I may be the worst cook in my bloodline, but it’s not because of the lack of aprons. The womenfolk of my people believe in them religiously. Every sepia picture from our past is proof of this conviction. My grandmother wore an apron for her granddaughter’s birthday photo, and my great-grandmother had one in her hand in the only surviving …
I still remember those summers. According to my memories, the first fish fry was in the late ‘60s. According to black and white photos, the events started long before I was born. The parents, or maybe even grandparents of those I remember, began this summer celebration at a time when cotton was blooming and catfish were jumping. Living landlocked, my …
It started, I admit, with memories of my childhood. Recollections of a simpler time when cats birthed their kittens in the barn and school buses delivered their children on dirt roads. Soon, my nostalgia smelled the shaved cedar in number two pencils and the pungent, earthiness of a new box of crayons. Like a butterfly, my consciousness flitted across images …
Ruth Griffin’s sweet tea always made me wanna shout. Not that I was raised the shoutin’ kind, but mixing seemingly equal amounts of Imperial Cane with pekoe leaves was the nearest I ever got to eating dessert first. When you are five, it’s almost enough to go pentecostal. The Griffin’s had a history with our family long before I …
