Cornbread

(This story is set in 1960's southwest Louisiana. Certain portions of dialogue may be offensive to the sensitive.)

"Okay, Mom," Aunt Mae said, "show me how to make cornbread."

I bit my lip. Muh had been gatherin' up the fixins for a gumbo, and my job was to catch the chickens and wring their necks. Then we dipped them in a pot of hot water to make pluckin' 'em easy. After we plucked 'em, we took the guts out, and put the soft eggs in a bowl, for later. Soft eggs is the ones the chicken aint laid yet, and there aint nothin' better tastin' than them, trust me. Well, maybe turtle eggs, cuz it got that seafood flavor built in. Anyhow, we singed the chickens to get rid of the pinfeathers. I had to be careful, cuz Muh didn't like stains on her new gas stove.

Now in the middle of alla this, Aunt Mae had come over, askin' Muh to show her how to make cornbread. "Alfred been after me all week to get you to show me how," she said. "Aint nothin' wrong with my cornbread, I do it just like they say on the box."

"Box?" Muh asked, "What box?"

"The Wonder Muffin box," Aunt Mae answered.

Muh sighed, and rubbed her temples. "You mean to tell me," she said, slow-like, "that you make box cornbread?"

"Yes, ma'am," she said, "but Alfred don't like it. He say it don't taste right. He threw out my last batch, right offa the front po'ch. Hit the cat inna haid with it, flipped po' Fluffy twice."

"Well hoo-ray for Alfred," Muh muttered. She looked at Aunt Mae. "Baby, I tell you what. I'm right in the middle o' fixin' some gumbo. Once we get it to cookin', I'll show you how to make cornbread." She looked over her glasses. "The right way."

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"Hol' yo hosses," Muh told her. I still had two chickens left to cut, and Muh had sat down to drink some coffee while she waited. The big iron kettle was on the stove, sizzlin' the onions, pars'ly, garlic, an' bell pepper, real slow, so it didn't scorch. "Stir that, Mae," she said.

I stopped, an' looked at Muh. "You feelin' okay?" I asked.

"I'm feelin' fine, son," she answered, "You cut the chickin', and Mae stir my seasonin'." She chuckled. "I got me two hosses to pull my wagon."

I wanted to tell her that one of her hosses had a bum leg, but I kept my mouth shut.

You see, Aunt Mae caint cook.

Aint no nice way to put it, other than that.

Aunt Mae aint had no bitness near nobody's stove. One time, she tried to make baked chicken with rice dressin', and for some reason, don't ask me why, she thought it was a good idea to pack the rice in the chicken.

Raw rice.

I aint lyin', raw rice!

Uncle Alfred told us later, "I kept hearin' her open the oven do'r, and sayin', 'What's takin' this rice so long?' Afterwhile, I was gettin' ready to pass out, so's I went to see what's keepin' dinner. I op' de oven, an' all I see is half-cook rice an' burnt chickin! I holler, 'Mae! What the hell you doin'?' She come runnin' from the back room, whoopin' an' hollerin', 'Get outta my stove! Get outta my stove!'

I was nice about it, Nephew, the cops had already been to the house day befo' yestiddy, so I didn't want ta start nothin' fresh, y'know? I grabs my hat, an' tells Mae, I be back, I'm goin' for a paper. You know she had the nerve to tell me to get back inna half an hour, so my dinner won't get cold? Shee-it, if I'da had time to pack some drawers, I'd still be gone!"