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By Marie Huston There's nothing quite as satisfying as a good Southern feud. Our folklore is full of them and the ones where people got killed became famous and got written down. The best feuds, though, are the quiet ones. No shotguns. No starcrossed lovers. Just your basic grudge match for 20 or 30 years. People come South thinking we still hold a grudge against the North because of the War -- you know, THE War. But nowadays, we pshaw that idea and smile sweetly even as we take your money to tour our homes. Today our cannon sit silent, our calvary plays polo and our feuds are civilized -- fought with words instead of buckshot, where a back-handed compliment cuts deeper than a saber and honey coats the knife in your back. It's an art. You know that saying, "If you can't say anything good, don't say anything"? Well, Southerners take it a step further. If you can't say anything good, say something wonderful -- say something so unbelievably wonderful that the unbelievable part sticks and the wonderful part gets lost. Say it with a smile on your face to cover the ice in your heart and leave your victim wondering if he's wounded. The good feuds are the ones nobody will talk about. You have to be Perry Mason to figure out these feuds -- heck, you have to be Perry Mason to even know there's a feud going on. The Great Pound Cake Feud lasted 40 years and only a handful of people ever knew about it. I never did understand why our church Homecoming was called "dinner on the lawn" since all the tables were set up in the parking lot at lunchtime, but every October we'd invite a former preacher to come visit and we'd feed him our Sunday best. All the ladies would bring a covered dish and it was a contest to see who had the best new recipe. Some of the ladies weren't allowed to make new recipes. They had to bring the same thing every year or people would get upset. Marilyn Brackett would have a fit if my mother showed up without her cherry pies and I'd head on over to find Mrs. Brackett's fried chicken. That's the secret to a covered dish dinner -- never eat anything you can get at home. Mrs. Carter always brought tomato aspic, Molly Jordan wasn't allowed to come if she didn't bring apricot pie and heaven help Nellie Crawford if she showed up without her pepper jelly. These things were set in stone. The biggest stone of all said you could count on Miss Simpson's homemade pound cake. We didn't just count on her for Homecoming. When somebody died, Miss Simpson had a pound cake in the oven before you called the family. If you were expecting special company, Miss Simpson baked you a pound cake. If she heard you had troubles, she'd bake you a pound cake. My daddy said she'd bake a pound cake if your dog died and Mama told him to hush talking like that in front of me. Miss Simpson was the undisputed Pound Cake Queen in our church, probably in the whole town. Nobody ever made a pound cake like Miss Simpson and at Homecoming, she never had to take a crumb home. That's a sign of prestige and our highest honor. The ladies take pride in those empty dishes -- and they'll take that empty dish around as the tables are being cleared and make themselves up a plate for supper, thereby graciously helping someone else attain "empty dish" status while assuring themselves of a snack later on. So when Mrs. Wheeler moved to town from Up North somewhere and joined our church a few weeks before Homecoming and started raving about her own pound cake recipe, feathers got ruffled. Miss Simpson didn't say a word. Every time Mrs. Wheeler started to spout off about her own cake, Miss Simpson just sat there with a smile on her face and a smug glance at whoever was around. She would listen intently and tell Mrs. Wheeler, "Ooooh, that sounds good. I just love a homemade pound cake better'n anything in the world." Somebody did venture to give Mrs. Wheeler a hint by saying that Miss Simpson made a nice pound cake too, but Mrs. Wheeler didn't take the hint. She wanted to trade recipes and promised everybody a piece of her cake at the Homecoming dinner. So the Great Pound Cake Feud was on, only poor Mrs. Wheeler didn't know it. I secretly liked Mrs. Wheeler and was a bit awed by her. She had come to our small town and dared to be different. She had been to exotic places that were pictured in National Geographic and she wore a hat like Jackie Kennedy's. She even went all the way to Atlanta to shop when we had three perfectly good stores right here in town. But even I was scandalized when she wore white shoes after Labor Day. I thought her reputation was ruined for good even if a miracle happened and she somehow managed to win the Pound Cake War. At the Homecoming dinner, I guess there were people who didn't know about the feud, saw a pound cake and just took a piece. Then, too, there were probably some folks who were specially looking for Miss Simpson's pound cake. And I know there were a few of Miss Simpson's friends who knew about the feud and might've eaten a piece of cherry pie but felt like they had to vote against the brassy newcomer, so they helped themselves to a piece of cake for the home team. I felt kinda sorry for Mrs. Wheeler but, then again, she should've taken the hint and I reckoned she had brought it on herself. Mama had sent me to pick up her pie plates from the dessert table so I saw it happen. Mrs. Wheeler was wrapping up half a cake when Miss Simpson went to pick up her empty cake dish. Mrs. Wheeler said she was glad she'd got some cake to take home so she could have a piece for her supper and I think she really meant it. Since Miss Simpson's cake plate was empty, Mrs. Wheeler offered her a bite to take home for her own supper. Miss Simpson just smiled, swelled up a bit and allowed as how she was too full right now to even think about supper but thank you just the same. Then Mrs. Wheeler had the outright gall to stand right there and ask Miss Simpson had she tried some of her pound cake and how did she like it. I stopped in my tracks, wondering if Mrs. Wheeler was real brave to ask that or just crazy. Miss Simpson held her breath for a second or two and then smiled very sweetly and said, "Yes, Mary, I did and it was very nice." Miss Simpson taught Sunday School and there she stood, lying through her teeth in the middle of the church parking lot. But she had won. She knew in her heart that her own cake was better and she knew that everybody but Mrs. Wheeler knew it because her own cake plate was empty and there poor Mrs. Wheeler was, taking half a cake home. That was the important thing. She didn't need to drum Mrs. Wheeler into the ground. Victory was hers. Had Mrs. Wheeler been local, she would have heard the smug tone in the words ". . . and it was very nice." But she was from Up North, so she thought it was a compliment. I guess she couldn't see the ice cubes in Miss Simpson's eyes. From then on out, Mrs. Wheeler went on to irritate a lot of people but Miss Simpson was always kind to her face. Miss Simpson had won the Pound Cake War by half a cake and Mrs. Wheeler had never known there was a war. Miss Simpson was a pro. It takes practice to acheive her level of sublety and expertise. The exquisite style of changing the word "nice" to sound like "dog poo" was the result of years of training and I was of the age to be learning the art of feuding myself, so I was taking notes. I picked up Mama's pie plates and walked on to the car, knowing I been privileged to see a Master at work. Now, you would've thought that Mrs. Wheeler would accept defeat gracefully. You would've thought she would thow away her cake pans in disgrace. But she wasn't from around here, so the next Homecoming, here comes Mrs. Wheeler with a pound cake and puts it on the table beside Miss Simpson's pound cake. For the next 40 years, Mrs. Wheeler would waltz up to the dessert table and brazenly lay her own pound cake recipe right next to Miss Simpson's pound cake and for the next 40 years, Mrs.Wheeler would wrap up half a cake to take home for supper and Miss Simpson would smile sweetly and say, "Oooooh, Mary, that cake of yours is so good." We had Homecoming dinner on the lawn last week and they still set the tables up in the parking lot at lunchtime. Miss Simpson passed away early in the spring so I knew the Great Pound Cake Feud was finally over and I thought maybe this year Mrs. Wheeler would be taking an empty cake plate home. I expected to see a lone pound cake proclaiming victory on the dessert table, but when I got to the cakes, I didn't see any pound cake at all. I scanned the crowd and, yes, Mrs. Wheeler was there, sitting over near the preacher. After dinner, I went to pick up Mama's pie plates and Mrs. Wheeler was picking up pie plates of her own. I felt a moment of sadness, gave her a slight smile and expressed my wonder that she had made pies this year. Her eyes twinkled and after a furtive glance at the ladies clearing the nearby meat table, she grinned widely and whispered, "Oh, lordy, I'll never make another pound cake as long as I live. I hate those pound cakes. I hate to eat 'em, I hate to smell 'em and most of all, I hate to cook 'em." She began to congratulate me on having been a sweet young girl, saying that she knew I had seen her wrap up Miss Simpson's leftover cake to take home for supper that long-ago Homecoming when she had been new to town. She had worried for a while that I might give her away but as time passed, I had kept her secret -- the secret she thought we had shared for 40 years -- that Miss Simpson had taken pride in her empty cake dish while her cake went home with Mrs. Wheeler. Some things you just have to know, so I asked. Mrs. Wheeler's eyes softened and her smile was genuine. "You know, honey, I married a wonderful man and lived an exciting life. I've traveled the world and met fascinating people. I've seen plays in London and kangaroos in Australia. My children grew up fine and I adore my grandsons." She paused a moment. "All Miss Simpson had were her pound cakes."
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