There’s something about Southern baking that feels like a warm hug from your favorite auntie, or, in my case, my beloved grandmother. Growing up in the South, the kitchen is the heart of the home, a place where love is measured in cups of sugar and laughter is the secret ingredient in every dish. And Sundays at my grandmother's house put that loving energy on full display.
The Reign of "Big Mama" in the South... and her Kitchen
Every family has a different name for their grandmother - nana, granny, meemaw, gigi, grandmama, mimi, and, in recent years, probably because of texting, gma. I just called mine grandma. In our family, grandma ruled the kitchen with the kind of authority that only comes from years of perfecting her craft.... and liking things done HER way. She would surely grab that spoon and hip check you out of the way if you weren’t doing it right. She’d show you how, but only after that hip check and spoon grab. LOL! She was a matriarch in every sense of the word, commanding respect with just a look. Her cast iron ho cakes were legendary, and don't get me started on her cobblers. Pies? She left those to those other folk. At her house, cobblers reigned supreme, each spoonful a testament to the love and labor she poured into her cooking.
The Sweet Symphony of Peach Cobbler, Banana Pudding and Pound Cakes
Cobblers held a special place in our hearts, a symbol of comfort and togetherness. Unlike pies, which felt too formal and structured, cobblers were a freeform celebration of whatever fruit was in season. They mirrored our gatherings: warm, inviting, and just a little bit messy, but always made with love. In my opinion, all cobblers are delicious but peach reigns supreme.
Sundays weren’t complete without grandma's peach cobbler, fresh from the oven with a golden crust that shattered under your fork to reveal the juicy, spiced filling beneath. And with some ice cream? It really didn't get any better. If you were looking for banana pudding, that's where another matriarch came in to play. Her little sister; my auntie and one of my godmother's, made a gorgeous nana pudding! Layers of creamy custard, ripe bananas, and vanilla wafers topped with a meringue that seemed to defy gravity. She took that meringue very seriously! And then there's me and my pound cakes. My lemon pound cake is a best seller! It really is the benchmark of my business. Dense yet moist, zesty and sweet but not too sweet. Each bite feels like a piece of history. I offer way more than my lemon pound cake now but baking classic desserts in the kitchen with the mothers of the family will always be unmatched.
Sunday Dinners: A Weekly Tradition
Sunday were an entire ritual, my grandfather, a sweet teddy bear of a man, would fix my grandmother and I breakfast in bed, for “his girls,” he would say. Don't get it twisted, he was a beast in the kitchen too! I would sit with my grandma, in their bed, and we’d watch her favorite reruns. Mostly black and white classics like I love Lucy and I Dream of Jeannie, but I've also seen more episodes of Murder She Wrote than I can count.
I spent countless hours in the kitchen with both of my grandparents. At first, standing on a stool so I could reach the counter, my hands covered in flour as I tried to mimic her every move while baking. She’d chuckle at my attempts, her eyes twinkling with pride and amusement. I also spent time at my grandfather's knee, scared of the popping grease while he deep fried chicken in the same cast iron grandma used for her ho cakes. It was in that kitchen that I learned the true meaning of love and patience, of how food can be a bridge between generations. I have that collection of cast iron skillets now. Along with their china, and their silverware.
Sunday dinner was time for the family to come together and share stories, laughter, and, of course, food. My grandparents would start cooking early, the smell of their dishes filling the house and beckoning everyone to the table. After sneaking bits from the kitchen, of course. These dinners weren’t just about the food; they were about community, about keeping traditions alive, and about showing love in the most delicious way possible.
When Tradition Shifts
I'm writing this as an homage to not only my grandmother, but I could never leave out my grandfather. Without their love and guidance, I would not be here. I spent every weekend at their house growing up. Loving, learning, and laughing. I learned how to think on the fly, cool kitchen hacks and classic baking from my grandmother. My grandfather gave me technique, like breaking down a chicken because it’s cheaper than parts, and how to cut a cabbage without losing any fingers. I could write forever about all the things they taught me, the lessons they gave me, but this is my attempt at sticking with food. And I should warn you, I am going to fail miserably. I miss them and think of them often when I'm in the kitchen. And if it smells like my grandparents’ house when I'm cooking, I know I'm doing it right.
As the oldest grandchild, I was with them the longest. And living in close proximity only made it easier to spend time with them. I knew them before age and illness changed them. Before it took away their desire and ability to be in the kitchen. I will forever cherish the time, the love, the lessons, and so much laughter. My grandmother was a night owl like me. And late one night, or should I say, early in the morning, around 1996, I taught her the rap lyrics to Nonchalant’s “5 O’clock in the Morning”, with new lyrics. “5 o’clock in the morning, where you gon be? In the kitchen with grandma.” Yall, I was so proud of myself for that clever line LOL. My grandfather had already given up on us, as usual, so it was just us, at the kitchen table. There were so many countless nights like this. I honestly forgot that it wouldn’t be like this forever.
I was heartbroken when my grandfather passed in August of 2013. He taught me kindness, how to be a good person and he had a big belly laugh that I will NEVER forget. The amazing grandfather who taught my daddy and my uncle to be amazing fathers. I will always miss my teddy bear. My grandmother cared him for 6 years before he passed. Eleven years later, I would do the same.
Earlier this year, my grandmother fell ill and I became her caretaker, her advocate, and her "muscle" in the hospital. Yall, I actually told one of the Patient Care Advocates that I would flip the hospital over if they messed with my grandma. She was shocked, my grandma smiled. At 81, she had never been hospitalized for an illness before. For 35 days, it was me against her fear, me against her pain, and me against her inability to speak up for herself. I became her voice when she needed someone to look out for her. Just like she had done for me all the years of my life. All the hugs, all the hand holding, all the prayers she had given me, I gave them back to her.
In true grandma fashion, she wanted things done her way. And who was I to tell her no, she earned it. She said to me, "Please... No more nurses. No more hospitals. I want to go home." So we took her home. I'm sure we annoyed the hell out of her with all the fussing over her, and the talking. But she wanted me to hold her hand. So I did. The whole time she was in the hospital, I was dreading a trip I had planned out of the country. I knew she'd be gone by the time I came back. I told her, "I wish I could take you on my trip with me grandma. It'd be so much fun." I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye, so I stayed with her until midnight and kissed her face a million times. The next morning my flight was delayed - moved from 1030 am to 1130 am. My family told me to enjoy my trip. They were going to take care of her. As I was sitting in the airport, I wanted to call. It was 1030. Shouldn't I check in before my flight? I caved and called around 1040. "How's grandma?"... "She just passed, at 1030."
Of course, she didn't want me to be there when she passed. I know that, but I wanted to be there to hold her hand. Didn't I say grandma did things HER way? I did, didn't I? I think she was trying to catch that flight with me, yall. You know, when she passed away in April, I honestly didn't think I’d be able to breathe. My whole life I told people, “I don't know what I’m going to do when I lose my grandma.” I thought I'd be one of those overly dramatic people at the funeral, screaming and throwing myself on the casket. And even though it felt like this monumental chapter of my life had closed, I felt peace. Of I was sad. I’m sad right now as I write this. But I’m OK. Maybe because I spent those last days doing everything I could to make sure she was OK. How lucky was I to be able to do that for her? To care for her the way she did for me. Maybe because we really are kindred spirits, like my aunt always said. And if nothing else, she is now pain free. Reunited with her son (my daddy,) two of her sisters, her parents, and the love of her life. My grandparents met and fell in love in junior high. I found their love letters because, of course, my grandmother kept them. Too cute!
Energy Never Leaves
I will never forget all the hours I spent in my grandparents’ kitchen. No matter how achingly empty it feels now. Her legacy, and my grandfather’s legacy, lives on in every cake I bake, in every batch of cookies that come out of my oven and every time I have table full of soul food, surrounded by my family and friends. Just like those Sunday dinners. And it’s her spirit that inspires me to keep The Baked Lotus Cake House thriving, to bring a piece of that Southern warmth, love and tradition to every customer who invites me to be a part of their celebrations, even if it’s not on a Sunday.