Without any forewarning, Po would arrive in his VW bug (which in retrospect reminds me of Danny DeVito in “Romancing the Stone”) and park under the shade of that ancient live oak next to our cedar-planked home.

After opening the hood and a few minutes of rummaging, Po would appear in our kitchen with all the bluster and gusto of a culinary beardless Santa Claus! Reaching for pots and pans, moving hurriedly between stovetop and sink, he would smile and tell of gastronomic delights that I was only beginning to understand as gospel in our southern culture.

As I grew, so did my encounters with the fun-loving Po. Overhearing my parents discuss the upcoming weekend “feed,” I would secretly hope that a place at the table would be set for Po.

Whether we dined at some mystic downtown residence or a local public eatery, I was continually intrigued by Po’s fearless behavior toward food and drink. Gumbos or chili … jambalayas or pungent stews … the wafting aroma of sweet breads … oh old Po knew it all too well and savored every spoonful.

The feeds continued and the surreal tales of Po grew to Biblical proportions … and I eagerly sopped it all up like a biscuit run through a bowl of red eye gravy. Along with my father, Po instilled in me a lifelong love of good food and I am forever grateful.

Po generously educated me in both the rudimentary and the extraordinary ways of the gourmand. He showed me the importance of a quality cook’s knife (and I still have that Dexter-Russell blade he so kindly gave me years ago).

He educated me on how to tap a keg for my dad’s 50th birthday party and how to relish the frothy goodness that rushed forth. He imparted life truths … such as there is never “too much” garlic! And Po taught me and my friends how to build a proper chili as we enjoyed those annual early mornings together laboring around steaming pots under the oaks in Bienville Square. 

As time whittles away on each of us, we tend to lose that vitality we have as younger men and sometimes we forget how to spot the sublime, yet I never witnessed Po slow in his attentiveness to food and life or suffer a foul mood.

A few months ago, I happened to darken the door of a local pub and found the affable Po, bellied up at the bar, robed in his signature full-length tan duster. As we sipped a Pabst and spoke of good times past and future feeds to come, I failed to realize that I was making a final memory … although in hindsight, I don’t believe a better farewell could have played out even if you wrote the screenplay. 

So, if Keats can pen an ode to a Grecian urn, then I pray this attempt to write a poetic farewell to a Southern gentleman provides some solace, and in turn, a lasting mark of celebration to a flavorful life well lived.

"When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty — that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

Trip Blount

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