The zen of okra

The smell of frying okra makes me think of my grandmother so much, it takes my breath away. I remember her okra, her perfectly coated pieces that were not charred, not raw, but somehow the most divine the next day when they were room temperature.

It's probably my last okra of the season, and I really haven't had enough. I didn't pickle them, didn't put them in the "big plans" jambalaya I had ideas for at the beginning of the summer. No, every time I got the pods, I cut them in rounds, I fried them up, just for myself, coating them lightly in Martha White cornmeal mix, and then I ate my fill. I ate them with sandwiches, leftover pork chops, and just two days ago, hummus and carrots. I don't care; to me, it doesn't have to "go" with anything -- everything has to go with it.

I remember my Granny's Formica countertops, and how the electric skillet would sit to one side, filled with okra already fried, just sitting there with the heat off. I miss her, the way her hand would wipe the crumbs off the counter beside that electric skillet. But I am happy, because I always have the smell of okra. And I always have the memory of her.