Cornbread

No one here but you and me and perfect cornbread, steaming in its iron skillet. On the stove beside it, turnip greens bubble, essential to such union. No other human, just dog and woman on Sunday night, alone. I’ve proven the theorem again, equation of salt, baking soda, and powder into one cup of meal, one egg, and the buttermilk I sniff, still okay five days past, it’s tangier, just right. Here’s the tricky part: heat shortening in the skillet as the oven temperature rises. Be patient – work slowly – and when the grease is hot, it will bind the mixture, make the crisp coat firm. Sixteen minutes and it’s turned out like a dancer on the green ceramic plate. You get the first bite. I kneel and pull apart the thin wedge I’ve cut for you. Just a dog. Eye to eye, remember when someone told the puppies to hush? Did you catch a steaming ball of corn dough in your dream? Lick my fingers – it’s that good. When he returns – his hand, too.