At age six or so, my world expanded
to the kitchens of friends. Chef Boyardee
spaghetti that looked like red worms
we used for fishing. Macaroni
and cheese — more worms swimming
in orange water. Iced tea soured
by saccharine. Because I was Mama's
Daughter, I politely ate what was served.

Although she worked full time, Mama
was a queen of Southern cuisine.
Hail to Duke's mayo, bacon drippings,
Smithfield ham, and Crisco!

How could tiny Mama wield a massive
cast iron skillet like she did a fly swatter?
Or stay tiny, for that matter? After fixing
supper, she'd insist the back was her favorite
piece of fried chicken, while the rest of us
gorged on all we could eat. 

Since it would be years before I was tall
enough to tend a skillet of popping
oil, she did all the work. I set the table
and kept her company. It was time
for our girl talks.

I was proud when she asked me
to shape the salmon cakes,
because my tiny hands made them
extra crispy.

No wonder cooking is the only
housework I don't hate. I cook
lighter and more exotic meals
than Mama, but I often think of her
as I stir. Sure wish I could make
her chicken and dumplings.

© by Alarie Tennille
Used with the author's permission.