“Auntie Osbie, I’m bored,” Saleena Jeminee groaned in despair. “This story is boooooring.”

My cousin’s face slumped deeper into her hands until her palms smooshed her cheeks to chipmunkery. So much I worried she’d be liable to bruise.

I did mention, and I hope you follow, that this interlude simply represents one day out of the many which constructed Momma’s account in full. Its mention here is not meant to imply its calendar placement relative to where we’ve started, only that the part was adjacent in sequence at the point of the telling. So.

We were together in the kitchen, Saleena and Cooper and me, and we were fetching to help Momma with supper. This was an important and necessary responsibility, for the reason that Momma (despite all her virtues I’ll fiercely defend) was without a doubt the worst cook we had. Self-preservation and the common good thuswise set us children in a habit for assisting during her weekly scheduled meal. We had a whole system laid out. We rotated shifts.

“Saleena, you treat your aunties with respect, now,” I frowned. I was on the verge of showing Cooper how to cut up a yellow onion, but stalling since I knew I’d weep myself a fool once I did. My long knife had been good steel once, but its score or more years of service and sharpening had put a wave into its edge.

The whole of the space fit that same character, durable and servicable but pushing slowly to the weary limit. The cabinets were loose in the hinges, stocked to bursting with dry sundries, and herbs hung in fraying twine bundles from ceiling hooks. We carefully husbanded what space there was on the floor, top and oven as they were both precious and limited. There was no cramped feeling though, in that way the home and comfort were defined by what was olfactory instead of geometric.

Robust and savory airs were sunk deep into the carpentry from the many years providing for many mouths; in particular the carmelised brown of maillard fats were present in a subtle lingering. But while the product of our herd was always at hand, a broad nutrition also needs some measure of green. So our larders were fed and supplemented from trade in each of the four cardinals, and I had come to associate each direction with a particular smell. West was the warmth and smoky fullness of the sun, South was the pungeant and…

“I’m sorry!” Saleena threw her hands up into the air, then thunked her arms back down and fell into the crook of them. “It’s only ’t you keep draggin’ on! Gov’nments n’ vegetables an’ school dancin’! That ain’t ’sposed to be the point of the story, she’s tellin’ it all outside its right prior-dity!” Saleena continued to slump lower on the creaking stool which kept her level up to the countertop.

The surface we were chopping on was described to me as an island: a freestanding flat-on-cabinet in the center of the room. It was surfaced in solid unvarnished wood for the full length, which had some advantages for convenient preparation but grim consequences for long-term cleanliness. As my cousin’s elbows (and good sleeves) were slipping towards a patch of wet, I set my knife down and dragged her seat a few inches right and out of danger.

The gullah beans were still soaking and the leafy chard was flayed into a pile. A bowl of sour ewe curd was set abut of a wrapped parcel of cornmeal, and momma was sloshing a gourd of quince vinegar to listen if it had gone empty.

Momma squinted at the girl and then picked up the recipe card she’d reread four times already. “Saleena sweetest, I thought you like school stories.” Even though the text of her instructions could not possibly have been changed, they seemed to surprise her again all the same. “What does braise mean? I’ve got to braise... a hog jowl. Braise the jowl, jowl braise. Todd baby, those are both words right?”

Trying to keep my patience, I sent Cooper to run down to the wet cellar and assured him any cut of fatty pork would do. Then I motioned Saleena off her stool, so she might fetch the wider fry-pan.

“Momma, if I might recommend. We ought to start the polenta and beans first, as meat’ll be fast,” I reminded her.

Saleena clanked the pan loudly onto the stove top, then wobbled goofily over to Momma and started pawing absently at her jeans pockets. “I mean, I do! I love them bildungsroman.”

I winced, but restrained myself from clarifying that the term was particular and meant for literature.

Meanwhile Cooper had returned carrying a child’s armlength of pork belly. “Bill Dongs row man,” the boy echoed in a whisper. “Bull dung’s romance.”

Momma gently repositioned Saleena by touching her shoulders so she might not steal from her auntie’s pockets. I pinched Cooper’s nose and it flushed bright violet.

“An’ I love dancin’ stories too,” my cousin declared, tugging at either braid in cross direction over her face and spun ’round till her shin caught a cabinet corner. She hopped once and rubbed her leg indecorously. “But that all ain’t what this one is meant to be on.”

Momma started reaching for the parchment wrapped cornmeal, so I quickly intercepted by putting a measuring cup in the way of her hands. “Oh? And what’s my story supposed to be, little lady?”

“A story should be on what it’s ’sposed to be on! Auntie, it’s the ’Vasion! Capitalaclysm, and all that! Where are the asplosions? When did Auntie Hektor witch a mega-bug-a-pus with a laser knife? When’d the Mister overcome that riddle fight ’gainst a spectre to win his gun?”

“Well that second thing sure didn’t happen,” Momma frowned. “Who said that?”

“Made it up.”

Momma laughed. “Alright sweetest sugargum, you tell me. Which part of this history are you most keen for me to give you?”

Saleena dug her fist into her chin with the effort of thinking. Then she looked over at Cooper, who held out one hand flat, then made a motion of undulation with the whole of his forearm. She nodded, full affirmative. “I wanna hear the story ’bout how our Lady slew that dragon, when she saved the whole ’Merica,” Saleena demanded. Then her tone turned a pinch sheepish. “I mean, ma’am,” she corrected. “Please and thank you.”

Sighing, Momma searched us over and found all three of her helpers in agreement. If she thought I’d not be invested in hearing The Battle of St Louis over again, well, she was wrong as August hail. So I stole back what implements she was carrying and commandeered my cousins to relieve her of the preparation (which was honestly the better for everyone involved) and freeing her for the recounting.

“Well alright,” Momma reluctantly said. “Since y’all insist.”