by Prissy Elrod | January 6, 2025
Prissy Elrod Discovers You Are What You Eat
Prissy Elrod learns the power of good cooking, for better or worse.
If someone had told me I’d be married to a man whose idea of fine dining was a medium-rare steak, I would have laughed them out of the room. But life, as I’ve learned, serves up surprises you never saw coming.
I grew up in a household where the most exotic dish was meatloaf with a hint of paprika. As a child, I mostly survived on butter and sugar sandwiches made from white Wonder bread, as I found most meats too chewy. My mother, a staunch vegetarian and early advocate of plant-based diets, often shared her unique food philosophies, which I found perplexing. Yet, time has proven she was ahead of her own.
Her culinary catchphrases echoed in my mind: “Throw that away, it’s poison,” “You are what you eat,” and the most alarming, “Red meat sits in your colon for three days.” That last one struck a chord and led me to avoid red meat. Though I thought her ideas were a bit extreme, I later realized some had merit, especially with the revelations about Teflon cookware and talc in baby powder. Perhaps I should have given her more credit, aside from the whole meat-in-the-colon farce.
Despite her food wisdom, my mother was perhaps the worst cook to ever come out of New Orleans. My father, on the other hand, appreciated the hearty flavors of his Alabama upbringing. Raised in Lafayette, where meals came from garden-fresh produce and the occasional yard chicken, he must have been shocked when my mother served her first meal.
They settled in Lake City, where my father opened his medical practice. One day, a young woman named Mazelle Patterson walked in to apply for a janitorial position. When my father asked, “Can you cook?” and she replied, “’Bout anything,” she was hired right there on the spot. Mazelle became a beloved family member and the most influential person in my life.
Her Southern cooking was the epitome of comfort food—stuffed green peppers, country-fried steak smothered in gravy and her specialty: fried chicken. I missed her on the rare days she wasn’t there, but never more than on one particular Saturday. My mother had concocted a vegan imitation meat dish she’d found in Gainesville. My father took a forkful, chewed, and then my mother said, “Mazelle’s cooking will kill you one day; she’s digging her grave with a fork.” My father, ever patient, pushed back his chair, picked up his plate and walked to the sink. The shatter of the plate echoed in my mind as he stormed out, “You pick how you die, and I’ll pick how I do.”
But when we all sat down to eat, the first bite was met with an awkward silence from all 14 guests, followed by the crunch of shotgun pellets lodged in the meat.
—Prissy Elrod
Crisco and Bullet Casings
After college, I toured Europe with a friend, and there, amid the vineyards of France and trattorias of Italy, I had an awakening. For the first time, I loved food. I fell in love with French and Italian cuisine, realizing I had never truly belonged to the Southern food tradition. My mother’s ancestors were French and Italian, while my father’s roots were Southern. I had been unknowingly hungry for years, yearning to learn how to make the foods I loved in Italy and France.
Six months after returning from Europe, I married, entering a new chapter of cluelessness in the kitchen. I had spent years with Mazelle but never learned from her. My husband, Boone, was no better in the kitchen. Raised as one of eight children with a 25-year age gap between the oldest and youngest, his mother was too tired to cook.
Three weeks into our marriage, I came down with the flu and asked Boone to make me some soup.
He handed me a bowl of hot water, an undissolved beef bouillon cube and a raw egg floating on top. His cooking skills never improved, and the only thing worse than his culinary attempts was his babysitting.
One memorable incident occurred when I was sick again. I suggested Boone take our daughters, aged 2 and 5, to Wendy’s for lunch. I fell asleep, only to be awakened by loud banging. Groggy, I stumbled into the kitchen to find Boone holding a saw. “Where are the girls?” I screamed.
“They’re still at Wendy’s,” he said calmly.
“Are you crazy, you left them alone?”
“No, they’re with the kitchen staff.”
Two toddlers left with strangers—did he hear himself? He explained that our youngest had gotten stuck in a high chair, and Boone, unable to free her, had left the restaurant to retrieve a saw.
“We tried Crisco,” he said.
“We? Who is we?” I demanded.
“The kitchen staff.”
Still a bit woozy from the Nyquil, I dragged myself to Boone’s Jeep, and we sped to Wendy’s. We found our daughters happily munching on french fries while Boone and the grinning grill cook worked to free our greased-up toddler.
It wasn’t the worst thing Boone ever did, but it was close.
Another disaster occurred one Thanksgiving when he brought home a wild turkey for our family’s feast. I roasted the bird, filling the house with its savory aroma. But when we all sat down to eat, the first bite was met with an awkward silence from all 14 guests, followed by the crunch of shotgun pellets lodged in the meat. Bless Boone’s heart and that over-killed turkey.
A Low-Cal Lifespan
In life’s twist of irony, my mother outlived my father by 30 years and Boone by 20. Boone was health regimented and ran three miles a day, never smoked or drank and ate strictly organic. Yet, he died of a brain tumor at only 50. Mazelle passed away at 98 and outlived my mother, who passed away at 90, by three years. In the three years between their deaths, Mazelle often reminisced about my mother, her fondness peppered with sarcasm.
“That woman ’bout drove me crazy with her fork and grave talk. I be listening over 70 years to her crazy ass. Now here I be, and where is she?” Mazelle would say, and we would both burst out laughing.
Refined Palates
After two years of widowhood, I reunited with my college boyfriend, Dale. A lifelong bachelor from the Midwest, Dale was a man of few words and simple tastes. He didn’t know a croissant from a croquette and had never heard of quinoa. I tried to introduce him to my penchant for gourmet cooking—truffles, osso buco and my deep-seated belief in the power of kale—but he stayed steadfast in his culinary simplicity. After my years of chasing culinary extravagance, for whatever reason, I found his lack of epicurean pretension refreshingly honest.
When we first married, Dale didn’t care about organic farm-to-table or the latest gastro trend, but he did care about me. He embraced my health choices without trying to change me, and I eventually gave up trying to change him. Recently, he’s become a resolute carnivore, eating only meat. Can you see the irony? The girl who avoided red meat for decades now shares her life with a man who eats nothing but meat. But we’ve found a way to blend—this carnivore eater and whatever I am. In my quest, I have discovered one thing for sure: a well-poured glass of wine, rich with depth and character, pairs with just about anything.
Dale and I may come from different culinary worlds, but we’ve found a way to blend them into something uniquely ours, navigating life’s buffet together.
