Page 32 of Worth the Trip

“It ain’t supposed to taste the same every time. It’s supposed to taste right.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It made enough sense for you to get a second helping.”

Before I could defend myself, a man’s voice traveled over the backyard fence.

“Miss Pearl, you frying fish over there?”

Nana kept eating. “I surely am.”

“You got enough for one more?”

“Depends. You bringing something besides your appetite?”

“I got hot sauce.”

“I asked what you bringing, not what you keep in your truck.”

His laughter drifted through the garden. “I’ll go get a pie.”

“Get one from Miss Corrine. Don’t bring me none of that frozen mess you tried last time.”

I stared at Nana until she finally looked across the table.

“Was that Mr. Calvin?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“He still shows up whenever you fry fish?”

“That man been following cornmeal through this neighborhood since your mama was in pigtails.”

“You’re giving him a plate, though.”

“After he brings my pie.”

We ate until daylight thinned beyond the kitchen windows, and Nana’s blues program replaced the gospel hour. She told me which cousin had married, which marriage was “hanging together on prayer and shared property,” who returned from college with a degree and too much confidence, and why the pastor had finally forbidden Deacon Lowell from controlling the church thermostat. Willow Run’s history lived in people more than buildings, and Nana carried it through stories as naturally as she passed the serving bowl.

When I lifted my plate, she pointed toward my chair.

“Sit down.”

“I’m taking this to the sink.”

“You take it to the sink, then you rinse it. Once you rinse it, you decide the pot needs soaking. Next thing I know, you done cleaned my stove and put labels on my flour.”

“I labeled one container.”

“You labeled both of them.”

“One was self-rising.”

“They were both flour.”

“That distinction matters.”

“Not enough for you to spend your first night here organizing my pantry.”