Sara made sure that Vincent was made to feel right at home in his new town. She took him everywhere and showed him the finer things in our little neck of the woods. She made sure he had donuts at Laura’s Donuts. (Most folks swear they had stolen the recipe and equipment out of a closed-down Krispy Kreme somewhere in Tennessee.) She took him out to eat the two best burgers in town, Sonic’s Number 3 hamburger, with Bar-B-Que sauce and onions, and the burger at Brown’s Grill, where Mr. Brown would grill the bun in the grease from the burger after it had finished cooking.
She took him to Ellis’ Department Store and let Mrs. Ellis find him the perfect pair of shoes to go with the right jeans, and the neatest button down shirt. She took him out to the gravel pits, where the water was cool, deep, crystal clear, and mosquito-free. I had no chance in the world with this man until I discovered that his favorite thing in the whole world was a coconut cake.
Things changed right after my mother saw his mother at the Jitney Jungle, the largest food store in town. (The South has always had a certain flair for naming her grocery store chains.) Mrs. Vaughan was studying the cake recipe on the back of the store-brand of shredded coconut when my mother sauntered up next to her.
“That cake is okay, but the icing is way too…bland,” my mother butted in. The two had not yet met, but that never had stopped a southerner from offering commentary on any item in a food store. All down the aisles of the Jitney, folks were chatting about the prices, quality, and “did it have enough sugar in it.” And that was precisely the problem with the cheap variety of coconut. They skimped on the sugar and in the South that was a fatal sin.
“It’s just not sweet enough,” my mother said with complete authority. “I’m Mrs. Henry Small, and I don’t think we have met.”
“I’m Cecelia Vaughan, and it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the woman said as she put the coconut back on the shelf.
My mother could tell right away that this woman was not going to be a friend. It really bothered her when a woman introduced herself with her first name instead of her husband’s name. My mother thought it was just plain rude and “uppity”. While my mother was one of the most outspoken women in the whole county, she knew and respected her place. She was a God-fearing woman and the Bible plainly said that the woman was supposed to serve the man. We went round and round on that one, and after three days of solid arguing, she just refused to discuss it ever again. It was the way she felt, period.
“Oh, you’re the folks that moved down on Ann Street, and your husband works at the chemical plant, and your son is in school with my daughter.”
Mrs. Vaughan had really nothing to say; my mother had said it all. She just smiled.
“I wish I had Miss Edna’s recipe, now THAT is a coconut cake.” My mother closed her eyes, just dreaming about all that sugar.
“It’s my son’s favorite cake, but I just can’t seem to get it right. His birthday’s Friday, and I hear Whispering Pine bakery in town doesn’t make a good coconut cake.” That was the understatement of the year. The bakery had not baked an edible cake in years.
Without missing a beat, my mother solved her dilemma. “My daughter makes a great coconut cake and she would be more than happy to bake one for your son.” That was a little white lie. I had never attempted a coconut cake before.
“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that. I’ll manage something.”
Before she’d finished the sentence, my mother was halfway down the aisle. “Don’t you think another minute about it. I’ll get her to drop it off tomorrow afternoon. Consider it our little version of the Welcome Wagon.”
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