One Foot in the Grove Read Online Free PDF Page A

the skillet to the burner and stirred the bits until they were extra crispy.
    Meanwhile, Loretta hustled about stoically, working next to me as she used a slotted spoon to scoop up and drop sliced okra dredged in a panko and buttermilk mixture—this one with cornmeal, eggs, and hot sauce—in and out of the hot oil on the range top. Somehow, at the same time, dredged and fried the trout filets in pairs, bumping my leg for me to move aside when she needed to open the oven in front of my knees to keep the already fried filets warm while she worked on the next batch.
    She thumped my arm, and I dumped my cracklin’s on a paper towel and placed the hot pan in the sink to cool.
    â€œHere,” ordered Loretta as she directed me to a large bowl filled with flour. The flour was arranged so that therewas a deep well in the center. Loretta poured cream into the well, stirring with a spatula until the flour was moistened. “Dump in the bits.”
    I dumped the drained salt pork cracklin’s into the flour mixture and stirred.
    Loretta and I continued to work that way, side by side, with Loretta occasionally barking out instructions. I transferred my dough to a slab of lightly floured marble and carefully followed Loretta’s commands, patting the dough down with my floured hands, folding and patting down the dough again. She handed me a drinking glass, and I pressed the rim into the dough to make each biscuit round, before placing each round onto an already-greased baking sheet. Loretta brushed on some whisked egg whites over the biscuit tops before grabbing the baking sheet and sliding it into the oven. Wisely, I noticed, she wasn’t letting me near the ovens.
    Although it was the kitchen where I’d grown up, prepping the meal with Chef Loretta seemed so different from the days I remembered as a child. After Mother left, Daphne, Pep, and I used to cook together—Pep and I had been so young, we stood on stools at the counter. We’d laugh and tease one another, almost always screwing up whatever it was we were preparing. Of course, we’d fooled around—spaghetti ended up on the walls, ketchup on the counters, and we ate more cookie dough than we actually baked. And fried food? Forget it. Daddy’d be cleaning up spattered grease from the walls, counters, and floors for hours after we’d gone to bed. Afterward, we’d all sat around together at the kitchen table for our family meals. I can’t imagine what it must’ve taken to clean our clothes. Finally, after a year or so of blackened and raw dinners—it’s a wonder someone didn’t end up in the hospital from burns or food poisoning—Dad hired a woman from down the road, whom we affectionately called Auntie Ella, to come and cook dinners for us.
    Behind me, I heard a light footstep in the kitchen.
    â€œGracious, me! All this smoke!” I turned to see my sister, Daphne, still in her head wrap and ugly linen tunic, fanning her face with one delicate, lily-white hand, her heavy gold charm bracelet jingling away. In her other hand, she held something poofy, made of black-and-white fabric. It looked like another one of Amy’s froufrou Blooming Belles dresses.
    â€œHow are y’all gettin’ along?” Without waiting for an answer, Daphne said lightheartedly, “Good! Now, the guests are already downstairs in the living room, and they’ll be ready to eat any minute. Eva, I brought this down for y’all to wear.”
    As she spoke, my sister fitted a short tulle petticoat around my waist and pressed it closed with Velcro. Like a tutu, it barely covered my shorts.
    â€œWhat the . . .”
    â€œI see you’re wearin’ a black tee shirt. That’ll work just fine,” she fussed. Something dropped over my head, and Daphne’s arms were around my waist again, pulling the sides of an apron to the back where she tied a big bow.
    â€œDaphne, what is this?” I