Class Member Invited to
Produce Play at Festival
A member of the Creative Writing Class at
Chowan College has been invited to produce her
one-act play at the Carolina Dramatic Festival
in Chapel Hill in April.
Mrs. Mary (Johii) Heller of Severn wrote a
one-act play, THE DARLIN’ HOPE CHEST, as a
result of instruction in the Creative Writing Class
which is taught by Dr. Bernice Kelly Harris of
Seaboard. The drama was entered in competition
for production at the Carolina Dramatic Festival
and has been termed as “one of the best plays
entered this year”.
According to Dr. Harris, Mr. Jim Lewis of the
Drama Department at Chowan is looking into the
possibility of making arrangements for produc
tion of the play by area people.
The play by Mrs. Heller is the second one select
ed for production at the Carloina Dramatic Festi
val. Last year, Nancie Allen of Williamston wrote
a play. THE FIEND, that was selected for pro
duction.
L-
Mad Money
By ETHLEEN V. UNDERWOOD
This was the day. 11 h a d
dawned bright and beautiful,
just as Marge for a whole year
had willed it to do. At 9 a.m.
sharp the man had promised to
make the delivery. Long before
then however, little Tyco would
have awakened the household,
demanded breakfast, and from
then on out it would be full
steam ahead for the day.
Margt had slipped out of bod
••riy, in order to start tho day
right with a big brtakfast for
her "two man" and to have an
interval of reflection for her
self. Today was Saturday, an
entire day for the three of thenn
to be together. It was like a
golden carpet unrolling before
them.
The coffee was perking mer
rily as she measured the oat
meal. buttered the toast (Jim
liked oven-toasted bread) and
put the bacon in the pan. One
of her resolutions last anniver
sary had been to see that Jim
had a hearty breakfast and a
good dinner each day, plus a
cheerful wife to greet him
him when he came home from
the marketplace, as he referred
to his office. It had paid off.
This had been the happiest year
of her life. Pouring herself a
cup of coffee, she sat down be
fore the picture window in the
breakfast nook to enjoy the mo
ment before the day’s activities.
Their last anniversary had
come on Friday, she was re
membering, an unbearably hot
day in their small apartment.
This was the day she was about
ready to call it quits and go
back home to mother. Tyco had
cried all night again. In fact, he
seemed to cry all night every
night and most of the day. too.
He was teething, and Jim had
been morose. Jim wasn’t get
ting his proper rest either.
Marge had realized, and her
heart had softened toward him
to see the tired droop of his
shoulders and the dark circles
under his eyes. But Jim had
been unaware of her feeing, of
her. He had seemed more with
drawn than usual. In the first
stages of designing a building,
he always seemed a million
miles away. But that Friday
she had hardly cared. Her head
had ached form lack of sleep.
She had felt like a hag and had
looked like a hag. And what dif-
fence does it make, she had
thought, he doesn’t even see
me!
She had sat across the table
from Jim drinking coffee while
he breakfasted on orange juice,
dry cereal and coffee. He looked
awfully thin, she had reflected.
She should insist on making him
Jlit&nxiAM, Qluxw424iia*t
Campus Editors; Nancie .Mien and Douna Ellis
Town Editors: Ethleen Underwood and Billie Robinson
Faculty Adviser: Bernice Kelly Harris
Yankee in a Rebel Kitchen
a more substantial breakfast
than he was eating. But her
thoughts returned to herself, to
his unawareness of her. She
could hardly wait for him to
leave so she could go back to
bed and get a little sleep before
Tyco waked up and started cry
ing again. All you little brides
marching down the aisles so
full of joy and anticipation, she
had apostrophized, what a rude
awakening you’re in for!
Then Jim was kissing the top
of her shining head.
"Happy anniversary,” he had
whispered, pulling her to her
feet. "If you had three wishes
and I was a millionaire, he had
said, "what would you want?”
“That’s easy,” Marge had an
swered. “A piano, a good night’s
sleep and a piano. In that or
der.”
“I’ll try rubbing my Alladin’s
lamp and see what my geni can
do.”
“What would your three wish
es be?” she had asked.
“Well,” Jim had pondered,
“might as well go whole hog
too. I’ll take a spanking new
set of golf clubs first. Then I’ll
throw my old beat-up set, bag
and all, into the creek. Next,
I’ll take a membership in the
exclusive Rolling Hills Club, be
cause they do have the best
course in these parts. Last, I’ll
wish for enough time to get out
there once in a blue moon and
knock a few balls around, pre
ferably with my wife as
partner.”
"I'll see what my geni can
do." She had tried to smile,
playing the game In spite of her
splitting headache. For in that
Instance she had known she
never really meant to run home
to mother.
She had gone back to t)ed.
Marge remembered. After Jim
left, she took a couple of aspirin,
glanced at Ty who was sleeping
the sleep of exhaustion, and then
had crawled back into her own
bed. Too tired to sleep, she had
lain awake thinking, wondering
where she could cut corners,
what do without, how economize
so she could give Jim the golf
clubs for their next
anniversary.
Jim was an architect, just
starting out. He was good, too.
She knew that one day he would
lay the world or all she wanted
of it) at her feet. It was her
duty to take care of him, encour
age him, fulfill at least one of
his wishes. That she would do,
she had determined, if it hare-
lipped^ the Govenwr!
Marge had been a piano ma
jor, and often her fingers ached
to fly over the keyboard and
produce the melodies her very
(continued on next page)
By BILLIE L. ROBINSON
My decision to enter the Rebel
Cooking Contest seemed to Iht?
ladies of Lee s Point a direct
assult upon the Sohd South.
It was true my new Rebel
friends had eaten tiie Yankee-
style food 1 hsd served them in
my home, but tliey would talk
about their Souihcin hot bis
cuits and sweet potato pie and
country sausage as though they
were the only foods really worth
considering. What about my
Spaghetti Hot Dish anti my Cor
nish Meat Pies? I had ques
tioned wonderingly. Very nice,
my Rebel friends told me, but
then they added that I liad not
eaten really good cooking until
I had tasted Southern Fried
Chicken and Stone-Ground White
Corn Meal Bread cooked right
here at Lee’s Point. And had I
ever served Grits with Country
Ham and Red Eye Gravy? 1 had
to admit that I had not.
But I still wanted to enter the
contest. In this small town the
Rebel Cooking Contest was all
the talk these days. Bridge and
Study Clubs were forgotten, and
even church doings were tem
porarily suspended. The women
were spending most of their
time poring over their cookbooks
for that one recipe that would
make their entry take first
place.
It was surprising to me that
the Men’s Club would dare to
sponsor such a contest and pit
one woman’s culinary skill
against another’s in the same
small town. But the men con
tinued to hold this cooking event
and the ladies seemed to like
the challenge. They may have
sometimes questioned the local
judges’ decisions, but the men
stood firm when they awarded
the blue ribbons, and no woman
carried a grudge for very long,
even if she felt first place should
have been hers.
The Contest had certainly giv
en everyone a lot of things to
talk about. Several times I
thought those things were main
ly about me and my cooking.
Well, I determined, I would
show them that a Yankee could
cook, as well as a Rebel. I had
a wealth of information to help
me. For years I had been an
avid collector of cookbooks, and
in the more practical side I had
learned to cook many kinds of
regional foods and do it well.
Now, if I could find one of my
recipes that no one here had used
before, maybe I could show the
natives that their Southern foods
were not the only delicacies in
this country of ours.
I went through book after
book of mouth-watering recipes,
but nothing seemed to be quite
good enough for the Contest. I
finally decided that I would en
ter the Baked Goods division.
Now, should I make a Sicilian
Pastry, very short and light,
filled with ricotta cheese and
lots of spices? I had made it
for my Bridge Club when we
lived in California and it had
made a big hit. No, I decided,
that might seem too show-otf.
Maybe I could use that recipe
for Egyptian Chocolate cake
that a friend had given me in
Oregon? Nothing that I thought
of struck me just right.
All of my new friends here at
Lee's Point had made their
plans and knew just what they
were going to bake. Now they
were beginning to offer suggest
ions 10 their little northern friend
about the right thing to bake
for the Contest. Sally Jo was a
very nice neighbor, and she had
been particularly kind to me ev
er since we had come here. 1
believe it was her kindness in
offering me her prized recipe
for Southern Cocoanut Pie that
started the women coming over
to help me. They began drop
ping in during the day to say
they had just the recipe for me
to use in the Contest. In each
case it was something I had not
baked before, but it was a reci
pe the judges liked and would
find acceptable. Emme Lou ev
en offered me her Pecan Pie
recipe, and 1 knew Emme Lou
had never told anyone what
went into that pie before.
It did not seem quite sporting
to me that the women should
tell me what to bake. Was this
all done in friendship’s name, or
was there something else in back
of their interest? I loved
them for being concerned about
my attempt to be part of this
community affair. I loved them,
that is, until I overheard Katie
and Sally Jo saying it was a
shame that I insisted on en
tering the Contest, since all I
could cook was those outlandish
Yankeee hot dishes, whatever
they were. Why, they declared
amid nods of agreement among
the other women, I would spend
all day fussing with a jellied
veal loaf, and I could not even
cook greens properly. I was
crushed at their tone as well as
words. I thought these people
had accepted and liked me for
myself. Now it seemed they were
actually ashamed of me or my
cooking or both. It was clear
that I was to remain a Yankee
in a Rebel kitchen.
I felt bad indeed. I cried for
awhile, and then I became more
determined than ever to make
a name for myself in the kitch
ens of this town. Searching
harder for new and attractive
recipes, I also applied my
self to trying out different dish
es that I had made before
with success. My family encour
aged me in this effort.
Finally as the big day ap
proached, I settled on the recipe.
My entry was going to be a pie.
I had found out how to make it
in one of my great-grandmother’s
cookboooks. It was a well
worn book that had yellowed
pages of beautiful spidery writ
ing setting forth the ingredients
for rich foods full of butter, eggs
and cream and huge amounts
of calories. .According to great-
grandmother s own recipe. 1 was
going to make a Green Tomato
Pie. full of brown sugar, nutmeg
and cinnamon, and green toma
toes.
Contest Day arrived, I cleared
the kitchen, shooed the dog out
side, and sent the children to
play in the back yard. Then I
asked the head of the family to
attend to the Saturday errands.
He wished me luck, told me not
to get all excited and said he
thought he would go over to the
Hall to see how the men were
coming along with preperations
for the afternoon.
The pie came out of the oven
about an hour and a half later
looking just like it was supposed
to. Pale brown on top, sparkl
ing with tiny crystals of sugar
all over and it smelled just as
good as it looked. 1 was now
ready to enter the big contest.
But somehow it did not seem
quite as big or as important as
it had at the outset. After all,
I realized now, I did not want
to win the Contest as much as
I wanted to be thought of as part
the town where we lived I want
ed friendship more than
blue ribbons.
All my previous resentment
dropped from me as 1 drove to
the Hall and presented my pie
to be judged. The disapproving
looks I had read in the faces
of the Lee’s Point women now
seemed to vanish, and they were
all curious to find out just what
it was that I had finally baked.
“Apple pie?” they asked ten
tatively, looking at the buttery
crust that could pass muster
with any Rebel cook.
“Green tomato,” I told them,
“made from an heirloom rec
ipe of my greatgrandmother’s.”
Well. I did not win the Con
test, but I did make some firm
friends that day. and the Solid
South remained intact. Several
women assured me that my
Green Tomato Pie deserved to
win a prize. Not only was it a
beauty, but did I know that
green tomato pie was a dyed-in-
the-wool Southern recipe?
I knew. After all. Greatgrand
mother was born and lived all
her life in South Carolina and
was a real Rebel Cook.
Nexf Year
By REVIS CONRAD
Will Church bells ring for us to hear
Again next year.
Will Spring bring rain and flowers
For us to see again next year?
Will people hate instead of love
Again next year?
Will you and I be here to see
Again next year?
Will an unborn child
Ever live to see a big tree of green
Or a bird that can fly
This time next year?
These are simple questions
Put before you and I.
Will there even be a
Next year?
FOR MARCH, 1965
PAGE ELEVEN