editorials

Stewed Onions

I stood in the kitchen and carefully sliced a bunch of little green onions on a big plastic cutting board using my favorite Victorinox knife. I had to be careful. My husband sharpened the knife last month, and it’s still razor-sharp — like a tool a surgeon would use to cut off a body part. One slip and I’d lose a finger.

I sliced and sliced, first the long green leaves then the tender white bulbs. I raked the pile of onion pieces into a pot and added a little water and butter to help them steam on the stovetop. As their oniony aroma began to fill our kitchen, a memory emerged.

I was in junior high school again — at basketball practice in a smelly gymnasium with plank floors. Our team formed a horseshoe pattern around the basketball goal, and one-by-one, Coach Hobbs passed the ball to us and directed us to shoot.

Coach Hobbs often barked orders like a drill sergeant, but on this particular day, he seemed lighter and playful.

“When I pass you the ball, I want you to shout out your favorite food before you shoot,” he said. “Like this.”

He demonstrated. He bounced the ball twice, shouted, “Eggs and bacon,” then shot the basketball toward the hoop. It fell through the goal with a swoosh — nothing but net. He smiled.

Some of my teammates giggled. One of my teammates, Kris, chimed in, “Eggs? Gross! Eggs are nasty!”

Kris was a mouthy mean girl who got a lot of attention. I counted her among my friends, but it was a complicated relationship that often baffled me. We often sat together on the bus to school. We attended the same church. We sang in a gospel group together. We spent the night at one another’s homes. However, sometimes for no reason, she treated me poorly — often talking behind my back or ignoring me in the hallways of school. Then after a week or two, she’d be nice to me again, and I’d pretend everything was fine.

“Eggs are not nasty,” Coach Hobbs replied. “Eggs are good for you. Raise your hand if you eat eggs for breakfast sometimes.” My friend, Jan, and I were the only girls who dared raise our hands — who dared to admit we ate eggs after Kris said they were “gross.”

She performed for the others, roaring in laughter and doubling over, gripping her belly as if she couldn’t breathe. The other girls joined in laughing at Jan and me.

Coach Hobbs moved on and passed the ball to Serena.

“Pizza,” Serena shouted before shooting. The ball didn’t go in the hoop.

Our coach passed the ball to another teammate who yelled out, “French fries,” before her failed attempt.

Finally, he passed the ball to me, standing far away from the goal in what would now be labeled the three-point line. I gripped the ball in my hands, then without a second thought, I belted out, “Stewed onions over rice.” I shot the ball from my position. Swoosh! I smiled with pride.

“That’s how it’s done, ladies,” Coach Hobbs remarked.

But then I heard cackling from across the court.

“Oh my God!” Kris roared. “That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard in my life! Amber, you are just so sad! So sad! Stewed onions over rice? That’s just sad!”

The other girls joined in. She didn’t hurl her comments in a joking manner. Kris meant them to sting. She meant to make me feel even more uncomfortable and awkward than I already did as an ugly teenager. She meant to deem me “uncool” and push me to the outside of the clique. I endured her verbal assaults for weeks after that day at basketball practice. She and her minions made fun of my clothes, my hair — everything about me was wrong.

That’s what I remembered yesterday as I chopped onions, but the memory doesn’t bring me pain. With age, I’ve realized a few things.

First, I was a foodie before the word even existed. I have always had a healthy appreciation for Southern fare, even as a child.

Second, girls can be mean. Some girls grow out of it, and some don’t.

And third, stewed onions — cooked in a milky, buttery broth and ladled over a bowl of hot rice — are simply delicious, and that’s an undeniable fact.