was now a vegetarian. Last year he had given up vegetables because of insecticides. That had lasted until she made fried okra a week later. Who knew how long this one might last?
She stuck a spoon into the peas and placed her hands on the counter. “Forrest, I do apologize for forgetting. But you know Mama’s got you covered. So get you some extra peas and butter beans for protein, and I’ll try to figure out how to chicken-fry tofu. But what I will tell you is that God made the chicken, and he taught us Southerners how to fry it, and I personally am certain he is going to serve it at the marriage supper of the Lamb. And I—”
“Oh my, something smells so good,” Jackson declared as he strode into the kitchen, gave Scarlett Jo a kiss on the cheek, and picked up a plate. “Boys, do you know how lucky you are to have a mother who makes this kind of meal for you? When I was growing up, my mother never did this.”
“Dad, we know,” said Jack, the oldest and his father’s namesake. “Your mother never cooked. You ate cereal for dinner. You’ve told us that story a million times.”
Jackson put a chicken thigh on his plate. “I have more where that came from.”
“I love your stories, Daddy.” Seven-year-old Rhett, the youngest, joined the conversation. Jackson had refused to name a child Rhett four times in a row. When the fifth child turned out to be another boy instead of the girl Scarlett Jo yearned for, he’d finally given in. He’d warned her that one day Rhett would realize he had to live with that name forever and would never speak to them again. But so far Rhett didn’t seem to mind. He was as easygoing about the name as he was about the rest of his life.
They all gathered around the table, and Jackson gave thanks. As usual, the discussion was lively and boisterous, and Scarlett Jo reveled in it. This was the best time of her day.
As soon as Jackson finished his meal, the four youngest immediately asked to be excused. The rule was, no one could leave until the last person was finished. Jackson was always the last to finish, so his final bite usually triggered a general exodus. But Jack didn’t rush away from the table tonight.
“How was your day, Son?” Jackson asked.
Jack picked another homemade biscuit from the basket that sat on the table, then reached for the jar of King Syrup and poured some on his plate. He talked as he put a spoonful of butter into his syrup and began to stir. “It was good.”
Scarlett Jo folded her napkin and put it on her plate, then leaned her elbows on the table. She watched as Jack scooped his biscuit through the buttered syrup and enjoyed studying the man her oldest was becoming. Even though he bore no physical resemblance to his father, he was the most like him in personality—strong, kind, and steady.
“Did you see Sarah today?” Scarlett Jo asked. Sarah was Jack’s friend who happened to be a girl. Scarlett Jo secretly hoped they would marry someday.
“Mom, I went to school. Sarah goes there. I see her every day.”
“Were you nice to her?” Scarlett Jo prompted, hoping for more.
Jack spooned another large helping of the syrup mixture onto his biscuit and took a big bite. Scarlett Jo couldn’t help but smile. She loved nothing more than watching her babies eat her cooking.
Then, before you could blink, Jack crammed the rest of the biscuit in his mouth and stood up from the table. Way up. At seventeen, he was already a few inches taller than her five-foot-eleven frame.
“Mom, I’m charming and a Southern gentleman,” he mumbled through his last bite as he scraped his plate into the disposal. “Of course I was nice to her.” He put the plate in the dishwasher, then came over and kissed her on the cheek. “But you’re the only woman for me. And that was a great dinner. I’ll eat your fried chicken any day.”
Her heart melted, and she beamed up at him, eyes glistening. He placed a hand on his dad’s shoulder. “Want to go look at that
She stuck a spoon into the peas and placed her hands on the counter. “Forrest, I do apologize for forgetting. But you know Mama’s got you covered. So get you some extra peas and butter beans for protein, and I’ll try to figure out how to chicken-fry tofu. But what I will tell you is that God made the chicken, and he taught us Southerners how to fry it, and I personally am certain he is going to serve it at the marriage supper of the Lamb. And I—”
“Oh my, something smells so good,” Jackson declared as he strode into the kitchen, gave Scarlett Jo a kiss on the cheek, and picked up a plate. “Boys, do you know how lucky you are to have a mother who makes this kind of meal for you? When I was growing up, my mother never did this.”
“Dad, we know,” said Jack, the oldest and his father’s namesake. “Your mother never cooked. You ate cereal for dinner. You’ve told us that story a million times.”
Jackson put a chicken thigh on his plate. “I have more where that came from.”
“I love your stories, Daddy.” Seven-year-old Rhett, the youngest, joined the conversation. Jackson had refused to name a child Rhett four times in a row. When the fifth child turned out to be another boy instead of the girl Scarlett Jo yearned for, he’d finally given in. He’d warned her that one day Rhett would realize he had to live with that name forever and would never speak to them again. But so far Rhett didn’t seem to mind. He was as easygoing about the name as he was about the rest of his life.
They all gathered around the table, and Jackson gave thanks. As usual, the discussion was lively and boisterous, and Scarlett Jo reveled in it. This was the best time of her day.
As soon as Jackson finished his meal, the four youngest immediately asked to be excused. The rule was, no one could leave until the last person was finished. Jackson was always the last to finish, so his final bite usually triggered a general exodus. But Jack didn’t rush away from the table tonight.
“How was your day, Son?” Jackson asked.
Jack picked another homemade biscuit from the basket that sat on the table, then reached for the jar of King Syrup and poured some on his plate. He talked as he put a spoonful of butter into his syrup and began to stir. “It was good.”
Scarlett Jo folded her napkin and put it on her plate, then leaned her elbows on the table. She watched as Jack scooped his biscuit through the buttered syrup and enjoyed studying the man her oldest was becoming. Even though he bore no physical resemblance to his father, he was the most like him in personality—strong, kind, and steady.
“Did you see Sarah today?” Scarlett Jo asked. Sarah was Jack’s friend who happened to be a girl. Scarlett Jo secretly hoped they would marry someday.
“Mom, I went to school. Sarah goes there. I see her every day.”
“Were you nice to her?” Scarlett Jo prompted, hoping for more.
Jack spooned another large helping of the syrup mixture onto his biscuit and took a big bite. Scarlett Jo couldn’t help but smile. She loved nothing more than watching her babies eat her cooking.
Then, before you could blink, Jack crammed the rest of the biscuit in his mouth and stood up from the table. Way up. At seventeen, he was already a few inches taller than her five-foot-eleven frame.
“Mom, I’m charming and a Southern gentleman,” he mumbled through his last bite as he scraped his plate into the disposal. “Of course I was nice to her.” He put the plate in the dishwasher, then came over and kissed her on the cheek. “But you’re the only woman for me. And that was a great dinner. I’ll eat your fried chicken any day.”
Her heart melted, and she beamed up at him, eyes glistening. He placed a hand on his dad’s shoulder. “Want to go look at that
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