The Moth - Put A Fork In It - Annie Share & Pamela Covington

Episode Date: December 25, 2020

2020 is 86-ed! In this episode, stories of food and celebration. For more information on how to help food-insecure folks this year, head to themoth.org/extras. Hosted by: Kate Tellers Storytellers: Annie Share, Pamela Covington

Attention Houston! You have listened to our podcast and our radio hour, but did you know the Moth has live storytelling events at Wearhouse Live? The Moth has opened Mike's storytelling competitions called Story Slams that are open to anyone with a five-minute story to share on the night's theme. Upcoming themes include love hurts, stakes, clean, and pride. GoodLamoth.org forward slash Houston to experience a live show near you. That's the moth.org forward slash Houston. Welcome to the very last Moth podcast of 2020. I'm your host this week, Kate Tellers. It's been an extraordinary year, and for many of us that's meant

shaking up our holiday traditions, gathering with loved ones around a computer instead of a table. In our house we're missing cousins, siblings, grandparents, neighbors, friends, and the chance to do what we love the most, feed them. In honor of that which we cannot consume together, that nourishes us in so many ways, this episode is dedicated to food. First up is Annie Shere. Annie told this story at a Chicago Story Slam where the theme of the night was flawed. Here's Annie, live at the Moth. My childhood kitchen was home to two gigantic blue plastic mixing bowls,

neither of which were used for baking. The darker blue bowl was used exclusively for deciding where we were going to eat out for dinner that night. No one in my family was very invested in cooking unless you counted reheating a rotisserie chicken from cub foods, which has its time and place. And so this was a frequent occurrence in the share household. We would each cast our vote into the big bull. My brothers for Old Country Buffet,

myself a Dave and Buster's loyalist, my parents praying to go anywhere else, and then one restaurant would be randomly selected from the bull and that's where we'd go out for dinner. Or more likely we would fight about it for the next 45 minutes and settle on somewhere no one wanted to go, usually Applebee's. Very democratic. There was only one exception to this genetic picky eaterness, and that was a dessert we could all agree on was simply unparalleled, and that was our grandma Becky's Buntcake.

Grandma Becky's Buntcake can only be described as a love child between chocolate streusel and God herself. And indulgent, buttery, marble ring, generously dusted with powdered sugar so that when you took your first bite, your lips left looking like they had just kissed an angel. It was amazing. And as paramount as this cake had become in my life,

we'd eat it at birthdays, weddings, Mario Party 5 tournaments. Anytime there was a major or minor life event, there was a bunch cake. But there was still shrouded in mystery. I had never actually seen it being baked. No ingredients left on the countertop, no licking the batter off the spoon.

Just this final form flawless fresh bunt cake. And when I turned 22, I decided I needed to get to the bottom of this once and for all. I had just moved to Chicago. I'd graduated from college. And I wanted to celebrate this new chapter of my life. I wanted to do it the only way I knew how. And I needed grandma Becky's Buntcake recipe.

I texted my dad asking for the ingredients and the supplies as a sort of homecoming gift, and the next week a big box arrived in the mail. Now I expected to open it and find an eclectic array of pure extracts, 100% organic raw, raw cacao nibs, maybe some edible gold from the far off regions of Australia. But of course, I didn't find those things. Instead, I opened it up to find one box of yellow Dunkin Hines cake mix, a package of instant vanilla pudding, and a 24 ounce squirt bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup. I was taken aback at first, but knowing my family's rich culinary history,

I don't think I've ever been less surprised. So after about 15 minutes of hardly laborious prep time and another 30 minutes in the oven, it was complete. I followed the instructions to a tea. I had done as my ancestors had done for generations, but I couldn't help but feel a bit underwhelmed. This couldn't have possibly been the same orgasmic, awe-inspiring dessert that inspired my childhood. So I did what everyone does when they are disappointed with how a baked good turns out.

I brought it into work the next day. Now, I was expecting at best maybe some good hearted jokes at my expense or if I was lucky, someone would just toss it. But to my surprise, I was bombarded with praise from my co-workers all day long, telling me that they had never had a better cake in their entire lives, encouraging me to quit my job and pursue a professional career as a pastry chef. And for the next several weeks, my email inbox was flooded with begging for me to make this cake again. Inquiries about how I got that cake so moist and that chocolate so sweet. And after a while, I decided that all I could really

reply with was that I would never be one to reveal a secret family recipe. It was just the magic of Grandma Becky's butt cake. That was Annie's share. Annie is a writer and performer based in Chicago where she's an ensemble member at the Neo Futurist Theater. In addition to storytelling, Annie loves biking, karaoke, and playing cribbage. And of course, Bunt Cake.

Annie says she now makes the Bunt Cake for her and her friends birthdays each year. She says she's tried to keep the recipe a family secret to varying degrees of success, but now the cat's out of the bag. To see some photos of the infamous butt cake, head to the extras for this episode on our website, themoth.org-extras. And while you're there, you can check out some of the Moth Staff's favorite recipes for the holidays, including my mother's new potatoes and garlic baked in parchment. That's themoth.org-extras. Up next this week is Pamela Covington.

We met Pamela when she participated in a math community workshop, and she told this story at an all-star community showcase where the theme of the night was, around the bend. Here's Pamela, live at the math. I'm going to give you a big round of applause. I'm going to give you a big round of applause. I'm going to give you a big round of applause. I'm going to give you a big round of applause. I'm going to give you a big round of applause. I'm going to give you a big round of applause.

I'm going to give you a big round of applause. I'm going to give you a big round of applause. I'm going to give you a big round of applause. I'm going to give you a big round of applause. I'm going to give you a big round of applause. I'm going to give you a big round of applause. I'm going to give you a big round of applause. I'm going to give you a big round of applause. Sammon, oyster stuffing, crab, ham-pick crab patties, had an assortment of things.

And the house, it was decked festively from its crown-molded ceilings down to its glossy hardwood floors and all points in between. Rossi, Harwood Floors, and all points in between. Life was dreamy living with Watson. He was so attentive with our two boys, they were one and a half and nine, and he was an excellent provider.

In fact, he saw to it that everything in the house was always exactly the way I wanted it. And he was proud to make it so. But what began as the ideal domestic situation slowly changed. Having served in Vietnam before we met, he suffered with post-traumatic stress disorder and with subject to the changes of a Dr. Jackalman, Mr. Hyde. And during one of his unpredictable frenzies, when he hit me in the face, I knew I had to leave for the sake of my and my children's safety

at any cost, emotional or financial. So I left my middle class comfort and fled to Jacksonville. A city I'd only visited twice just for fun. After five days wandering around homeless, the only place that I could afford for my kids and me was a unit in a dilapidated cement tinemain. With no refrigerator, no stove, no air conditioning, and no heat,

the little shabby place was only better than being on the streets. Those piss-poor conditions made me feel so bad. I felt insignificant. There I was alone with two children in a strange city, broken in every way imaginable. But no matter what I did, I could not let my children see my breakage. For them, I had to wear a brave mask.

Even though I was having a tough time providing bare necessities, I had to do whatever I had to do for my children. My children had never even gone to bed hungry. And I just had to provide for them. It was no longer whicin' and I. It was just me and them. You see, I had run off the Jacksonville without a plan. And that security in Savannah was behind me. Christmas was just a week ahead.

And now, on a good day, I cooked Vienna sausages and grits on a borrowed caracene heater. One day I meet a neighbor of mine and he says, listen, I see you over there doing all that stuff by yourself. If ever I could be of any help to you, let me know. I stopped and I thought about it. All I had for preparing food was an old sunbeam deep fryer and a tiny toaster oven.

What I really needed help with was to have a real kitchen that I could cook in. So I told my neighbor that I had this gift certificate for a turkey I had gotten from the food bank. And I had plans already to spend time with friends on Christmas day. But if me and my kids could cook that turkey, we could eat off of it for days. Well, he said he was gonna be out of town

and offered to let me use his kitchen. I was relieved. Such a great weight was lifted up off of me. Even though it was only for a little while, I wouldn't have to worry how me and my children were going to eat. I went over to his apartment. He gave me a key and led me on a tour of his kitchen, which wasn't in any better shape than mine. But I noticed as we walked in how dusty the brown tile floor was, and grit was rolling under my feet. And when he went over to open a drawer and showed me

where the utensils were, roaches ran out of everywhere. And I'm thinking, this is where I'm going to cook it. So Chris was day the children and I had been invited by a social services worker to join her and her family for a holiday celebration. We got there and it was wonderful. There were children running around playing the aroma of all kinds of foods in the air and everything new like you smell it Christmas time.

And there was music playing. And I did good until a song by Donnie Halfaway, this Christmas, came on. It flashed me back. I was bumping out. And everyone there had been so nice to me and my children. I didn't want them to think that someone it said or done anything to upset me.

I figured it was time for me to go home. So when I got back to my apartment, I thought about it and I said, girl, after all that upset, you know you're not going to sleep. You got that turkey in the sink. Your mind's well going, cooked a turkey. So to pick my spirits up, like I always do, I wanted to hear some music.

So I put on hear some music. So I put on Princess 1999. Because tonight, we're gonna party like we're gonna cook a turkey. I'm doting all over that bird. I'm basing it, I'm seizing it, and I'm fussing with it just to get it right in the center of the pan. I got it in there perfect. I snatched that key, head out my kitchen door, and go down to my neighbors. At the door, I'm standing on the stove, balancing this flimsy aluminum pan, putting my key in the door.

I open the door, reach in to turn on the light, and head towards the stove. Too big, ashy gray rats are standing on the top of the stove on your high legs, screech, screech, screeching at me before they jump down and run across the floor. And at that same moment, I dropped my turkey and bounces out of the pan, slides clear across the floor and hits the wall.

I am beside myself. I go out on a stoop and I'm crying. Then I retreat to my apartment, throw myself into the sofa, and make a decision whether or not I'm going back to get my turkey. Oh, those rats I'm thinking, that place is so nasty. I'm not going to let them have it, though, am I? What will we do?

Well, I'm going back to get it. I have to. But this time, they can't catch me off guard. I'm going ready for them. So, I rummaged through my kitchen drawers and then headed back over. I get to his place, and I charge in there like some kind of superhero. I push that door open so hard and washed

the wall. And I snatched up my turkey as quickly as I could and put it in a pan and walked right back home where again I put it in the sink. I scrubbed it, I basted it, I seasoned it, and then walked it back over the cooking. I was later, I'm carrying a perfectly baked golden turkey and an aluminum pan, as if it's on a silver platter. Walking it back over to my apartment where I put it on the countertop,

and I'm wrapping it in about ten layers of foil, trying to muffle that irresistible roasted turkey sin from any rats. Before I walk up the cement stairs to our bedroom and place it high up on a closet shelf where it can wait to be feasted on by me and my boys. And that night, having done what I needed to do to ensure the survival of the fittest, I slept for the first time in a very long time, quite peaceably, in the security of knowing that my children and I would have food to eat the next day.

And for the next few days thereafter, thank you. That was Pamela Coveington. Pamela Coveington is a speaker, life coach, and advocate living in Atlanta. Her memoir, A Day at the Fair, One Woman's Well-Fair Passage, describes her journey from a middle-class lifestyle into one of deep poverty and back. She came to the moth by way of a community workshop with results, an international organization dedicated to ending poverty. I hope that this season finds you full of joy, and if your belly is also full, I hope that you'll consider supporting the community around you who may be ending the year with a lighter table. To find a list of some of our favorite organizations, you know

where to go. The Moth.org slash extras. As a kid, my family celebrated Christmas. All of us would gather around the piano to sing carols with my grandfather playing the accompaniment under a banner that read, sing we joy us all together. He probably never imagined the reason that we're not gathering now, but he did have the pressions to record himself playing all of the carols in an audio archive. Our family has been resharing this year. Here's one from my papa to send you on your way. Number 58, the Carol in the New Year. here. I'm going to be a little bit more patient. Kate Tellers is a storyteller, host, and director of Mothworks at the Moth.

Her story, but also bring cheese, is featured in the Moths all these wonders, true stories about facing the unknown, and her writing has appeared on McSweeney's and the New Yorker. Podcast Production by Julia Purcell. The Moth Podcast is presented by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more public at prx.org.