Confederates Don't Wear Couture by Stephanie Kate Strohm Page A

happy he was preoccupied, because he didn’t lace me nearly as tight. As if he were in some sort of nineteenth-century speed-dressing competition, within minutes I was corseted, hoop-skirted, petticoated, and standing in a plaid silk taffeta day dress. Dev chucked a cameo brooch at me to pin on my collar at the base of my throat and flung the tent flap open.
    â€œMornin’, Dev. Libby.” Beau was standing outside the tent in gray wool pants, suspenders, and a soft green checked shirt, balancing two tin cups and a plate. He seemed slightly less tongue-tied than he’d been last night. “I fixed you a plate.”
    â€œKeep that horse’s piss out of my sight,” Dev thundered, “or so help me, I will go General Sherman on all of your asses and raze this sorry excuse for a Starbucks to the ground.
Where is the real coffee?!
” Dev pushed his way over to the main ring of campfires.
    â€œSorry about Dev,” I said. I shot Beau an apologetic look and took the plate. “He’s really not fit for human companionship before coffee. And thanks for the plate.” I smiled. I couldn’t believe he’d “fixed me a plate.” Just like all the boys wanted to do for Scarlett O’Hara at the Twelve Oaks barbecue! “That was really sweet.”
    â€œWasn’t anythin’ special.” He shrugged. “Besides, I promised my mama I’d take good care of y’all.”
    He smiled, and I was flooded with warmth that had nothing to do with the Alabama sunshine. Not that it meant anything. I mean, I had a boyfriend. Obviously. Beau was just an infectious smiler. Just friendly, you know. It’s always nice to make new friends. Especially ones who smile like they really mean it, with their whole face, reaching all the way up to the startling green of their eyes . . .
    â€œSo, what’s for breakfast today?” I blushed and looked down at the plate. I had no idea what it was. There was a lump of something fried and yellowish, dusted with a heavy coating of coal black char, next to a little puddle of something sticky.
    â€œWell, today’s special is the same as it is every day,” Beau said with a laugh. “Johnnycakes.”
    â€œJohnnycakes?” I asked. “What are they? And who’s Johnny?”
    â€œNobody really knows, certainly not me,” he replied, pushing up the brim of his gray kepi cap to scratch his head. “Some people think it comes from ‘journey cakes,’ because they pack real well to take on journeys. Others say that it comes from ‘Shawnee cakes,’ because the Shawnee tribe in the Tennessee Valley came up with ’em. Maybe a slurred version of ‘janiken,’ which is an Indian word for corn cake. Other people say it comes from ‘Johnny Reb,’ the nickname for Confederate soldiers, because that’s just about all we eat. Except it couldn’t be, because people were callin’ ’em johnnycakes back during the Revolution. It was real big in Rhode Island, ’specially,” he explained. He shook his head. “You think folks’d do their research better.”
    My jaw dropped. I had never met anyone who knew as much, maybe more, about American culinary history as I did. I’d never even met anyone who was interested in it before.
    â€œAnd, anyway,” he finished, “they’re sort of like corn bread.”
    â€œOh, yum! I love corn bread!” I took a big bite and immediately wished I hadn’t.
    Apparently my distress must have shown on my face, because Beau burst out laughing.
    â€œI said it’s
sort of
like corn bread,” he clarified. “Except johnnycakes is nothin’ but cornmeal, salt, and water. Fried in a skillet over the campfire.”
    â€œOh,” I said through a thick mouthful of inedible mush. “Yum.”
    â€œTakes some getting used to,” he said, fighting valiantly to keep it together, as I kept