The Little Black Gift

Today has been the most difficult day of my life. I sit here with swollen wet eyes, weighted mind, stricken with grief so bleak my heart beats up through to my ears. I say goodbye to my dear sweet grand-mama Pearl. I rest my hand upon her body and I whisper my love. I close my eyes and think of her. She was warm, comforting, the blood line of my lineage, the artery that pumped life into our family. Every Sunday without fail, our bellies, our stuffed gloated egos, and the be-it-all to never miss me souls would feast on her labored felt nourishment. Her song was her food, that she so lovingly and graciously prepared for her family. She offered in full force without resistance, refusing help from all the younger women. Those women in the family that really just wanted a mere glimpse of her culinary sorcery. Every delicately, perfectly, beautifully crafted home dish that enveloped her passion and exemplified her roots. She cooked with heart, with love so deep you could taste it with every home soaked golden buttery bite.

Our family meets after the service to pay respects within the tiny clapboard home we all know so well. Pale blue adorned with lavender shutters and spring white trim. The mail box was a massive wooden carved rooster painted with a bright green tail. This is where we cried, all loved, all grieved, all grew, all ate with comfort every Sunday. I find myself feeling so small in her little four-walled kitchen where all that magic was conjured each week. My fingers rummage through her spices, my eyes gaze-over her clay painted pot of those familiar wooded mixing spoons she would so often wave in your face while proclaiming gospel. My attention is grasped back from pleasant memory to present as I then hear my Mamas Crown Vic as it pulls into the drive, the silver trim kept so shiny it casts a beam of light on what looks to be a mysterious little black book propped oh so casually upon a shelf. It sits devil-may-care between the white lily flour and fresh vanilla bean sealed in a mason jar. At first, I hesitate. As if I’ve seen it before. It’s oh so familiar, and draws me in with its ever-bewildering curious little stance. My eyes widen, I feel like a child at Christmas as to what the contents of this leather-bound enigma could possibly contain. As I open to the first page…There it is. To my sweet relief and joy. A recipe for corn bread. I quickly leaf through each page. Biscuits, shrimp and grits, collards, I feel my mouth water and heart fill with saturated fat colored roses. I quickly remember fried chicken, “please let that fried chicken recipe be in here”. I quickly sprawl through and find it about a half way through, “It’s all here”, I think, with a sigh of relief. Then, a thought enters my mind. I hold the keys to our family, it’s my duty to continue my Pearls legacy. I then hear a commotion barreling its way in to the tiny four- walled kitchen. I quickly fold the little black glorious gift into my grip and out of sight behind my body.

“Tisha!” My mama shouts as she comes squelching all mouth and elbows into the kitchen. “Look-right, quickly, my girl. Mr. Mark Evans Jr. is here to pay his respects to Mama Pearl’s memory.” She looks me over with a look of distaste and straightens my shoulders. “Well good god girl, look alive. Stand up straight.” She frantically picks at my posture and clothing. “Let’s just perk up your boobies a little bit. Your breasts are just too small, you are never going to get a man with those tangerines.” She says in an asserting tone as she fondles my cleavage.

I snatch my body from her grasp. “Mom, please stop grouping me. Also, who the hell is Mike Evans?”

She looks up at me with disbelief. “MARK Evans JR…And, baby. He is a BIG fish!”

She goes back to grooming me and looking over my make-up. “I can’t believe your grandmother, god rest her soul, was hiding HIM.”

“OK, so what does that have to do with me?” I say in a slightly annoyed manner as I still try to casually conceal the little black notebook.

“Haha.” She laughs from deep in her gut. “Don’t you wanna buy your mama a house?” a slow pause as her mind races, “And a Lamborghini? A red one? Or what do you think,…. red or black?” Then she smiles big at me with dollar sign spirals in her eyes.

“What?” I say, still annoyed by the entirety of the conversation.

“Baby girl, the MAN is HOT and RICH, and in this sensitive time, you can make the ultimate move.” She is now looking desperate, but almost evil queen or wicked witch like.

“Oh god! You are fucking crazy.”

I start to walk out of the room, and I run right smack nose to nose into Mr. Mark Evans Jr. Our eyes meet and I can’t look away. I am consumed with his mannerism and he feels so familiarly sweet to me.

We smile at one another and a long pause consumes us, we both let out a breathy quick laugh.

As he begins to talk, I see my mother over his shoulder giving a thumbs-up, then she pretends to drive a Lamborghini….

I grimace her way, but quickly correct my expression as his gave centers on mine once again.

I can’t help but fixate on how handsome he is. I feel my face melt as his smooth voice begins again.

“You must be Tisha?” he says. “Your grandmother spoke so fondly of you. She was a kind soul, I will greatly miss her.” He says as he looks down and seems quite solemn as if taking in a memory.

“She knew my mother when they were kids. After my own mama passed a few years back, Pearl really became like a mother to me. I used to come over to visit her and she would listen to all my woes and they would just fade away as she made me some real fine cooking. Her food was amazing. I mean really, I was in love.”…he laughs and lets out a handsome sigh.

Our eyes finally meet again, and it starts to feel like he is reading me our searching deep within me with his beautiful brown eyes.

“I hope those recipes are not lost. If I ever meet another woman that can cook like that I will marry her on the spot.”

My eyes go wide as I grip the little black book held tight in my grasp.

Thank You Grandmama Pearl.

My mamas getting a Lambo.