A few years ago, I met weekly with some women of my church to pray. Few things have marked me as profoundly as those evenings spent beseeching the throne of grace with those godly women.
One night before we began our prayer meeting in earnest, I was telling my friends about the supper I had taken to another friend who had suffered a miscarriage. Well, my praying friends always want to know about the food, so I described my menu, concluding with the confession that I did not send cornbread because I realized too late that I was out of eggs.
My praying friends, who also happen to be my culinary friends, looked at me like I’d sprouted wings.
“Eggs? In cornbread?” they stammered, eyes wide with incredulity. “Why in the world would you put eggs in cornbread?” they asked as they tried (unsuccessfully) to hide their shock.
Eyes averted, head down, I mumbled, “Because that’s what…ummm…well…that’s what the box said.”
Yes, I admit this to you, as I admitted to my dear friends years ago, I am a girl born and bred in the deep South and yes, I make my cornbread from the Jiffy mix. Still. I made some last night as a matter of fact.
My mom, on the other hand, makes THE BEST cornbread EVER. Seriously. EVER. Hers is unlike any I’ve had, except my grandmother’s, who incidentally taught her daughter-in-law, my mom. It is a crispy, oven fried concoction that is to DIE for (not really, not like Jesus, but you get my meaning).
I tried once to make cornbread like my mom. Yeah, I know. I should’ve known better, especially when it requires something like stone ground, fine corn meal, Adam’s brand if you can find it.
But that is probably the least of my worries when it comes to making my mom’s cornbread that is to DIE for (not like Jesus, but you get my meaning).
Yet one more reason to appreciate my mom, who is worthy of appreciation and not just for her cornbread.