I can’t help but laugh. “What else you know how to do sides corn pone?”

“I can boil potatoes.” Her voice drops even quieter. “And I can do grits. We didn’t have electric current out where I lived. But I’m ready to learn right. On a real stovetop.”

Lord. I’ve never met a white person worse off than me except for crazy Mister Wally, lives behind the Canton feed store and eats the cat food.

“You been feeding your husband grits and corn pone ever day?”

Miss Celia nods.“But you’ll teach me to cook right, won’t you?”

“I’ll try,” I say, even though I’ve never told a white woman what to do and I don’t really know how to start. I pull up my hose, think about it. Finally, I point to the can on the counter.

“I reckon if there’s anything you ought a know about cooking, it’s this.”

“That’s just lard, ain’t it?”

“No, it ain’t just lard,” I say. “It’s the most important invention in the kitchen since jarred mayonnaise.”

“What’s so special about”—she wrinkles her nose at it—“pig fat?”

“Ain’tpig, it’s vegetable.” Who in this world doesn’t know what Crisco is? “You don’t have a clue of all the things you can do with this here can.”

She shrugs.“Fry?”

“Ain’t just for frying. You ever get a sticky something stuck in your hair, like gum?” I jackhammer my finger on the Crisco can. “That’s right, Crisco. Spread this on a baby’s bottom, you won’t even know what diaper rash is.” I plop three scoops in the black skillet. “Shoot, I seen ladies rub it under they eyes and on they husband’s scaly feet.”

“Look how pretty it is,” she says. “Like white cake frosting.”

“Clean the goo from a price tag, take the squeak out a door hinge. Lights get cut off, stick a wick in it and burn it like a candle.”

I turn on the flame and we watch it melt down in the pan.“And after all that, it’ll still fry your chicken.”

“Alright,” she says, concentrating hard. “What’s next?”

“Chicken’s been soaking in the buttermilk,” I say. “Now mix up the dry.” I pour flour, salt, more salt, pepper, paprika, and a pinch of cayenne into a doubled paper sack.

“Now. Put the chicken parts in the bag and shake it.”

Miss Celia puts a raw chicken thigh in, bumps the bag around.“Like this? Just like the Shake ’n Bake commercials on the tee-vee?”

“Yeah,” I say and run my tongue up over my teeth because if that’s not an insult, I don’t know what is. “Just like the Shake ’n Bake.” But then I freeze. I hear the sound of a car motor out on the road. I hold still and listen. I see Miss Celia’s eyes are big and she’s listening too. We’re thinking the same thing: What if it’s him and where will I hide?

The car motor passes. We both breathe again.

“Miss Celia,” I grit my teeth, “how come you can’t tell your husband about me? Ain’t he gone know when the cooking gets good?”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that! Maybe we ought to burn the chicken a little.”

I look at her sideways. I ain’t burning no chicken. She didn’t answer the real question, but I’ll get it out of her soon enough.

Real careful, I lay the dark meat in the pan. It bubbles up like a song and we watch the thighs and legs turn brown. I look over and Miss Celia’s smiling at me.

“What? Something on my face?”

“No,” she says, tears coming up in her eyes. She touches my arm. “I’m just real grateful you’re here.”