It took a day to brush off the cobwebs, but we're here to report that our book party for Martha Foose and her wonderful Screen Doors and Sweet Tea was a rousing success. Hundreds turned out Thursday evening to pay homage, get their book signed, and sample fare from this distinctly Delta cookbook. There are photos from the soiree here, but let us first portray the evening in words.
Cecil Abels and his sister Glenda Jones arrived early with their portable wood-burning grill in tow. Cecil, pictured chopping wood below, is a musician and runs the Carroll County Market down the road in Carrollton, a lovely town on the edge of the hill country. Cecil is doing great things by bringing diverse music from all over the hemisphere to their little town. And they serve great food. Such generous souls, they gave away their popular grilled pizzas, which hungry samplers gave high marks. The nice, thin crust comes from Martha's pizza dough recipe.
The fine folks from the Viking Cooking School came out en force and provided more samples from the
book, including Catfish Ceviche, chips and Watermelon Salsa, mini sandwiches with Martha's signature pimento cheese, and tiny cones of Buttermilk Peach Ice Cream. (Our own dear Page Whites blended Martha's Cantaloupe Daiquiris and pulled cups of Lazy Magnolia beer for thirsty book buyers.) Hats off to Beth Purifoy and her excellent crew for their contributions.
Jimbo Mathus, whose staggering talents we've praised here, made it right on time with bassist Justin Showah and a young Tougaloo barber/drummer named B.J., who hand-clapped to the string band's lively set. A stream of oldies but goodies issued from the balcony — songs like "I Heard the Voice of a Pork Chop" and "Crawdad Hole," which were especially appropriate this night — and most everyone in attendance was compelled to shuffle in the stacks or tap their feet at least.
The guest of honor, Mrs. Martha herself, looked great in the plaid dress from the book jacket. Despite her running shoes, she was couch-bound at the front of the store signing books for the snaking line of friends and food lovers who bought a copy, sometimes a stack, wishing for a personal message from the author. Operating under a misconception that the author would be treated to periodic breaks from signing, she persevered on hugs, kisses and daiquiris.
When all books were signed, all cantaloupes drunk, all wood burned and three kegs of Lazy Magnolia tapped, the party moved over to the Alluvian lobby where the band plugged in and set up a proper drum set (thanks, Ben, for the cymbal run). Jimbo and the boys laid down some serious Mississippi rock-n-roll, the likes of which might never have been heard before in the hotel's pristine lobby. Abe, the lobby's superb bar man, served up Martha's Mailbox Cocktail (bourbon, ginger ale and lime), and most everyone took to the dance floor.
The music rolled along so well and the dancers were so satisfied that one bystander proclaimed Jimbo to be "a doctor who has come to administer us all a well-needed shot in the arm." One woman up front was dancing so aggressively that, in the midst of the band's new song, "Dirty Hustler," she toppled over onto the stage, throwing Jimbo's guitar into a caterwaul of feedback and bringing the rhythm section to a halt as the cymbals and bass drum overturned. Unperturbed, the gentlemanly Jimbo righted the woman and the cymbals, and having missed just a measure or two, launched right back into the song's unforgettable refrain: "Dirty Hustlaaaaa...."
It was a night without end, as everyone slipped away from the effortless revelry into their own morning penance. The next day around 11, Martha called, chipper and grateful. She'd carried the party out to the country, stayed up half the night, had taken a morning ride down the turnrows and was already back in town. "I lost my shoes, my keys and my phone!" she cried. "Now that's what I call a party."
