Devonne Brown

Benji told me every thunderstorm in the middle of winter was an omen. So when the lightning knocked the power out on New Year’s Eve, and he missed the cake stand, the fruitcake cookies went flying from here to kingdom come, my knees went weak just a little. Charlie Mae was exacting revenge at my book signing. My first book signing. 

Benji made himself famous for Charlie Mae’s fruitcake cookies, and like her they were a Southern institution. The best recipes come from church ladies and their events. When he ate one of those cookies at the fall festival, he snuck into the kitchen on a recipe safari and didn’t stop until he found his quarry.

Charlie Mae’s fruitcake cookies were the talk of the Hallowed Ground Missionary Baptist Church as well as the whole county, and she wasn’t one for sharing recipes, and never the fruitcake cookies. Like all good Southern cooks, she liked to keep one or two specialties to herself. 

Southern culinary skills require the student to stand beside the master. Watch, learn, imitate. The next best thing, and it’s a poor substitution, is to read their recipes and hope to God they wrote everything down right. Most women down at the church, when they shared recipes with each other, either left out or added something to their recipes. Most didn’t put the directions on a recipe either. The method in their magic of the dish was as important as the ingredients. 

Benji didn’t have time to stand next to Charlie Mae and listen to her drone on about how to separate eggs. He catered. He considered himself a professional chef in his spare time. He waited for the ladies to start serving, took the card right out of the box, and added it to his repertoire of fine Southern Cuisine. Benji thought he was safe from repercussions because he lived two counties away.

Charlie Mae didn’t miss much. She watched his sneaky self pull it. 

Old fashioned fruitcake cookies take some finesse, and Benji was making a killing off of Charlie Mae’s fruitcake cookies in his catering business until the New Years Eve storm.

Lightning on the cusp of January was a bad sign. Benji believed in omens, but he was a bit surprised when he served her one of her fruitcake cookies at my event. Scared him to death. 

Charlie Mae was four and a half feet tall and the kindest Southern woman ever made, a lethal combination. Her big brown eyes looked deeply into Benji’s. He was smart enough to know he was in real trouble. 

“My, what nice fruitcake cookies you make. Those are quite complicated,” said Charlie Mae. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear this was my recipe. I lost mine, I’d sure like a copy of this one.” A dark look had come into her eyes. 

Benji’s mom had hit him with that same dark look a million times, and he was a terrified ten year old once again. Don’t mess with little old ladies. Sweet Southern hospitality does not extend to some recipes.