Page 128 of Invisible Bars
I nodded.
My shoes tapped against the porch steps, steady and familiar. I barely lifted my hand toward the door when it creaked open like it had been waiting.
“Boy, what the hell took you so long? My chicken been falling off the bone since noon!” Mama Rose fussed with one hand on her hip and the other holding a dish towel.
I grinned. “Hey, Grandma. You knew I was coming? You must talked to Dess?”
“Yes, and no! I felt it in my knees. Now get your narrow behind in here before these greens go cold!”
I walked in, greeted by the smell of soul food; so potent it could bring tears to a grown man’s eyes.
The living room was exactly the same—plastic still on the floral couch, a Bible on every surface, and the giant spoon and fork set mounted on the wall.
“Shoes off!” she commanded.
“Grandma, my socks got holes in ‘em,” I joked.
“I done birthed yo' mama—I know shame when I hear it. Shoes off!”
I kicked them off and followed her to the kitchen.
“Grandma, why you cooking like this on a Friday… andthismuch food?” I asked, catching the full aroma of smothered chicken, mac and cheese, cabbage, yams, and cornbread that smelled like heaven had a stove.
“Because Friday is payday,” she answered, matter-of-fact. “And these grown-ass men out here got wives who only know how to Uber Eats and stress ’em out. They don’t cook, don’t clean, and think seasoning is disrespectful. So they come get them a real meal fromme.”
I raised a brow. “Wait—you selling plates now?”
She smirked. “Been selling them, grandson. You just never know with me.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “Facts. But I thought you just gave out plates for free?”
“I do—to folks in need,” she clarified, waving that big wooden spoon like it was a weapon. “But if a grown man got a good job,a designer belt, money for Henny, weed,andriding around in a car with rims spinning like he’s in a music video from 2004, then he got twenty dollars for this macaroni I risked carpal tunnel to stir!”
I laughed.
That woman was pure comedy, without even trying.
“I’m a blessing, not a buffet, Grandson. Don’t knock my hustle.”
I held my hands up, still laughing. “Aight, Grandma. Get yo’ coins. Speaking of plates, though…”
I repeated what Mr. Redd said about the sweet potatoes, trying not to laugh too early.
Grandma scoffed loudly. “Lord, that manstillon that? I told him I ran out ‘cause Idid. I ain’t got magical yams that multiply overnight. He got there late and expected a full plate like he RSVP’d to Thanksgiving!”
“He said Johnnie got a plate the next day,” I said, stirring the pot even more.
Grandma rolled her eyes. “Johnnie helped me unload them cases of water. That’s payment in food. Redd? He just show up with his gossip and gout.”
She waved me off.
“If you happen to see him when you leave, tell him this year for Thanksgiving, I’ll make him a personal pan—but only if he contributes. He can either buy the sweet potatoes, the sugar,orthe damn pan! I ain’t the Sweet Potato Tooth Fairy!”
I chuckled.
“Now, unless you’re trying to buy a plate like the rest of these half-fed husbands or lack one of these sides like my worrisome next door neighbor, sit your butt down. And take off that stiff-ass suit!”
I went to sit, and before I could even pull out the chair good, she slid a full plate in front of me with everything she had cooked and a good glass of sweet tea on the side.
