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They leaned in so close when they spoke that she could read their breath like a Chick-fil-A menu. Then their voices would go soft and sweet as marshmallow fluff, and they’d avoid any words with more than two syllables.
Her children didn’t think twice about bickering over their inheritance while she was sitting in the same room, trying to enjoy a bowl of butter pecan and catch up on Mindhunter.
For decades her family had gathered at the house on her birthday. And every year, Wilma Jean would bake herself a glorious seven-tier cake.
Wilma Jean had stolen the recipe off the back of a box of Betty Crocker cake mix back in 1972, but everyone in the family was convinced she was a culinary genius. “No,” she said. “I’m baking the damn cake like I always do.”
“In case you were wondering, there is an upside to spending time with old ladies.” Wilma tried to catch a glimpse of the text as she set a plate down in front of her great-granddaughter, but Bella closed the book. “We buy people’s love with pie.” “Then you’re going to have a hard time getting rid of me.” The girl took a bite and closed her eyes as she savored the strawberry rhubarb. “This is great. I’m so glad Mama’s not baking the cake for your birthday. I look forward to yours every year.”
After Mr. Stempel’s wife died, she took him two frozen casseroles and sat with him for a while in his living room.
Humiliated, she turned back to her chicken. Sometimes she didn’t know when to stop.
Lula was one of the people Delvin went out of his way to avoid. She’d greet him at the door on a hot day. Offer him lemonade and yammer on about the weather. Meanwhile she was making lists of books that Delvin’s kids shouldn’t be allowed to read.
Thursday was chicken parmesan night. Russell’s favorite. But it was seven o’clock and he still wasn’t home.
Russell managed the Piggly Wiggly on 441 right outside Troy. He always said it was like running his own country, and the Piggly Wiggly couldn’t have asked for a better king. No one loved produce like Russell Moore. He could pluck a perfectly ripe cantaloupe out of a pile with his eyes closed. He was a master of meat, who chose the very best cuts for his own barbecues and would often wax eloquent on the subject of marbling.
“What time did you get home last night?” she asked as she set a plate of biscuits down in front of him.
So at seven that evening, Crystal slapped some foil over the skirt steak and potatoes that had grown cold on the stove and drove across town to the Piggly Wiggly.
On her way home, Crystal stopped off at the package store, bought a nine-dollar bottle of rosé, and drank every last drop on an empty stomach.
She ate the chocolate bar and opened the book she’d brought.
And if she ever saw another plate of chicken parmesan, she planned to fling the fucking thing at the nearest wall.
Who the fuck cares what he thinks? Crystal asked herself. What do you want? A hot bath and a sandwich, she thought. “I haven’t eaten in ages. Would you mind calling Russell and asking him to make me a PB&J?”
He tried his best to be careful, but only days later, he had a question he just couldn’t keep to himself. “So if a woman has a baby, but she doesn’t have a husband, does that mean her baby came from God?” His mother spray-painted a wall with a mouthful of sweet tea.
Peter ducked inside, a bag of ranch-flavored Doritos in his hand.
The door to Mara Ocumma’s office swung open just as she turned a page of the latest Stephen King novel and took a giant bite of her roast beef sandwich with homegrown horseradish and wild greens.
It’s from the Old Testament, which also says pigs are unclean and shouldn’t be touched. I don’t recall the pastor turning his nose up at any barbecue.” Betsy laughed at the thought. “Last time he was at our house for dinner, I was pretty sure he was going to eat a whole pig.”
Of mint juleps on the verandah and cotillion waltzes.
For over one hundred years, this was the way things were done. Exploiting the Black people in town—preventing them from ever getting ahead—well, that was as much a tradition as cornbread and greens. Samuel’s father had tried to change that.
The doctor added that to the long list of things he’d experienced in Georgia that he’d never expected. He’d been shocked by just how different a homegrown peach could taste. Delighted by the old lady who paid him in produce and insisted on making him his first tomato and mayonnaise sandwich. After that, he’d eaten one every day and mourned for weeks when tomato season came to an end. He’d been touched by how thoughtful people could be, inviting him to their homes, churches, and cookouts—and introducing him to their local cuisine, one remarkable dish at a time. Brunswick stew—always with
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For the record, I did not ask where you’re from ’cause I think you’re a terrorist. I happen to love Indian food.” “Yeah? What’s your favorite dish?” “I’ve been to India a few times. Never ate a single shitty thing while I was there. But if you want to know my favorite, it was probably the kosha mangsho in West Bengal.” “Sure it wasn’t the tikka masala?” “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you? That shit’s British. Just because I’m from here doesn’t mean I’m a moron.”
Whoever came up with the recipe for the fried chicken at Chester’s? The South’s greatest gift to the world is its culture. Half the music people listen to these days has its origins here. Hell, the South gave the world barbecue and you want to honor a slaveholding asshole who lost a war in the middle of the nineteenth century?
She was a lovely woman. So funny and sweet. And she made the best cornbread I think I’ve ever eaten.”
Everyone in the state of Georgia is welcome to attend. I will be there, signing autographs and serving pie.
That evening over multiple Negronis, Jonathan and Crystal composed a Facebook post.
The next morning, Jonathan woke to the smell of coffee for the first time in years.
Last time Bella had seen her great-grandma so fired up, Wilma had been piping fresh whipped cream into a penis cake.
Now that they were officially on the case, Bella and Wilma reviewed the charges over coffee and pecan pie.
“Fine,” she agreed. “Let’s head on home. Y’all want some pie?” “Lord, no,” Talia said. “We’ve been punished enough.”
Ken lowered the volume and looked over at his wife, who hadn’t eaten a kernel of the popcorn clenched in her fist.
Mrs. Wright’s laugh made Nahla think of apple pie bubbling up through its crust.
When she had something to say, she said it. “How much does it pay?” she asked. Betsy Wright seemed to approve of that response. “Five dollars and a red velvet cupcake.” “Three cupcakes,” Nahla haggled. “No dollars.” “Only have two cupcakes left. It’s been a busy day, and your father took one when he stopped by with the mail this morning.” “Two is fine.” Whatever the job was, Nahla would have done it for one. “My dad says your cupcakes are the best he’s ever eaten.” “Your daddy ain’t wrong,” Mrs. Wright said. “Come on in for a moment.”
With fresh reading material tucked under her arm, she walked to Grandma Martin’s house, where there were always freshly baked cookies waiting on the stove.
“Something wrong?” Grandma Martin looked up from the sink, where she’d been peeling Yukon Golds to go in her award-winning (and decidedly non-vegan) potato salad.
“I don’t know about y’all, but I’m real nervous.” Beverly’s eyes followed the checkered tablecloth that seemed to go on for miles. There were four kinds of potato salad, a mountain of fried chicken, platters of pulled pork, heaps of hush puppies, and all the other delicacies of the region, along with homemade modak courtesy of Dr. Hank Chokshi.
Inside was the seven-tier cake that Wilma had promised as her contribution to the cookout.
“I do hope this cake’s G-rated,” Beverly joked as she approached the vehicle. “I’ve heard what Wilma can do with some coconut shavings and whipped cream.” “Don’t worry, I made her keep it clean,” Bella said. “Just plain old chocolate with strawberry frosting,” said Wilma. “But come on over for the Fourth of July. I got something planned that’ll knock your socks off.” “Where’d you get the idea to bake a giant phallus for your birthday, anyway?” asked Beverly. “You don’t know?” Wilma snickered. “Your delinquent daughter put that dirty cake book in Lula Dean’s library. Honestly, I can’t thank
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“Speaking of Mitch, anyone know where he is?” she asked. “He was stealing hush puppies last I saw,” Val said.
