Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“You found them!” Kassim says, walking over to gently tug on the painted turkey earrings dangling from her ears.
“Yes.” She grins back at him. “They were in a box at the back of my closet with some other jewelry I’d misplaced. I can’t even remember which birthday you guys gave them to me for now.”
“Thirtieth,” I say, biting my tongue too late.
Yasmen turns her gaze to me like she’s just noticing I’m here. Her smile falters for a second before she steadies it.
“Oh, yeah,” she says. “I think you’re right.”
I know I’m right because that’s the year I gave her a gold necklace with a tiny wheel charm. “Till the wheels fall off” was inscribed on the back. I’m sure she’s lost that, too, but probably hasn’t bothered looking for it since the wheels definitely fell off our marriage.
“Hey, Vashti.” Yasmen smiles, lifting the lids on a few dishes. “Thank you for coming and bringing so much food.”
“It was nothing.” Vashti’s nervousness seems to have vanished, and her smile is wide and natural. “Thank you for having me.”
“Of course.” Yasmen’s gaze skitters over me and to Carole. “We ready, Mama?”
“All them hungry folks in the living room hope so.” Carole chuckles. “Like six of your staff from Grits actually showed up.”
Pleasure brightens Yasmen’s expression. That woman loves a party. The more the merrier. “Then let’s do it.”
It’s good to see so many familiar faces from the restaurant around the table as we load our plates and dive in. Milky ends up seated on one side of me and Vashti on the other.
“How’s your daughter, Milk?” I ask, trying to decide where to start on my plate loaded with everything from macaroni and cheese to Carole’s famous cornbread.
“She’s good.” He bites into a roll and chews a little before going on. “She and her family went to spend Thanksgiving with her husband’s people in Memphis. They’ll do Christmas here.”
He pauses and looks at me. “I sure do appreciate y’all having me over. The holidays is when we miss the ones we’ve lost the most, ain’t it?”
It strikes me that I’m not the only one missing Aunt Byrd today. Trying to figure out how to make it without her. Harsh lines bracket Milky’s mouth and dent his forehead. For the first time since I’ve known the man, he looks his age.
“I’m glad you’re here, Milk,” I say softly. “You know you’re always welcome.”
Before things get awkward, we both slice into our turkey, which Carole always seasons perfectly. I scoop up some of the stuffing. As soon as the food hits my tongue, I freeze, fork suspended between my mouth and the plate. I put the fork down and take my time, savoring the stuffing for another moment, testing it.
“Carole,” I say, frowning. “Your stuffing is delicious. It tastes like…”
Byrd’s.
I don’t say it aloud because I don’t want reminders of loss today, but a wave of nostalgia washes over me. Not accompanied by grief, but wrapped in joy. The flavors explode in my mouth, exactly as only Byrd’s ever tasted, and she could be seated here, glowing with the pleasure of cooking food for those she loves.
“I didn’t make the stuffing,” Carole says.
“Wow.” I shift my eyes to Vashti. “You did a great job, V. I haven’t had stuffing this good in a long time.”
“I didn’t make it either,” Vashti says a little stiffly. “And what about my stuffing on the menu? You said you loved it.”
“Oh, I do, but if you didn’t make this, then who—”
“I made it,” Yasmen says from the other end of the table.
“You?” I ask disbelievingly. Her mouth tightens and she casts a self-conscious look down the row of people half eating, all listening. “I didn’t mean it like that, Yas. I just…it tastes exactly like Byrd’s.”
The tightness around her mouth eases, and a small smile lifts the corners. “I used her recipe.”
“You have it?”
“When we were going through her things,” Yasmen says, piercing a mound of macaroni and cheese with her fork. “I found a notebook with some of her recipes. Handwritten.”
Everyone is listening and I should probably save my inquisition for later, but I need to know. There are some recipes Byrd didn’t use for Grits but reserved for family and friends, almost like she kept something special for us. This particular version of her stuffing is one of them. Vashti has since reshaped Grits’s menu into her own creation, so the food we serve now doesn’t truly reflect Byrd’s. I have photos and keepsakes and all kinds of things Byrd left for me to remember her by. Hell, I even have her dog, but her food? I can’t ever have that again. Not quite the way she prepared it, so anything even close is something to be treasured. And to see the recipes handwritten—priceless.
Yasmen shrugs, lowers her gaze to her plate, and smiles ruefully. “It just made me feel closer to her, I guess. We all know I’m not a great cook, but—”