
My paternal grandfather lived through the Jim Crow South, so when he retired, all he wanted to do was praise the Lord, serve his community, spend time with his family, and tend his garden. He loved hanging out with his grandchildren, and I have fond memories of sitting with my Paw Paw at his kitchen table in the summer, eating a piece of cornbread slathered with butter while he drank buttermilk, sometimes crumbling cornbread into the milk and eating it like cereal. I carry on that tradition by feeding our girls my take on this special breakfast, usually on Saturdays. I remind them that this is not a dessert, and that Black folks in the South like their cornbread sweet because that’s the way it’s supposed to be eaten. Whipped sweet corn takes the place of butter, and we jazz it up with a heaping spoonful of hot pepper jelly—creating our own memories, with my Paw Paw at their heart.








