My uncle was a chef who developed an envious (to me, anyway!) lifestyle during the forties and fifties— he would work three months out of the year at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City, another three months as a chef at a country club in Pasadena, CA, and a third quarter in Grand Lake, CO. as a chef for the Grand Lake Lodge in the Rockies. The last quarter of the year would be fishing, vacation trips, fishing, spending time with family in Arkansas and fishing. He kept spices no Ozark hillbilly had ever heard of in a fishing tackle box. His chef knives were wrapped in a gunny sack and stored in a WWII ammunition box.

Now, when Uncle Cliff was home, his wife, my Aunt Ruby, did all the cooking. He said he didn’t know how to cook for two. But, tell him 200 were coming for dinner, and he would deliver a five course meal! My uncle could take fish from the Illinois River, vegetables from the garden, fruit from the orchard, and milk and eggs from the barn and turn them into a feast that would dazzle family, friends and neighbors for miles around.

During his annual “home vacation” Uncle Cliff was always volunteering to cook for someone—church dinners, family gatherings, community events. If fire and food were involved, Uncle Cliff would be in the thick of it. I was captivated with his culinary wizardry and would often accompany him to these gatherings.

As the nearly empty serving dishes would come back from the tables, he could be seen carrying a big coffee mug with a fork in it. He would take a sampling of his dishes and place it in the mug. As the focus shifted from the food to whatever else was going on, my Uncle would stop for a minute and eat from the mug. Then, Uncle Cliff would often lean over my shoulder and say, 'You can keep your fork.'