.  He has to have a regular full time job to make ends meet.  

My extended family was filled with farmers.  Aunts and uncles and cousins grew peanuts, cotton, watermelons, vegetables, and livestock.  Sometimes they had supplemental jobs to help with cash flow, but not full-time, eight-hours-a-day jobs year round.  

It’s sad that today’s food is grown primarily by industrialized farms.  Our nation’s health status reflects that, too.  There’s just something so much healthier about fresh-from-the-earth produce, milk, and eggs.  As a society and as individuals, we are recognizing that.  

I’m so glad that there are still Farmer Jesses in the world.  And I’m even happier that Carol took me to see his heaven on earth.  

photo notes:  the cows and sheep were in the distance, except the bull who came to encourage us to leave.  The goats were close enough to be subjects of many, many photos.  As always, click on any image to enlarge.