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Cold Water Crust

The devil was standing in my grandmother’s kitchen drinking a glass of ice tea fanning himself. Well, it felt that way. Her paperthin--housecoat by day, night gown by night--was drenched by what must have been a liter of sweat.

Aroma of pound cakes perfected and divine biscuits filled the air. Even extra strength chemicals lied about during aggressive infomercials were no match for the cooking fumes of long hours, grueling days and enduring years.

Atop the stove was the ever-present tin can of residual leftover grease, or cooking oil as she called it. It was a communal concoction of fried delicacies laid to rest. Her Monday fried chicken, Wednesday fried catfish, Friday Salmon crochets, and Saturday night fried potatoes had all come to the can by week’s end. And on Sunday evening, fried in the potpourri of oils, her hotwater cornbread took on the taste no one could ever match.

She hobbled around the small space and shuffled her eighty-eight year old ankles through the flour and cornmeal which hadn’t quite made the last departure for the dust pan.

Knees and other pivotal joints were swollen with the cruelty of arthritis yet overcome with a strong spirit of resilience and the naiveté that the food didn’t care how old or slow the cook was. Her turns were gradual. Her movements calculated, hesitated then performed. An about face from the stove to the bottom shelf in the refrigerator, took fifteen shuffles, slowly turning the rest of her body until hands could grab hold of the door handle. Hips couldn’t rotate, shoulders couldn’t turn, but she went on anyway and did so the best she could.

“Mam-Maw, you didn’t start with out me, did you?”

“Boy, dadgum. You just ‘bout scared the hot piss outta me,” she replied.

“Mam-Maw, piss ain’t nothin’ but hot once it comes out of your body. So I can’t scare the cold piss out of you.”

“What? I ain’t thankin’ ‘bout chu. Reach down up under the zank and hand me dem ‘luminum pans.”

“I thought you were gonna wait until I got here to start.”

“Ain’t nobody started nothin’, boy! I been up since sebum o’clock makin’ cinnamon rolls for Jessie Mae. What make you thank I don’t started on yo’ Peach Cobbluhs. Wish you get somewhere and sit down.”

“Oh,” I replied sheepishly. “Well, okay. Are we gonna be done by six? The meeting starts at seven and I’ll need time to get everything over there.”

“If you ‘on’t stop worryin’ me, I ain’t gon’ do nothin’ but go out on da front porch and do my crossword puzzles, you hear me?”

“But...” She shuffled towards the dining room retreating from the kitchen.

“Okay, okay, okay Mam-Maw,” I relented.

“What kinda meetin’ y’all havin’ anyway that need Peach Cobbluh for a hunud peoples?”

“Not really a meeting. It’s an event down at Pyramid Fine Arts Gallery. Got some poetry. Some singing and that kinda stuff. Like a community service thing. Our company is sponsoring the event and I promised to bring Peach Cobbler. I’ve been in hot water at work, so this will put back in my manager’s good graces. This has gotta be the best cobbler ever. ”

“Boy, ain’t nobody thankin’ ‘bout dem peoples. I’m gon’ make this cobbluh how I always make it.”

She turned back towards the kitchen having straightened me out early. Ten shuffles later and she was in front of the oven. Her crumpled hand yanked open the old door and more heat filled the room. She reached inside and pulled out an old black cast iron skillet.

“Mam-Maw!”

“What is it, boy? Good Lawd!”

“Isn’t that skillet hot?”

“Not to me it ain’t.”

“Mam-Maw, you need to use a pot-holder so you won’t burn your hand.”

She glanced up at me with a stiff neck and chuckled.

“That skillet ain’t gon’ burn me. I been handlin’ that thang longer than you is old.”

Many people had entered her kitchen and consumed the loving nourishment. She’d probably fed enough preachers to fill a small cathedral. I’m sure she must have fed at least five generations of our family. I’d heard that some of Little Rock’s dignitaries had stopped by on occasion for sweets and plates piled with her Sunday smorgasbord.

Mam-maw cooked for nothing and for no one, she simply cooked. If the sun shone that day, she cooked. If it rained she cooked. There was always a pot on the stove or sweets on the dining room table. Cakes, pies, cinnamon rolls, and on occasion cookies.

My cousin and I used to spend nights at her house and our menu never deviated. Grandpa would make hamburgers at night and Mam-Maw would make pancakes, from scratch, in the morning. She’d swirl the flour, milk, and baking soda in this big orange Tupperware bowl then ask how many we wanted. Mitchell asked for two, then I’d ask for three. He’d ask for four and I countered with five. Mam-Maw always stopped our bidding by proclaiming that she would only make six pancakes and we’d better eat every one of them. We weren’t allowed in the kitchen back then. The pots were too large and our hands too small. The corners of the appliances were too sharp and our small bodies too fragile.

We’d hear the grease popping and always wonder what the little frying creatures looked like dancing around in the skillet, jumping and flying over our burgers and pancakes. The surface of the stove was another world to us. One that we’d wait many years to witness. Years that would bring lost teeth, tee ball, scraped knees and the loss of Grandpa. I’m not sure who made meals when Grandpa died. It was the only time I could remember Mam-Maw not cooking. Not sure who filled the grease can. She was picky about cooking. Never really trusted anybody else’s spices or their measuring.

I remember screaming that day. There was a message at school, telling me to take the city bus to my other grandmother’s house. That meant I got to stay after school and walk to the candy lady’s house. I filled my pocket with Now & Laters and taffy and pretended I was one of the kids from that side of town. My mom was waiting for me when I arrived. She told me Grandpa had been at work, he’d had a heart attack, and now he was gone. So I screamed. Not sure if it was because he was gone, or that he’d worked himself to death, or that Mam-Maw would have to make our hamburgers at night and pancakes in the morning. I’m wondering now, who cooked for Mam-Maw when she was grieving. I wonder if Mam-Maw even ate.

Her house was at least as old as I was. A duplex converted for one family. There were identical sides of the house but they were both very different. One side was alive and festive while the other was solemn and sacred. Mitchell and I ran through one side but treaded ever so lightly on the other. It was a massive maze then. Now it had become a tiny corner with a combustible kitchen and Mam-Maw was the only thing that had remained constant. She’d out lasted two stoves, two refrigerators, three hot water heaters, and two sets of cabinets and counter tops.

“Reach down up under dat cabinet over there and get me three cans of peaches.”

“You don’t use fresh peaches?”

“You eva seent fresh peaches come in a can?”

“I’m just saying. I thought fresh peaches might make it better.”

“How many cobbluhs you done made in yo’ life?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say? That’s what I mean. You deef or somethin’?”

“You mean peach cobblers?”

“Peach cobbluhs, apple cobbluhs, neckbone cobbluhs, hot wheels cobbluh. Any kind.”

“Mam-maw that’s silly.”

“Ain’t as silly as you tryin’ to tell me about fresh peaches and you ain’t nevah made one before. You can use fresh peaches, but canned is better ‘cause they already got the syrup in ‘em. That’s what give you the liquor.”

“Liquor!”

“Ain’t that what I said.”

“Mam-Maw, you put alcohol in this stuff?”

“Boy, what is you talkin’ about? Liquor don’t always mean liquor sto’. Liquor is the juices. I swear fo’ Jesus you gon’ make me cuss.”

“Okay, but it’s four thirty and if I don’t make it there on time, I’m gonna have to look for another job.”

“I ain’t thankin’ ‘bout you and that clock, boy.”

“Where’s the can opener?”

“It’s ovuh yonda,” she said shuffling with a slow methodical turn. Old house shoes scuffed over the floor with heavy steps. She reached in a drawer cluttered with silverware. Not one piece had a twin. There were kitchen utensils so old the manufacture has long gone out of business and reopened as the maker of whatever product had become the widget de jour. There was flour and cornmeal in the drawer. The ingredients had escaped and settled there during a plunge to the floor.

“Here.” She handed me a thing that was once silver and shiny long ago. It had two long bars and a lever at the top.

“What is this for?”

“It’s da can ope’na fuh da peaches, boy. What chu gon’ do, bite da can open?”

“That’s a can opener? You don’t have an electric one?”

“Boy, if you don’t open dem peaches, I’m gon’ slap da snot out chu.”

The cans were more like barrels of peaches. Each one a gallon in volume and about seven inches in diameter.

“Any special kinda peaches you gotta use, Mam-Maw?”

“Del-Mony. I always use Del-Mony in light syrup. You can get heavy syrup if you wanna, but it’s gon’ be too much liquor if you do.”

I plopped the first container on the table and tried to figure out how the antique was supposed to bite down into the can.

“Mam-maw, how does thing work?”

“Boy, you ‘on’t know how to open a can? Let me do it.”

“No, no, no I got it Mam-Maw. I can do it. Of course I know how to open a can. It’s just...uh...I’ll get it.”

Finally, I managed to clamp the device on the can. When I tried to crank the lever, it wouldn’t budge. I flipped the handle over and tried to turn it the opposite direction. This time it cranked about a half turn.

“Soon as you get the can open, we can staht makin’ the cobbluh.”

Grunting, I managed to say, “Just a minute...it’s about to turn now.” My hands were wrenched with pain. I could feel the bones in my fingers fighting with old rusted metal. My bones were losing. Veins bulged around my temples. Teeth gritted. Blood rushed. And I stopped for a moment, surprised that I was breathing hard.

“Mam-Maw...” She was looking at me with a pitiful face shaking her head. “Uh...do you think...nothin’,” I said and went back to fighting the can. Five minutes later there was a mangled piece of metal half cut and half peeled away from the can. My fingers were beet red and my wrist felt like it had been crushed.

“Mam-Maw, I’m buying you an electric can-opener for Christmas.”

“What fuh?”

“There’s no way you can open these big cans by yourself.”

“I know. That’s why I always get the little Del-Mony cans.”

“Huh? So why are using these big cans today?”

“Today the onlyest time I done made cobbluh for a hundred peoples.”

“Well why didn’t you just get several small cans?”

“Why you didn’t just buy a whole lotta froze peach cobbluhs? You gon’ let me cook or is you gon’ ask me a million mo’ querstions?”

Mam-Maw was feisty. Always had been. Will be for the rest of her time I imagine. Not sure how she arrived to that state. She’d been known so many years for a sweet kind disposition. Affectionately, people called her Doll. Some say it was because she was precious and sweet like a baby. But I simply remember her always being irascible when Mitchell and I jumped on the bed or flipped her television from Days of Our Lives to Batman, or poured a half a bottle of ketchup on just a few french fries.

“I need you to run to da sto’ and get some nutten egg and kay-ro syrup.”

“For the peach cobblers?”

“Nawh, boy, for the chicken and dumplins! What else it’s gon be fuh? Dat’s da onlyest thing I’m in here cookin’ ain’t I? I swear I ‘on’t know why yo mama spent all dat money fuh school and you ain’t come out no bedda than ya went in.”

“Mam-maw, why didn’t you tell me to get that stuff on the way over? We’re gonna be pressed for time. I don’t think you understand how bad I need these cobblers for out event.”

“I pro’ly don’t. But I do understand you still standin’ here and I need you to run to da sto’ so I can finish these cobbluhs.”

“Is that all you need?”

“I reckon so.”

“Are you sure?”

“If not I’ll make due.”

“Then why can’t you make due now?”

“Why can’t you never do what people ask?”

I wanted to slam her screen door on my way out. A task

much easier to get away with when I was faster, more agile, and better at giving puppy dog looks. Instead, I rushed for the car and sped off to the grocery store. This year the store was called Harvest Foods. Once it had been a Safeway, a Kroger, a Magic Mart, and whatever name a company labeled it after they’d rolled their dice in the crap game of neighborhood demographics. I whizzed by an empty lot, which used to be home to the corner store. Never knew the name, or maybe it was torn down before I learned how to read. All we knew is that it was a store on the corner and they had every type of Now & Later imaginable.

Five minutes later I was at Harvest Foods, bumping

into the automatic door that was too slow for rushing customers. Instinctively, I moved to the right side of the store hoping to quickly find the spice aisle. There were eyes following me. Cameras probably turned in my direction and some code came in over the loud speaker which most certainly meant watch the fast moving guy on whatever aisle I was on. None of it mattered. I’d be in and out before the cameras could focus.

There were spices upon spices. Herbs and leaves I never knew existed were staring me in the face, but none with the name Mam-Maw had given. I rushed to the register and disturbed a lady who was busy turning her register light on and off. She wore a shiny black wig, like the one my aunt used to wear when the Bishop would visit our church. It was cocked to one side, as were her cat glasses the ran down her nose. She was running her tongue in between her gums and lips, clearing away from what was left of her mid day vittles.

“Excuse me,” I said with a polite haste. “I’m looking

for some Nutten Egg and there isn’t any on the shelf.”

“Aisle elebum, half way down on na left.”

“Thank you.”

She took her little finger and rammed a long nail in

between the crevices of her teeth, not letting one morsel of lunch escape.

I dashed to the aisle and quickly realized I’d just

left aisle eleven.

When I returned to the lady, she was scratching her

head and the wig danced from side to side. She never noticed.

“Uh, sorry to bother you again, but--”

“Honey, I cant’ tell. ‘Cause you worryin’ the fool

outta me.”

“Well, I’ve been on aisle eleven and there’s none on

the shelf.”

“Baby, you ain’t been on the right aisle. We ‘on’t never

run outta that stuff. You sho’ you looked on elebum.”

“Positive.”

“Mm-hmm. We’ll see.”

She gave her light one last yank leaving it off and

sashayed around the conveyor belt. When she wasn’t talking she was sucking her teeth. Still extracting lunch. I rushed back to the aisle expecting her to be right behind me. Instead, she seemed to be grazing from her register to the aisle, walking with the awkward grace of chicken in high heels. She was rearranging products and moving signs while I stood there counting the seconds to unemployment. Finally she made her way over, walked half way down the aisle on the left. She looked at me, back at the shelf and at me once last time.

“What? I told you there was none here?”

“Is you crazy, or is you just crazy?”

“Excuse me?”

“Excuse nothin’” The wigged wonder reached down and

plucked a small container from the shelf and tossed it at me. I fumbled with it then read the label.

“No this isn’t it. This isn’t what I need. I saw this

aready. This is nutmeg. I need nutten egg.”

“Like I said. Is you crazy or is you just crazy?”

“My grandmother said nutten egg, not mutmeg.”

“It’s the same thang.”

“How can it be the same thing when it says nutmeg on the can.”

“That’s what the old folks call it.”

“You callin’ my grandmother old?”

“If she sent you hear for nutten egg, that make her older than me. You need somethin’ else?”

“Oh yes mam. Some K-roll syrup.”

“Ya grandmama send you for that too?”

“Yes mam.”

“Tell ya right now, you ain’t gon’ find it.”

“Why? Is it on short supply?”

“Naw, we got plenty of that too. Go’n to da register and

get yo’ money out. I’ll meet you up there. But if you couldn’t find nutmeg, you shol’s hell ain’t gon’ be able to pick out no Kayrol syrup.”

It was almost five o’clock before I ran back into Mam-

Maw’s house. There was a metal cup on the stove filled with bubbling butter. The kitchen seemed hotter than I left it. Mam-Maw waddled around the small space like a balming breeze was blowing through.

“I thought you said Nutten Egg.”

“I did.”

“Mam-Maw this is nutmeg.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“Well why didn’t you just say nutmeg instead of having me

waste all that time at the store looking for nutten egg?”

“Boy, get somewhere and sit down.”

“I can’t sit down. It’s almost five o’clock and we’ve

barely started.”

“That’s what wrong wit chu. Ain’t nevuh had no patience.

Ain’t nevuh trusted in what nobody say. Always had to have things goin’ yo way, or the world was gon’ fall apart. Po’ dem peaches in that pan ‘fo you make me cuss.”

When Mam-Maw gave a personal assessment it usually meant you’d made her mad or you were about to get put out of the house. And her assessments always, without fail, were true and accurate.

Humbly I did as was told and poured the bucket of peaches

in the large pan. Mam-Maw reached for a cupboard high above her head. I marveled that she could do these things on her own. It’s funny, I envisioned her being on her own, checking to make sure non one was coming through the front door, then running and jumping through the house with incredible speed. Maybe she could jump three feet in the air. Maybe the arthritis was a skillful act in the presence of company.

Giggling, I reached up into the cabinet.

“What do you need?”

“Get me dat bag a sugar and open it up.”

“How much sugar do you put in it?” I asked as she pulled

a small cup from the sink.

“I ‘on’t know. Enough to make it sweet.”

She grabbed the five pound bag and poured sugar into the

cup. She held the cup over the pan and when he cup was full, she dumped it into the pan with sugar still flowing from the bag and into the pan. She held the cup under the bag again and let it fill up, then dumped it—with sugar still spilling from the bag. And again the cup was filled up and dumped into to the pan.

“Uh...Mam-Maw.”

“What is it now?” She turned to look at me while still

pouring sugar out of the bag and into the cup that was overflowing and falling into the pan.

“Do you think that’s enough sugar?”

“Boy, how much sugar you put in the last cobbler you made?”

“Fine, I’ll let you do it. It just seems like a lot of sugar.”

My jaws were watering and I could hear my cavities

screaming. The bag of sugar was almost half empty before she was done.

“Hand me dat butter from off da table.”

“Shouldn’t you keep that in the refrigerator?”

“It was in the ice box. I put it on the table ‘cause I

want it to be soft but not melted.”

“How much butter do you use?”

“I ‘on’t know. Enough to make it rich.”

Mam-maw unwrapped a block of butter, pulled pieces off and dropped them on top of the peaches hiding beneath the blanket of sugar.

“Hand me dat bottle out the cabinet.”

“Which one?”

“The one with that red stuff in it.”

It was a clear plastic container with a label peeled off. I couldn’t tell what it was.

“What is this?”

“Nutmeg spice.”

“What?”

“It’s nutmeg spice.”

“Wait a minute. You mean nutmeg spice like I went to the store to get nutmeg spice.”

“This is nutmeg spice.”

“You already had nutmeg?”

“I had nutmeg spice, not nutmeg.”

“Isn’t nutmeg a spice.”

“Boy, hand that bottle ‘fore you make me spit.”

She snatched the bottle from my hand, flipped open the lid and began shaking the container with vicious force. The smell of the spice was strong and familiar. Mam-maw stopped the shaking and opened the small can of nutmeg from the store. With a delicate jiggle she let the nutmeg drop down into the mixture. But the previous spice was still very strong.

“Here, put this back in da cabinet,” she said handing me the nutmeg spice. The lid was still open and the scent burned my nostrils. I held the container close to my nose and sniffed.

“Mam-Maw!”

“What, boy? You ‘bout to get on my nerve.”

“This is pepper! This isn’t nutmeg spice!”

“What?”

“This stuff is cayenne pepper! What have you done?” Now it was painfully clear. My sister called me while she was away at school and said Mam-maw had sent her a care package with cinnamon rolls that were laced with pepper instead of cinnamon. She was old. Years removed from the sharp-minded woman who made pancakes without even looking. I should have checked. I should have inspected every ingredient before she put it in the pan. Had she put lard in the cobbler instead of butter? Was that really sugar in the bag or was is flour? Maybe I should have tasted a peach to make sure it wasn’t a pear. I’m gonna be fired. I’m gonna lose my job and be thrown out on the streets.

“Mam-maw, how could you do that?”

“Lawd a-mighty. You know I made a cobbler for Luda-Belle last month and put pepper all in it. She called me back. I said, Hello. She said Ms. Doll. I said Yeah. She said, Ms. Doll I think you put pepper in my peach cobbler. I said, I did. She said, Yeah you shol’ did. I said, Lula I’m shol sorry. I’ll make you anoth’un. She said, Oh nawh Ms. Doll don’t do that. This the best cobbluh I eva tasted. You know that woman liked to had me fall out my chair I was laughin so.”

“Mam-maw this isn’t the least bit funny. What are we gonna do? It’s almost five fifteen.”

“Boy, don’t worry me so. I ain’t gon’ put nutmeg spice in the other cobbluh.”

“That’s not nutmeg spice. It’s cayenne pepper!”

“Go’on somewhere, boy. Hand me that flour and that Crisco from over there. Fill this here cup with ice cubes.

The Crisco can had a peel off top, thank God. I felt a bit more manly ripping the cover off.

“The top is already off for you, Mam-Maw.”

“Mm-hmm. Hand me that flour right chere.”

The old Tupperware bowl that I remembered from the pancake batter was in the corner. She reached for it and dumped the flour inside.

“How much flour goes in it?” I asked.

“I ‘on’t know. As much as it takes to make it. This here is the crust. We thoo wit’ da cobbluh.”

She dipped a tablespoon into the Crisco and slammed itagainst the bowl until the shortening fell in the flour.

“How much shortening, Mam-Maw?”

“I ‘on’t know.”

“How am I supposed to learn how to make it if I don’t know the quantities of the ingredients?”

“Just sit here and watch. Stop talkin’ and just watch. Sometimes you just got to try stuff out ‘for you get it right. You ‘on’t think yo’ first cobbluh is gon’ be any good do you?”

“Well, I thought that—“

“You thought wrong. It’s gon’ take you about two or three cobbluhs to get it right. Pour some water over that ice and brang it over here.”

“Hot water or cold water?”

“Boy, why you gon’ put hot water ovuh some ice cubes? May as well not put no ice in it if you just gon’ melt ‘em wit hot water? Cold water, boy. Cold water.”

The flour and shortening were in the tupperware bowl waiting for the magic.

“Now, listen here. You gotta make sure the water for the crust got ice water. Don’t po’ the ice in wit’ da water. Just put cha hand ovuh the ice cubes so they won’t fall out. But remember ice water for cold-water crust. If the water is warm, the flour ain’t gon’ take it right. You hear me? Soft thangs can’t take too much heat.”

The cold water was filtered into the Tupperware bowl then mashed together making the dough for crust. She added more flour and more water with no regard for accuracy only consistency. A handful of flour was cast over the counter just before she dumped the bowl’s contents. Mam-maw smashed and pounded the dough with feeble fists. She folded and rolled and flipped and pinched and pressed.

“If it’s too wet, then sprankle some mo’ flour on it,” she instructed. “But don’t put too much flour no it ‘cause it’ll get to dry and the crust’ll be too hard after you cook it.”

Never stopping or looking my way, she tamed the mixture into perfection.

“Now ya take ya rollin’ pin and roll it out till it’s good and flat. Then alls you gotta do it put the crust on top of the insides and brush some of this here melted butter on the dough so it’ll brown for ya.”

Old hands lifted the transformed concoction and gently placed the crust over the cobbler.

“Brush the butta on it.”

I dipped a ragged brush into the small tin cup. The bristles were curled and stuck together from years of use and repeated washing, but it still held on to the yellow dripping liquid that smelled of treasured aromas.

“Now be careful and put it down on the bottom rack in the oven.”

I did as told and brushed my hands free of the flour.

“Is that it? That wasn’t hard at all, Mam-Maw. I can make that no problem.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to it. I been doin’ that for years. You wanna make the next one?”

“Yeah. Shoot I’d love to. How long does this one stay in the oven, about twenty minutes?”

“Nawh, boy. You gotta cook cobbluh slow. Leave it in there for about 45 minutes to an hour.”

“What!”

“’Bout an hour.”

“Mam-Maw, it’s almost a quarter to six. I’ll never make it to the gallery in time. Do you know what this means? Mam-Maw, I’m gonna lose my job! How could you do this? You should have told me it takes an hour to make a cobbler!”

“Who you thank you talkin’ too! I don’t know what yo problem is, but you best quit hollin’ at me! I ain’t had to make you no cobbluhs no how. I did this as a favor for you.”

“I don’t care! What kinda favor is this if I can’t make the event? You should have told me or started earlier!”

“Boy, I’ll knock the taste out yo’ mouth. Shut up talkin’ to me like that.”

“Mam-Maw, I’m ruined. I’ll never be able to keep my job. How am I’m gonna pay my rent and my bills?”

“Dammit, boy when is you gon stop thankin’ ‘bout yo’self? Every time you say somethin’ it always start wit’ I. I’m gon’ lose my job. I can’t pay my rent. You still just as selfish as you was when you was little. That’s why ya Daddy can’t stay home for more than a weekend as it is now.”

“No it’s not Mam-Maw. He’s at home on the weekends ‘cause he works in St. Louis during the week. He makes more money at the factory up there. And you know that. He’s been doin’ it for years.”

Mam-Maw shook her head and chuckled. It was a little laugh of hidden wisdom coming to the surface.

“You beat all I done eva seen. Know everything, but don’t know what’s really goin’ on, do you?”

“What are talking about?”

“Nothin’, boy. Gon’ to the other side and get them pans sitting on top the deep freezer, boy.”

“No, tell me what you’re talking about. And stop calling me boy.”

“Act like a man and I’ll stop callin’ you what you is. All this time and still ain’t figured it out, is you? You thank that man done spent half his life livin’ away from his family ‘cause o’ money? As long as yo’ daddy done stayed wit’ ya’ll he ain’t cared if ya’ll was broke if he coulda slept in the same bed wit’ ya mama. That man went up there and got that good job, came back to move ya’ll up there and you sat there on the floor hollin’ like a stuck pig and screamin’ talkin’ about you ain’t wanna leave yo’ friends and yo’ cousins. You ‘on’t remember that, do ya? He had yo’ mama a good job up there and everythang but she couldn’t let her baby go up there and be miserable. I told that gal she was a fool for not goin’ up there. She crazy like you is so she let you stay in school for the rest of the year while ya daddy went to work up there and drove all the way home on the weekends. Then summer time came, ya’ll went up there, stayed three months, but yo ornery tail started acted up again when it time for school. I coulda beat you and yo’ mama for comin’ back down here. She talkin’ about ‘Mama, he just can’t get used to livin’ up there’. I told yo’ mama I said, ‘I’d beat his little tail evaday until he got used to it’. And here you is today. It’s still all about you. Yo’ job, yo life, yo’ bills. That man done sacrificed a life wit’ his family and you over here hollin’ at me like a fool over some damn peach cobbluhs. If my arthritis wasn’t actin’ up, I’d beat you right now just ‘cause you standin’ here.”

The house was silent, yet things I’d never heard before were deafening; a clock ticking, a futile fan whirling, the refrigerator humming, a pulse throbbing, the truth hurting.

“Mam-Maw--”

“Get out my sight, boy! Didn’t I tell you to go get them pans on top of the deep freezer.”

There was nothing to say. No worthy response. It was a painful epiphany. A lesson in the back of a textbook I’d skipped after thinking I was prepared for whatever test would come my way. I remembered rebelling against my father when he didn’t make it home on Christmas Eve through a snow storm. I’d blamed him for not leaving sooner and now I realized I was the reason he was in the snowstorm to begin with. He’d missed the father-son field trip and I hated him for a week never knowing that his absence meant he’d loved us for an eternity. My mind was filled with days and times and tales that were being erased by Mam-Maw’s tirade. I trudged over to the sacred side of her house.

“Mam-Maw!” I yelled rushing back to the other side.

“What it is now, boy?”

“Those pans have peach cobbler in them and they’re all done. Who’s are those?”

“Ain’t you said you needed cobbluhs for a hundred people?”

“Yeah, but why were we making two more?”

“Ain’t you said you wanted to learn how to make ‘em”

“Well...yeah. Are they extras or something?”

“Thems is Luda-Belle’s. I told ya she like hers wit’ Cayenne Pepper. Luda-Belle done had a hard life so she can take it. Ain’t no pepper in yours. Like I said, soft thangs can’t take too much heat. Get on out my face, boy.”