Sitting outside listening to insects and turtle doves while I closely watch my water hose, for fear of an expensive fine by the city (story for another day) I started to write about my Papaw Hoot Old, how he got the nic name....instead, once again my brain took a right to my Mamaw's infamous moldy soup.
My grandmother horded somewhat, guess bing hungry during the depression and what with my Papaw hunting, she needed a huge freezer to store the extra. Back then, we all had ice boxes. She didn't have to go to the ice house for blocks of ice, it was electric but did not keep food like our modern refrigerators.
About once every couple of months, Mamaw would would start pulling out leftovers from her icebox while slamming pots, shoving chairs and in general, becoming a creature I wanted to avoid. It was moldy soup time.
Mamaw kept all food that didn't make it to the compost. If we didn't eat it, she still kept it, if started turning bad, into her canning pot it would go and that lady refused to cook another thing until all the soup was eaten.
I loved my Mamaw dearly, have my own version of moldy soup, without the mold, but back then, I ate buttered bread with watery powered milk rather than lift my spoon only to meet a left over green bean wilted not from the heat of the soup, but from the fur that clung to it, refusing to let go even when shook. Yuck.
God bless you Mamaw and all you taught me but this is one tradition that will only live in my memory, not in my kitchen.