Maw-Maw Never Wrote a Word of It Down
My people cooked down the bayou, where the cypress stands in black water and the mornings come up in fog. My grandmother ran her kitchen the way her mémère ran hers before her — by hand, by nose, and by a feel that no cup or spoon ever taught.
She’d have laughed to hear any of it called a trick. It was just the thing that made her food taste like hers and nobody else’s. But when the cooks who knew it pass on, the knowing goes with them — and most of it was never written anywhere.
So I wrote it down. Fifty of the things I watched her do, plain and real, in a book you can hold in your hands. None of it is fussy. All of it works.