Christmas Morning
The rusty gray chairs were erected
in the unyielding room situated in the back of the tiny house. The 23rd
Street Baptist Church insignia was a blurry red splotch etched across the back
of the chair, a constant reminder of the thievery that brought them to the
house. Some may call it borrowing, and they would be returned before next
Sunday’s service, but I wondered what the parishioners would say if they knew
Co-Pastor’s family was using the chairs for family gatherings. A black card
table stood in the corner, sagging from the plethora of provisions hiding the
red plastic tablecloth hastily purchased from Piggly Wiggly the day before.
Aunt Cheryl’s sausage and egg
casserole sat perched precariously on the edge of table, ensconced in the
chipped, Rudolph-covered elastic dish. Its’ spicy aroma so robust it was almost
repugnant. Mom’s homemade biscuits were grenades waiting to explode upon entry
to our mouths. They were little bites of paradise, creating damp sunny circles
where butter dripped out of the sides. Although the bowl of grits looked as
heavenly as the clouds, I knew well enough to stay clear of anything prepared
by Grandma JoAnne’s diabetic hand. The disease created a tendency in her to
under flavor everything she cooked. That hominy was surely screaming for salt,
pepper, and butter to make them edible. Also, she was just a lousy cook.
There were other items crammed in:
crispy bacon, sliced ham, Conecuh sausage, turkey sausage (from cousin Brittany
who was a red-meat vegetarian, this week at least (and isn’t turkey still an
animal), runny, saffron eggs (made by Aunt Deb, who considered herself the Julia
Child of Ensley and could never keep a simple dish simple) And finally, perched
cater-corner to the meat, sat the caramel cake. We were all here, as we were
every Christmas. My aunts and uncles flitted about the kitchen, laughing and
gossiping about what the lonely really did at Christmas.
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