The Art of Sourcing: My Gram’s Cooking Legacy
I must’ve been about five years old, sitting in the corner of my grandmother’s kitchen with my little legs swinging off a wooden chair, when I watched a true force of nature in action. It was around 1964, and the Farragut School in Portsmouth had gotten wind that my grandmother could cook—really cook. Somebody must’ve passed her name along and vouched for her fried chicken, because next thing you know, she had an order to feed the entire staff—thirty full fried chicken dinners.
And let me tell you, she didn’t flinch.
She got up before the sun rose and had two pans of oil going all day, rotating through trays of flour-dredged chicken with the focus of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing. The smell was unreal—crispy, peppery, golden goodness wafting through the house like something holy. And she didn’t stop at chicken. She made baked beans from scratch, salad, and real cornbread, the kind with just enough sweetness to make you smile.
Mr. Cobb showed up late in the afternoon in his station wagon to collect it all. I can still see my grandmother packing those dinners carefully into cardboard boxes, like each one mattered—because to her, it did. I don’t know how much she got paid. Probably not enough. But she did it. Because when someone needed food cooked right, they called her.
That wasn’t a one-off thing. She did everything.
Back in the day, when the cannery whistle blew in Portsmouth, she and her sister would walk down to start packing sardines. You got paid by volume, and she always packed more than the average worker. She babysat half the neighborhood too—so often and for so long that some of those kids felt like cousins more than company.
She was a fixture at New Hope Baptist Church, and come Market Square Day, she became something like a general—barbecue ribs and chicken, baked beans, slaw, mac and cheese—her kitchen turned into command central. And she was a master sourcer before “sourcing” was even a word people used.
She’d call George Watts at the Pepsi plant and land some wild deal on soda, then turn around and call her Coke supplier and ask them to match it. Nine times out of ten, they did. She’d go into Pic N Pay in the middle of winter, talk Babe the butcher into cutting up whole chickens on sale, and storing them in the store’s freezer until the summer. And they did it—for her. That woman could get deals no one else could.
Pic N Pay even gave her a $500 donation every year for the Market Square Day fundraiser. After she passed, I don’t think they ever made the kind of money she brought in. She had a way of making things happen. She knew everyone, worked hard, and knew how to stretch a dollar without ever compromising flavor or pride.
Looking back, I didn’t know I was watching greatness in action. I was just a little boy in the kitchen, swinging my legs and watching my Gram move through the room like a woman on a mission. But she taught me a lot about work, about generosity, about grit. And about how good food, done right, brings people together.
So today, when I fry up chicken for my own family, I try to channel a little of her spirit. I don’t have her magic touch—but I’ve got her memory, and that’s worth more than any recipe card.
– Mr. Frugalist 🧓🍗💛
