Page 129 of Invisible Bars
“On the house,” she smiled. “But next time, I’m adding you to the Friday Cash App list.” She chuckled. “I’m just playing, grandson. Eat up!”
I didn’t need to be told twice… but prayer first.
Naji taught me that.
Not with lectures or long talks, but with gentle reminders—soft "Did you pray?" moments before meals, little glances when I picked up a fork too fast. She made gratitude feel less like a chore and more like a choice.
“You’re praying on yourown? Usually, I’d have to scold you,” Grandma spoke up while my head was still bowed.
Once I finished, I opened my eyes and gave her a small smirk.
“Growth.”
She eyed me like a seasoned detective. “Mm-hmm.”
I gripped the fork like it was my last lifeline and tore into that food like it said something slick—mouthful after mouthful of creamy mac, tender chicken sliding off the bone, cornbread so soft it practically apologized as it melted on my tongue. I barely came up for air.
“Grandma, this food so good, I don’t even remember what I was mad about today.”
She gave me that satisfied smile women displayed when they know they done outcooked Jesus.
“That’s the power of greens and gravy, baby. I’ve calmed more street beefs with a plate than therapy ever could.”
“Well, I’ma need you to fix me one to go. I might be full leaving here, but future me? He gon’ be mad as hell if I don’t.”
She laughed, already reaching for the extra containers.
“Ain’t nothing like a man thinking ahead on a full stomach. That’s how I know I raised you right. You gon’ get big again.”
“Iambig, Grandma… in all the right places,” I said, shoveling food in like I hadn’t eaten all day.
She laughed. “You sound like your nasty-ass granddaddy! Lord, rest his trifling soul. But back to my side hustle. You know, I’ve been thinking about some names for it. You know—making it official for tax season.”
I wiped my mouth with a napkin, already grinning, bracing myself for whatever wild, half-serious, half-hilarious names she was about to drop.
“Oh yeah? What you got?”
Mama Rose held up three fingers, as if about to recite a list of commandments.
“Hood & Holy Home Cooking.Kitchen Slap Ministry.Or…Don’t Come Empty-Handed Catering.”
“Kitchen Slap Ministry?! Grandma—” I laughed. “That sounds like folks leave with bruises and a blessing.”
She snapped her fingers. “Exactly! The food hit so hard, you feel like you need to apologize to somebody after! I like that one too!”
I pointed at her. “Nah, it’sHood & Holy Home Cookingfor me. It sounds like you gon’ feed my soul and still rebuke me in the same breath.”
She chuckled. “Oooh, I knew you was gon’ like that one! Hoodandholy—just like me. I got a switch in one hand and smoked turkey necks in the other.”
We both laughed.
The kitchen felt like peace.
After a few quiet bites, she leaned back in her chair, watching me with that side-eye only older Black grandmothers have.
“So, how’s ya’ mama?”
I damn near choked on a forkful of greens.
