The Best Meal I’ve Ever Had

Some months ago, out of the blue, my wife asked me what the best meal was I’d ever had. It took a minute, but “The Meal” came to mind.  As usual, I had to explain my answer with a story.

My paternal grandparents were from central Indiana. My mom raising us alone in Chicago, without any help from their son, tugged at their small-town Indiana sensibilities. One day, my grandfather called and suggested to my mom that my two brothers and I spend the summer with them.  Must have been the call my mother had long wished for, because mere seconds after hanging up the phone, she announced the plan. A six-hour Greyhound bus ride to Muncie, Indiana, was just a few days away. Muncie — a small town in its own right — was not even the final destination; that would be a short car ride to a much smaller town called Parker City.

The morning of our departure came and, as usual, we were running late.  The bus would be leaving soon. With no time for breakfast, my brother grabbed a half empty box of Vanilla Wafers for the ride (in case you’re wondering, the answer is no, Vanilla Wafers on a Greyhound was not my best meal). We raced to the bus station only to find out from the ticket agent that the bus had already left.  I’m not sure what was running through my mom’s head at the time, but I can only imagine it went something like this… OH. HELL. NO.  Finding out the next stop would be Gary, Indiana, we jumped in the car and sped down the Kennedy Expressway.  It was only 15 minutes before we came upon the Greyhound logo that raced beside us on the passenger side window.   We beat the bus by several minutes, said our quick goodbyes, and boarded the bus.  

We took our seats at the rear of the bus and hunkered down for the long ride to Logansport, Indiana, where we would have to change buses.  Our layover in Logansport was only 30 minutes, but boredom had already set in for us three boys aged 10,11 and 13. My youngest brother decided to turn the vanilla wafers that I was looking forward to eating into projectiles; not so discreetly aiming them at other passengers.  

We would arrive in Muncie some six hours later, where our grandfather greeted us warmly.  Twenty minutes later, we passed the marker off Route 32 by Jerry’s Tastee Freeze.  A right turn down Main revealed a wide street with small wood frame houses on either side.  Passing through one flashing yellow light, we suddenly found ourselves in a very strange place: the “bustling” downtown of Parker City. By bustling, I mean a Chevy dealer, local bank, small diner, and a convenience store.  The tallest building was just over two stories.  Just past the Methodist Church that my grandmother attended regularly, was a small white Spanish style bungalow. My grandfather slowed down and pulled into the driveway.  Living in a house would be a new experience.  For us apartment dwellers, houses were something we saw on TV.   The big wooden door opened to reveal a neat-as-a-pin carpeted living room with a piano, and just beyond that was the dining room with a bay window that looked out over that backyard.  The house smelled of fresh baked something, and our grandmother appeared from the kitchen and greeted us with hugs.

I could see the table was already set for dinner.  A buffet table sat against one wall in the dining room, which backed up to the kitchen.  On the buffet, there was a big pot plugged into the wall. My grandmother waived me over to the buffet, where she removed the lid from the big pot.  Inside, there was a large bone sticking up from a pot of beans.  Grabbing the bone, she lifted it out of the pot, and I saw a huge piece of ham dangling from the other end. She placed the ham on a plate, cut it into small pieces before returning them to the pot with beans and stirring everything together. She put the big pot in the middle of the table and served us, ladling the beans and ham into our bowls.  

Grandma soon disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a round pan of cornbread. Must’ve been what I smelled! She cut a pie shaped piece of the cornbread for me, and produced what looked like an inch thick pat of butter to top the cornbread.  “You’re going to want this”, is what I remember her saying. The pat of butter began to disappear into the crusty top of the cornbread.  I looked at my grandfather, who was dusting the top of the beans and ham with what I came to learn was the only spice in the central Indiana diet. Black pepper.  I imagined an old radio advertisement playing in the background, “Welcome to Parker City, Indiana….we put pepper on EVERYTHING”!

Well, I had to try this black dust myself, so mimicking my grandfather, I took the pepper shaker and sprinkled some on the top of my beans and ham. Just like grandfather, I stirred the contents of my bowl, making sure to mix all the ingredients together, and took a bite. I grabbed the slab of cornbread and took a bite.  Then another.  And another. All I could think of was that I didn’t want this bowl to ever be empty!  How could something be this good? It was like a delicious circus had come to town and my mouth was the big top.  And that magical black dust? It was like the priming powder for the cannon. It lights up every meal it tops. I’m sure I stopped eating at some point, I just don’t remember that part.

The combination of these three simple ingredients together created a wholly (holy?) new experience for me. My mother has many talents, but cooking was never one of them. That very simple meal at the end of a long bus ride through Indiana, after hours of not eating, stands out as the best meal I’ve ever had.

Context is everything. Sitting across from me at that dinner was my great-grandmother. My grandparents cared for her in their home until they no longer could. She was nearly blind, but I always thought she was more formidable without her eyesight than with it. She could tell by their gait which grandchild was in her room attempting to rob her candy dish. “Now, Mah-Kle, take only one”, drawled my great-grandmother in her very central Indiana twang.  There were six people at this dinner, and three were born in their respective childhood homes on small farms.  My grandparents also raised three sons, one being my father, whose antics as he grew older were legendary.  Here come us three Conner boys of the younger generation speaking a different dialect but with the same DNA. There would be a few bumps along the way, which I think my grandparents anticipated.

Flash forward to present day as I witness a few of my kids dining at Michelin starred restaurants from Mexico City to Paris. Craft cocktails that cost the equivalent of two cases of beer in my day.  One or two of them might be able to conjure up a memorable meal made in the woods at summer camp. My hope is that one day they may know the simple pleasure of homemade beans with ham and cornbread. Mine was served in my grandparent’s Indiana home, with a side of Parker City.  An extra helping of love and enough room in their hearts to take on three wild kids from the city for the summer didn’t hurt.  I don’t eat food like this that often anymore, but there’s always that craving  for “provincial” dishes that harken back to much simpler times.

The Best Meal I’ve Ever Had