this said as she started the water running to fill the coffee pot. "And I'm not fixing this coffee because you told me to. I'm a nice person and I know how to be a gracious host when I invite someone for a meal—"
"See, I told you you invited me!"
"Look! I did not invite you!"
"That's what you just said!"
That stopped her, she glared at him, fighting not to smile. "Everett Styles, you want this pot upside your head?"
He feigned a look of fear. "No, ma'am."
Sylvie headed for the coffee maker to fill it with the water. "You best leave me alone then and not push it." Everett grinned, turning to Darren winking at him, then began feeding him. "Ummm, ma'am…by the way, the bacon's burning again." Sylvie quickly put the pot down and dashed across the kitchen to the smoking pan. "Doggone you, Everett Styles, you made me burn my bacon!"
He acted stunned. "How'd I make you burn the bacon? I think you just one of these new millennium women with no domestic skills." Taking the pan to the sink, she dropped it in and turned, cocking her hip with hands on them to do battle.
"Oh no—you did not—say that to me!"
He turned, spooning another mouthful to an observing Darren and then lifted his toast to his mouth so he could take a bite out of it. "Well, I'm just going by what I see. Bacon burned. No coffee on. I gotta feed the baby or else he'd be starving. Lucky for him, man invented microwaves and instant oatmeal...can I have a bowl? I'm hungry!"
Finger up and pointed dead aim at him. "You listen here, Mr. Styles, you about to get tossed out of here on your ear!" she warned. He leaned up to look towards the stove again. "What you got boiling in that pot over there?" he continued in his teasing antagonism.
"Don't you worry about it! I was making some grits!" she growled, going to the counter grabbing the container which held grits and spooned in the proper amount. "I don't know if you oughta attempt that. Not just anybody can make good grits," he stated, shaking his head, spooning in more oatmeal for Darren.
She turned, looking down her nose at him. "Like you know anything about grits!" she accused.
"I know plenty about grits. My mama made the best grits anywhere, and I followed in her footsteps. Having to feed four younger brothers and sisters," he reminded her once again.
"You eat grits and know how to cook 'em?"
"Black folks aren't the only ones who eat grits, you know. There's many white folks that eat grits! Collard greens, turnip greens, mustard greens—"
"Get outta here!" she blasted, stunned.
"Wash 'em, cut 'em up, fry up that salt pork, get that fat to moving—"
"Get outta here!" she repeated, dumbfounded.
"Peel up a couple of big white turnips, chop'em up and put'em in with the greens, pour in the fat and salt pork, some chopped onions and garlic—I like a little crushed red pepper myself—and pour in the water...not too much! Man, lemme tell ya...some corn bread, that's all you need! That's all we could afford, but it was good."
"Oh, my goodness!"
"Um-hm. You be a good girl…be nice to me, I might cook you some. If you can't fry no bacon and cook no grits...which are about to boil over," he inserted to warn her, "I know you can't handle no greens," he finished, punctuating his litany with the last spoon of oatmeal to Darren's open and waiting mouth. Then winked at him for finishing to the last drop. Sylvie was running to the sink to get a towel for all the water and grits that boiled over. "Listen here, white man, you done push me too far, early this morning! Talkin' about my cookin'. This all your fault, distracting me!"
"Um-hm," he mumbled.
"Don't be 'um-hmming' me! I was doing just fine before you come up in here, trying to run something. That's what I get for being nice and lettin' yo' butt in!" she fussed, turning from the sink to say something further to him, but saw Isaac coming from the hallway rubbing his eyes.
"Oh, great!"
Following the direction of her stare, Everett turned in his chair to
"See, I told you you invited me!"
"Look! I did not invite you!"
"That's what you just said!"
That stopped her, she glared at him, fighting not to smile. "Everett Styles, you want this pot upside your head?"
He feigned a look of fear. "No, ma'am."
Sylvie headed for the coffee maker to fill it with the water. "You best leave me alone then and not push it." Everett grinned, turning to Darren winking at him, then began feeding him. "Ummm, ma'am…by the way, the bacon's burning again." Sylvie quickly put the pot down and dashed across the kitchen to the smoking pan. "Doggone you, Everett Styles, you made me burn my bacon!"
He acted stunned. "How'd I make you burn the bacon? I think you just one of these new millennium women with no domestic skills." Taking the pan to the sink, she dropped it in and turned, cocking her hip with hands on them to do battle.
"Oh no—you did not—say that to me!"
He turned, spooning another mouthful to an observing Darren and then lifted his toast to his mouth so he could take a bite out of it. "Well, I'm just going by what I see. Bacon burned. No coffee on. I gotta feed the baby or else he'd be starving. Lucky for him, man invented microwaves and instant oatmeal...can I have a bowl? I'm hungry!"
Finger up and pointed dead aim at him. "You listen here, Mr. Styles, you about to get tossed out of here on your ear!" she warned. He leaned up to look towards the stove again. "What you got boiling in that pot over there?" he continued in his teasing antagonism.
"Don't you worry about it! I was making some grits!" she growled, going to the counter grabbing the container which held grits and spooned in the proper amount. "I don't know if you oughta attempt that. Not just anybody can make good grits," he stated, shaking his head, spooning in more oatmeal for Darren.
She turned, looking down her nose at him. "Like you know anything about grits!" she accused.
"I know plenty about grits. My mama made the best grits anywhere, and I followed in her footsteps. Having to feed four younger brothers and sisters," he reminded her once again.
"You eat grits and know how to cook 'em?"
"Black folks aren't the only ones who eat grits, you know. There's many white folks that eat grits! Collard greens, turnip greens, mustard greens—"
"Get outta here!" she blasted, stunned.
"Wash 'em, cut 'em up, fry up that salt pork, get that fat to moving—"
"Get outta here!" she repeated, dumbfounded.
"Peel up a couple of big white turnips, chop'em up and put'em in with the greens, pour in the fat and salt pork, some chopped onions and garlic—I like a little crushed red pepper myself—and pour in the water...not too much! Man, lemme tell ya...some corn bread, that's all you need! That's all we could afford, but it was good."
"Oh, my goodness!"
"Um-hm. You be a good girl…be nice to me, I might cook you some. If you can't fry no bacon and cook no grits...which are about to boil over," he inserted to warn her, "I know you can't handle no greens," he finished, punctuating his litany with the last spoon of oatmeal to Darren's open and waiting mouth. Then winked at him for finishing to the last drop. Sylvie was running to the sink to get a towel for all the water and grits that boiled over. "Listen here, white man, you done push me too far, early this morning! Talkin' about my cookin'. This all your fault, distracting me!"
"Um-hm," he mumbled.
"Don't be 'um-hmming' me! I was doing just fine before you come up in here, trying to run something. That's what I get for being nice and lettin' yo' butt in!" she fussed, turning from the sink to say something further to him, but saw Isaac coming from the hallway rubbing his eyes.
"Oh, great!"
Following the direction of her stare, Everett turned in his chair to