Chapter 12 #2
Now I poured in the buttermilk, the liquid swirling into the dry mix.
I prepared to knead the dough, sprinkling a light dusting of flour over the counter.
As I turned the dough out onto the surface, the soft mass yielded under my hands.
I’d reached a critical step: kneading. I kneaded with gentle, deliberate motions, mindful of the texture Ms. Byrd had once guided me to achieve.
Her voice seemed to whisper from the past, cautioning, “Too much flour will make your biscuits dry.” Her wisdom was imprinted on my fingertips.
I folded the dough in half and patted it out several times before rolling it flat.
Using a glass, I cut out the biscuits. “Don’t twist, or you’ll seal them and they won’t rise.
” I slid the baking sheet into the oven.
While gathering ingredients, my heart leaped at discovering thyme and sage, two key ingredients for making homemade sausage.
I sprinkled them into a bowl of ground pork, along with fennel seeds and pepper, then worked the mixture into patties.
As I placed them in a cast-iron skillet, the kitchen filled with the aroma of sage and pepper, the sausage crackling and popping as it turned golden brown.
Grits bubbled on the stove, and I stirred them a few times to avoid lumps before placing the lid back on. I made scrambled eggs last.
Jackson entered the kitchen just as I was stirring cheese into the bowl of grits. His eyes widened in astonishment at the spread.
“Good morning,” he said, not pulling his eyes away from the table.
“Good morning,” I said, with more nerves than I’d expected. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I wanted their approval.
His eyes finally met mine. “You made all of this?”
Standing before him, I fidgeted, not knowing what else to do. “It was my turn.”
“This must have taken you some time.”
“I wanted to do this for you,” I said, with a space between the next words. “For you guys.”
Jackson’s shoulders collapsed, and his face softened into an unguarded smile.
A warm sensation blossomed in my chest, untangling the knots within me.
I liked the sensation of it, the fullness; I liked the way his words, and his smile, made me feel.
But behind the rising happiness, a small panic flared.
I knew this feeling would not last, that it would be fleeting.
Nothing good ever stays. Still, for now, I allowed it to work through me.
Luke stumbled into the kitchen next, his blond hair a scattered mess on his head, his eyes barely open. “Something smells good,” he said.
“Leigh made breakfast,” Jackson said.
Luke’s eyes opened wide. “You did?”
Tibb entered shortly after, joining the others at the table.
Now there were three statues with gazes fixed on the food.
“Well…aren’t you going to sit?” I said finally. “The food is getting cold.”
Luke sat first, almost collapsing into a chair while, in the same motion, seizing a biscuit and cramming most of it into his mouth.
As he chewed, his eyes closed in appreciation, and a moan of approval escaped his lips.
He grabbed my hand and kneeled before me.
“Marry me, Leigh,” he said, his mouth full, specks of biscuit flying like confetti.
I laughed, the sound a warm tremor that rippled through the room. It surprised me, the laugh, how easily it erupted from inside me, like it had been waiting, ready to burst out and ease the tension I felt. Tibb and Jackson joined in the laughter, their chuckles mingling with mine.
“Get up,” Jackson said, hooking a hand beneath Luke’s arm to lift him back into his chair.
“I asked her first, Jack,” Luke said, spooning a generous portion of grits onto his plate.
“Taste this,” he went on, his voice muffled by the food, “and tell me you wouldn’t marry a woman who cooks like this.
” He heaped sausage on top of the grits and raked eggs across it all.
“I mean…it don’t need no butter or jelly or nuthin’. You can just eat it.”
Jackson reached for a biscuit and took a bite, chewing softly. His brows arched when he looked at me.
“They are a little dark on the bottom,” I said. “I’m not used to this oven yet.”
Jackson shook his head. “They’re perfect.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I said, opening the refrigerator and removing a plate. “I made some butter.” I placed the dish on the table. “It should be cold now.”
Tibb looked up at me. “You made fresh butter?”
I nodded, a bit embarrassed. “We were running low. I used what we had for the biscuits.” Their stares pressed like a gentle, warming force. “It’s not that hard. And it tastes better than store-bought.”
“You’ve known how to cook like this all this time?” Luke asked. “And you ate what we cooked?”
“What you cooked,” Tibb amended.
“Food is nourishment,” I said, looking at Jackson, recalling what he said to me. “In more ways than one.”
“I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on us,” Luke said, mouth full. “What else can you cook?”
“A little bit of everything,” I said. “It’s been a while, so I may be rusty.”
“There’s nothing rusty about anything on this plate,” Luke said, shoving a spoonful of eggs and grits into his mouth.
“When did you learn to cook like this?” Tibb asked.
I took a breath, fully aware of the step I was about to take.
My fingers traced the edge of the table, a small movement that kept my hands occupied.
Sharing details about my life felt like an invitation to more questions, more curiosity I didn’t want to entertain.
But sharing this detail didn’t feel like opening a door to something I couldn’t close.
A stirring of pride crept through me as I remembered what Ms. Byrd had taught me.
Her lessons weren’t just about cooking. They were about taking what I’d been given and turning it into something I could be proud of.
“When I was about thirteen. It was my job to cook. Mama never liked cooking, so I had to.”
I watched them as they prepared their plates, the clatter of silverware scraping against porcelain. Their heads bowed low as they ate, and their usual banter had been forgotten, replaced by the swallowing of food. I savored the moment for a second, grateful that I had finally done something right.
Their appreciative sounds told me that at least the first part of my plan had worked and the meal was well received.
Now I just needed to say the words. They were just men, after all, made of flesh and bone.
And yet, uncertainty gripped me as I struggled to say the right thing.
I cleared my throat and began, “I wanted to…”
Three pairs of eyes fixed upon me, and I had the most sudden, vivid reminder of the bus crash, of being in the water. I stood quickly at the memory. My chair scraped against the floor, and dishes clattered. Jackson placed his hand over mine, an anchor that tethered me to the present moment.
“It’s okay,” he said.
With the warmth of his touch, the tenderness in his eyes, and nothing more than two simple words, he calmed me. In the moment, I believed him that I was going to be okay. It did not make sense. Nothing had ever worked quite like this before. But this did. He did.
With a deep breath, I gathered myself, swallowing the lump in my throat before trying again. “I owe you all an apology. I haven’t been as friendly as you all have been. I appreciate you welcoming me here and being kind to me, being patient with me. I promise I will be better.”
It was all I had to give, to offer, all I could say, the extent of my gratitude gathered into those words.
I felt lighter, better, like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
The three of them remained silent for a heartbeat.
Then Tibb leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on my forehead.
Luke rose from his seat, wrapping me in a bear hug.
Jackson, with a final squeeze of my hand, nodded before letting go.
In that moment, my heart swelled with something. I didn’t know it, nor could I have foreseen, that my heart would come to love these three men with a depth and fervor I had yet to comprehend.
Suddenly, Luke’s voice cut through the silence. “Farm vote,” he said, his mouth full as he grinned mischievously. “I vote that Leigh cooks all of the meals.” He raised one hand while the other shoveled more food into his mouth.
“No way,” I said.
I looked at Jackson and Tibb for validation, but Tibb slowly raised his hand.
“Not you too. C’mon!”
“Sorry, Leigh,” Tibb said. “You said you promised to be better.”
“Are you going to let them outvote me?” I asked Jackson.
“Sorry,” he said, his hand lifting into the air. “’Fraid so.”
I shook my head. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll cook for a week. Then we are even. Deal?”
An hour had passed, and the food was gone, the plates now bare.
I started clearing the table and taking the dishes to the sink.
Pausing for a moment, I turned my gaze toward the window.
There, a quilt of white and gray clouds blanketed the sky, and the wind whistled against the window.
“It looks like it may rain today,” I said, the observation hanging in the air.
“So say the weatherman,” the three of them said in unison without looking up.
“The way you say it, I feel like that means something extra,” I said, returning to my chair.
“It means the weatherman thinks or says it’s going to rain, but he doesn’t know,” Tibb said.
“Wouldn’t he know?” I asked, confused.
“No,” they all said in a chorus.
“Who would know, then?” I asked.
“Not him,” Luke said.
“That doesn’t make sense. Don’t they study radars and maps?” I asked, my confusion deepening.
“Meteorologists make predictions. Nothing is certain,” Tibb said.
“I know it’s raining when I feel the rain,” Jackson added.
“But it looks like it’s going to rain.”
“Clouds shift,” Tibb said as if erratic nature of weather was a well-understood, inevitable truth.
“And weathermen are wrong,” Jackson said.