Amina Brown

There are two reasons I needed to get in my grandma's kitchen.

One, to keep her recipes.

Two, to catch a man.

When I was a little girl, my grandma's kitchen was this magical place.

And it didn't matter whether it was your birthday or a holiday or just a regular old Sunday, she'd say, baby, what kind of cake you want?

And I'd tell her, grandma, I want chocolate cake.

And then I'd run outside to play.

I mean, I never actually stayed in the kitchen to see what she was doing in there.

I just figured she's probably clapping her hands like LeBron James in the middle of a basketball game, all flour and glitter and abracadabra hands.

All I know is when I came inside from playing, there was a feast.

Fried chicken and collard greens and biscuits and cake.

And after the whole meal was over, my grandma would take that leftover fried chicken, set it over to the side.

She'd take the cake, set it to the side, slice it, wrap each slice individually in wax paper, tape it closed, and then she'd grab an empty shoe box, line it with paper towels, half fried chicken, half chocolate cake, and each family got their own box to go home with.

Maybe an hour later,

Into your journey, in the car, on a bus, in a train, you'd lift the lid of that box and feel like heaven was singing back to you, which is why as a grown woman I needed to return to my grandma's kitchen.

My dating life, it wasn't going so well.

And some of the old southern women said, maybe it ain't going well because you can't cook.

And I resent the implication.

I could cook.

I could make spaghetti and meatloaf and tuna fish.