About Us.

I was eight years old and never considered cooking a business or a means of making a living. I am known for my delicious baked goods and “everyday cooking” that stick to your bones. I started at eight years old. I was responsible for cutting the vegetables, cleaning, rinsing, and preparing all the meat for my grandmother’s big family dinners on special occasions such as Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I did this every year until I was 25.

Around 12 years old, I told my dad I wanted to learn how to fry chicken. I had been baking and helping prep the meals for my mom. I regularly start dinner before she comes home from work. She only had to finish the remainder of the meal. I watched my mom, grandmother, and aunts cook chicken for years. Therefore, I wanted to learn how to fry chicken, especially since it is my all-time favorite. My mother did not want me to fry food until I was 16. She said it was dangerous, and I had to be very careful around hot grease. Nevertheless, I was still very eager to learn because she was always tired after work. Cooking would allow me to help her. 

Honestly, in my opinion, my dad made the best-fried chicken. I loved cooking meals with him. To prepare the chicken for frying, my father would clean it, then soak it overnight in buttermilk. I don’t quite remember if he used salt. I don’t know why I never asked about that part, but I remember the buttermilk. When my dad came home from work, he would clean up and change his clothes before cooking. First, he would take the chicken out of the fridge and then prepare to season the flour. I never saw him put any seasoning on the chicken. However, when he finished seasoning the flour, there was barely any flour to be seen as there was now more seasoning than flour. He would then pull out the large cast-iron skillet, fill it with vegetable oil, and let it get hot. I had already cleaned the turnip greens and prepped the homemade cornbread before he came home. I always made sure the water was boiling when we cooked the greens. I loved putting the greens in the cast-iron Dutch oven pot and placing the lid on it to let them cook; they smelled so good. 

On a few occasions, my dad allowed me to baste the chicken in seasoned flour and place pieces in the hot grease using tongs. He said I should never use my hands because I could get burned; this was the first time I had ever fried anything. He sat down and watched me cook. Never saying a word, he waited for me to ask questions. I had no questions because I thought I knew what to do. After all, I had watched so many people cook chicken. I had this! I checked the chicken, which appeared beautifully cooked and crispy. I let it rest in a strainer as I saw everyone else do. I set the table with all the food, and we all sat down. My mom smiled and said everything looked great. My father cut a piece of chicken, and it bled! My eyes started to water. The tears began streaming down my face. I was distraught! My dad looked at me and said, “There’s no need for tears, baby girl. When you first start learning to cook, this can happen. Let’s get the next batch out of the fridge and start over.” I placed the cornbread in the oven to stay warm and began to prepare the second batch of chicken to cook. I poured out the grease and cleaned the pan.