Tales From a Southern Belle's Kitchen

At the Stallings residence, my mother reigns queen of the kitchen. Relocate to my grandmother's kitchen, and you'll see a similar state of affairs. These women with their spatula scepters are happy curled up at night with a cookbook in hand, look for reasons to throw together a certain dish ("Oh, it's the cat's birthday. I think I'll make a pound cake."), and I don't think a summer Saturday has tolled when a farmers market visit wasn't involved. Come to think of it, I've also never seen one of them squinting down at a recipe in frustration. In my mind's eye, mama's always listening to me run my mouth or nudging the dog out of the way with her manicured foot. 

Once upon a time, I made Tollhouse cookies by dumping all the ingredients into the mixing bowl at the same time. Note: This does not produce cookies. Another time, inspired by Rachel Ray, I seasoned my pasta with so much pepper that I rendered it inedible--thus wasting a family size worth batch of ingredients. Where was my southern cook extraordinaire gene? I felt so left out--there must be something wrong with me. There is no way I can just not know how to cook. I mean, you follow a delineated recipe. I have "helped" in the kitchen for years. I think textbooks are fun and watch CSPAN, yet can barely decipher how to get past boiling water all by myself...

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