“Make plenty, Lou!” If my childhood had a mantra, it would be “Make plenty, Lou!” Just reading those words make me smile. I heard my daddy say that to mom hundreds of times. He was a big man, in size, in spirit, in appetite; mom would be cooking and the familiar refrain “Make plenty, Lou” would ring through the house. Mind you, there was ALWAYS plenty, but still, the call would ring out.
Plenty to nurture our family, plenty for an expected guest, plenty to snack on the leftovers another day. Funny how people’s attitudes about food reflect who they really are. Daddy was hospitable, generous, the life of the party, always. That was apparent in his love of breaking bread. “Make plenty, Lou!”
Clearly, I have inherited the “Make plenty, Lou!” gene. Supermarket clerks will peer into my cart and ask “are you having a party?” Well, no, it’s just the weekend. On another day a clerk ponders, as she scans and she scans and she scans my selections “how many kids do you have?” None, we just really cook in our house, every day. “Make plenty, Lou.”
With this embedded in me as surely as my DNA, I have to cook. I have to feed people and, quite naturally, I must make plenty. “Make plenty, Lou.” Indeed.
