Attack of the frozen tomato

Outré dish is sacred at Nashville country club

Mark Blankenship’s first (and last) attempt to make the frozen tomato/ Photos by Mark Blankenship
Mark Blankenship’s first (and last) attempt to make the frozen tomato/ Photos by Mark Blankenship
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To properly explain why I subjected myself to the Belle Meade frozen tomato, I first need to tell you about good goo. It’s a dish that reached my family in the late 1960s, when my grandmother Bettye Jo Walker Eaves was a high school secretary in Chattanooga, Tennessee. She was also president of the school district’s secretaries association, and at an association meeting, a colleague once brought a light and colorful dessert. My grandmother got the recipe, and when she made it herself, her children (including my mother) approved. A tradition was born.

It was Bettye Jo who dubbed it “good goo.” Nobody remembers what that other secretary called it, though my mom thinks it might have been “dump salad.” If that’s true, then I understand why it was changed. After all, when she was a girl my grandmother added an “e” to the end of her first name so that she could stand out from the other Bettys in her class. A woman like that was never going to sully her recipe box with “dump salad.” Not when she could opt for something charming and alliterative instead.

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