Gimme the Sweet Life

smelling so good, i could slap myself

via Fragrances of the World and more details here

Over the holidays, while running errands with Mama, we ended up at a Bath & Body Works store. A few years ago, I wrote about my desire to smell fruity and edible despite pressure to move toward more mature scents. I’m not mad at Bath & Body Works. Well, I’m a little salty because they recently discontinued my favorite scent, Pretty as a Peach. I pray it’s temporary. When Mama and I walked into the store, I hoped to find a replacement, but I was pleasantly surprised to find another old favorite on display– Pearberry.

Pearberry was My Scent through high school and college. My first high school boyfriend loved me in Victoria’s Secret’s Love Spell. It smelled like candied grape kool-aid. My college boyfriend loved me in Pear Glacé, which smelled more like a super sweet cantaloupe than any kind of pear. But Pearberry was for me. It smells like a syrupy champagne, and I always get a flash image of pouring a bottle of bubbly down my leg into a darling young man’s mouth when I smell it. It makes me feel like I’m a sweet shop… for grown-ups. I guess that was my thing then, smelling like sugared fruit. It might still be my thing.

Re-discovering Pearberry has made me think about the scents I associate with old loves and lovers. My first boyfriend smelled like lemon starch. He was really particular about his clothes and ironed everything. Whenever I write about a male love interest, I make him smell like lemon starch. My college boyfriend smelled like Egyptian Musk, which I still have a visceral reaction to, and that damn Issey Miyake. When he wore L’Eau d’Issey, I’d latch myself to his front, bury my nose into his neck, and just float into an incredibly happy place. Issey is the one cologne that made me turn my whole body around in the club to find out who was wearing that.

A recent lover drove me crazy with K by Dolce & Gabbana. I loved it so much that when I went to Scotland in May, I sprayed some of it onto a Crown Royal bag and took that with me on the trip so I could smell it (him) while I was gone. When I realized he would not be able to return even half of what I gave, I threw the bag away in a pique. I’ll be honest. I later regretted tossing it, especially when he stopped wearing it after he finished the bottle. He said he’d spray the cologne once. I believed him because you could only smell it up close, and it went straight to my cooch. Maybe it made me a little stupid, too.

I like it when men smell fresh, citrusy, aquatic, and/or mossy-woodsy with a tainch of spice, but I like to smell like a decadent dessert– Eat me first. Life is too short to pass me by– or a luscious cocktail– let me be the delightful thing that sneaks up on you.

At Bath & Body Works (I promise this is not an ad of any kind), I picked up a two-scent layering combo: Pearberry body wash and Buttercups & Berry Bellini body cream. I took a really good shower and smelled so good, I wanted to bite myself. I smelled like a boozy strawberry shortcake, and I loved it. It’s become my go-to pick-me-up when I get depressed about not working or am feeling like a burden.

Even though I have some favorite scents, I’m not sure I have a signature. I have a tropically-sweet body oil I use mostly on date nights that I know will be… fruitful. I recently discovered a chocolate-scented oil that makes me want a good make-out session. It’s supposedly really popular amongst “fragrance influencers” because it’s cheap, strong, and easy to get. Imagine freshly baked chocolate chip cookies cooling in the kitchen while you’re on the couch, grinding against a thigh and kissing someone soft and deep. I used to order a lemon pound cake body butter that became too expensive for me. I would wear it during the summer for date nights and have myself purring.

Last summer, I went to a fragrance debut event and bought a perfume called Yara Candy by Lattafa. Rub some strawberry sour straws all over you. Take a bath in Skittles. Huff some Big League Chew. That’s the scent. I also really like this luscious birthday cake body oil, but I lowkey wish they’d change the name. I’m down to my last bottle and am using it sparingly. I’m not typically a vanilla girl but the caramel really pops on my skin, and I always get compliments about it. I found a scent I really like during the summer from this gourmand brand. It smells like your island lover licking rum punch off your belly.

The gourmand girlies get a bad rep because smelling sweet is considered childish, but not all of us want to smell like powder and furs from the back of the closet. There’s nothing wrong if you want to smell like pressed flowers found in a used Agatha Christie book or spilled red wine in the back seat of a new limousine. I totally understand the appeal. You want to be admired and respected. You want to smell like wealth and prestige. I want someone to think about licking their fingers when they smell me. And that’s okay!

There’s been plenty written up about “the lipstick effect,” when people focus on small luxuries during times of economic strife. Things have been… what they are for a while, and I think people have gravitated towards ideas like “soft life” and “self care” lifestyles because there has to be some kind of breathing room between all the chaos and confusion, or we will lose our minds. People need pleasure. It drains you when every single penny, every single thought, goes to survival. Why are we here if we’re not supposed to enjoy any of it? I think it’s weird when people see something like an unhoused person eating a doughnut and act like that $2 pastry is why they can’t find lodging. I’d never begrudge someone, in a low moment of their life, indulging themselves with some tasty goodness. We cannot live by bread alone.

Let me be a sweet treat, to myself, if only for a moment.

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• I recently watched Missing You on Netflix. It’s an adaptation of a Harlan Coben novel. I cannot recommend it, but you do you. Police detective Kat Donovan matches with a guy on a dating app who appears to be her former fiancé Josh Buchanan who disappeared 12 years ago. She’s in the middle of another case which seems to be connected to Josh’s reappearance, but how? While untangling those knots, she discovers the truth about her father’s sudden yet mysterious death. I’m not sure how Kat became a detective because she is dumb as a doorknob on the ceiling. No kind of instincts or awareness. And the ending makes it painfully obvious that the original novel was written by a white person with a predominantly white cast of characters. You cannot sprinkle cocoa on something and make it “diverse.” You have to add in cultural nuances, as well. I can’t explain my issues with this limited series without seriously spoiling it. I wish I had recorded the high-pitched disbelief my sister and I exclaimed at the ending.

• For the “new year, new me” vibes, I’ve been using a habit tracker app simply called Habit Tracker (iOS link). I have found it very helpful so far and am hitting a lot of my goals. I’m tracking stuff like journaling and reading daily for an hour. You can track 6-7 items for free. TMI: I downloaded it because I wanted to keep track of how often I have sex this year. I don’t know why. Since I’ve moved back home, only the cat has seen my toot-toot during some naked yoga.

• This is the video I’ve done a couple of times which shined my cooter into my cat’s observant gaze. It’s a series of yoga poses that help with digestion, bloating, IBD/IBS, and ulcerative colitis. Baby, when I tell you I am immediately in the bathroom after following this video, I mean it! A top comment reads: “Tried this and it left me sounding like the beginning of Shanghai by Nicki Minaj. 100% recommend!”

• I’m off social media for the month of January. I deleted the dating apps in November and deleted Threads the other day. I’m behind on all the celeb gossip and any trends, but I’m also less irritated, sleeping better, and reading more.

• Here’s a list of verified GoFundMe campaigns and a Displaced Black Families GoFundMe Directory to help those affected by the California wildfires.

• Still looking for creative work (writing, podcasting) but I’m probably about to return to soul-sucking office life in the meantime. Maybe I can find something full time with health insurance. Maybe I will win the lottery.

No Prince For You!

Isn't that sweet like... queso?

When I had to start tightening my belt earlier this year, I let my Spotify premium subscription lapse. I tried listening for free, and it was a terrible experience. The algorithm added songs I did not like to my playlists; I couldn’t skip them; and the ads were intrusive and jarring. So I stopped using the app. I was gone long enough that they sent me a heavily-discounted offer– something like 3 months for $11.99. I can’t remember it now, but I think I had about $20 in my bank account at the time and accepted it.

This offer caught me at the end of a… challenging summer. I didn’t really feel like myself, and I’d started seeing someone who did not care for me the way I wanted him to. I was trying to come to terms with the idea of leaving New York while feeling relieved that this would be the perfect excuse for me to end things once and for all with him. Then Sabrina Carpenter’s album came out. I was vaguely aware of her Nonsense outros and I didn’t pay much attention to “Espresso” at first until I saw a tik tok of someone breaking down the lyrics. I thought she was saying something about queso, but when I listened to the full song and not just 15 seconds of the chorus on an app, I was like “I like the cut of this young lady’s jib.”

Anyway. Sabrina Carpenter’s album came out during a time when I realized I was slapping an orgasm-sized band-aid on my loneliness with this dude. Let’s call him Lil John Wick. No need to know why. And I felt really sad and pitiful. I had regressed in my relationship healing, or maybe I wasn’t as healed as I thought I was. I was repeating patterns from 20 years ago. I felt really fucking stupid. So I allowed myself a few days of self-pity. I figured since I’d regressed so much, practically back to my dumb 20s, I’d close the loop by listening to some sad songs on repeat. And that’s how I ended up with “Don’t Smile” as the top song on my Spotify Wrapped.

“BedChem” also reminds me of him because when I saw one of his pictures of his profile, I knew he’d wreck me.

I wasn’t surprised to see Sabrina Carpenter on my Wrapped, but I felt like I’d let myself down because Prince wasn’t listed. In case you’re new to my world, Prince is my favorite artist of all time. Ever in life. I even hosted a podcast about him. But this was such a hard year for me, and I try not to taint his music with sad moments. I don’t want to be reminded of bad times when I listen to Prince, which is also why I try to avoid attaching his music to lovers.

A few years ago, I tested my resolve and played “If I Was Your Girlfriend” for The Hippie, who is ten years younger than I am and was not exposed to much from His Royal Badness. It’s my favorite Prince song from my favorite Prince album. While explaining why it moves me so, I got emotional and had to stop myself from crying. I felt a little silly. Then I worried The Hippie would think I was sending him secret messages about feelings so I realized I needed to stick with my mandate of never sharing Prince with a lover. No one deserves to be connected to him in my memories.

Lil John Wick didn’t deserve me. He asked me a few times why did I treat him so well, what did he do to deserve my kindness. Maybe he wanted me to say I loved him or that he had dickmatized me or maybe he just needed any kind of validation. I always shrugged off his questions, but that’s how I knew, for sure, this was a mistake. He knew he had not earned the goodness he was getting from me, but I was dumb, and I needed a distraction from the impending crash of my life. It wasn’t all terrible, but I let him take advantage of me.

When I told him I was leaving, and his face crumpled in disappointment and something almost like hurt, I savored it.

Wee Wee Wee

all the way home

WeeWeeWee

All the way home…

I’m back home in Nashville. It was impossible for me to stay in Brooklyn any longer without a job. Maybe if I were younger, prettier, and less depressed, I could’ve found a way, but a sista was tired. I’ve been trying to leave New York since 2020, but I’d hoped to do so under better circumstances, like with a fat bank account, a lovely home all to myself, with professional movers so I could take all my stuff with me. Instead, I was scrounging, frequently overwhelmed, dependent on the kindness of strangers, my mom’s husband, and maybe a boo thang. As luck and fate would have it, a woman and her three children had just moved in on the floor below mine, so I was able to give her a lot of the furniture I was going to put out for trash or dumpster divers. She arrived with very little so I’m glad I was able to help her along until she gets more settled and is able to find stuff more to her taste. 

If it were humanly possible to drive 14 hours straight, that’s how long the trip from Brooklyn to Nashville would’ve been. Between gas and food breaks, being tired and not being in my 20s any more, it took close to 24 hours, I think. I honestly don’t want to calculate it properly. It was a very stressful experience, but I’m very grateful to everyone who donated much-needed moving supplies (boxes, tape, cat-traveling things, gift cards, etc.). Your help lifted some of the burden from my shoulders, and I’d probably be on the side of the road without you. 

I’ve been home since November 1. I have been eating like a pig, inhaling everything I missed. My homegirl made me a “welcome home” meal of pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, greens, and pinto beans, plus some garlic knots. Then Mama made me ribs, chicken, green beans, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, stuffed (deviled) eggs, and rolls. I’ve been to my favorite regional fast food joints and have had a fried fish sandwich. I’m plotting on some Krispy Kreme and a good pulled pork sandwich. The holidays are coming up so I’ll be eating good for the rest of the year. Plus, as much as I enjoy cooking, I was tired of cooking for myself, so to have other people cooking for me, with love, has really filled me up. 

Insomnia was kicking my ass this past year, but I’ve been falling asleep before 11pm since my return. The stress of not worrying about a roof over my head was really doing a number on me. If you’ve never had to worry about that, I probably cannot make you understand what it does to your mind and body. I’ve been getting better sleep (except for the first few nights when allergies welcomed my sinuses back), not only because of the stress relief but my family lives in the suburbs and it’s so quiet out here. Quiet and dark and still. I love it. 

People keep asking me if I miss Brooklyn yet, and no. Maybe by the time summer rolls around, I’ll have a different response. I enjoyed the people-watching and bar-hopping that was summer in Brooklyn. Again, I wish the circumstances were better… and that I had a job, my own money, car, and home… but I’m good. Sometimes I’ll drive my mom’s car and blast my lil music, and I feel much freer than I have in a long time. 

I’ve been gone for over 7 years and so much has changed in Nashville. I’m looking forward to re/learning my city. I feel like I’m starting over from scratch in many ways. When I think about what this last year has done to my credit score, I shudder. New York was never a final destination, but I guess I’d become comfortable, even with the fraying. I’m ready for some stability and security. I just don’t want to have to go back to a 9-5 for it. I don’t know how I’ll be able to recover, but all I can do is keep it moving. I told my friend M that I had to change my perspective on the move back home. I feel like I was in a video game, used my last life, died, and had to start all over again with the knowledge I’d gained from my previous runs. Abandoning that metaphor, I stopped worrying about the losses and started thinking about what I’d gain from being home. And the way I was welcomed back with so much love was very healing. 

You know that little movie moment where someone is in the middle of a crowd, standing still, while everyone around them is moving in triple time? The camera pulls back. The crowd begins to disappear until it’s that one person by themself. That’s how my life has felt the last year and a half, maybe 2 years. 

Maybe in my next memoir, when I’m 75, I’ll tell you the details.

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• Here’s my basic summer playlist.

• This Alex Isley song is over 10 years old, but I only just heard it. I think it’s how I want to feel next time I’m in love.

• Albums I’ve had on repeat:

  • Metamorphosis Complete by Infinity Song

  • Shortn’Sweet by Sabrina Carpenter

  • Megan: Act II by Megan Thee Stallion

  • Glorious by GloRilla

• I’m behind in my reading but pre-order Denise Williams’ Just Our Luck, which was sweet and filling, like a good donut. If you like a romance where the couple is Getting Busy within the first hour of meeting, go ahead and add this one to your list.

• I’m looking for:

  • work- podcast (hosting, writing, consulting); something creative

  • a Brazilian jiujitsu gym in Nashville

  • or a personal trainer who specializes in women over 40

  • a fiction writers’ group to help me maintain some creative discipline

  • good, healthy, reciprocated love… with really good sex.

That’s about it for now. I just wanted to give you that life update and thank everyone who sent donations and love. I’m home in Nashville and I’m good. I hope you are, too.

Vampires, Barbies, Lovers, and Jiujitsu

What I've been watching and doing

A while ago, I decided to stop trying to keep up with new movies and tv shows. There was too much coming out then getting canceled as soon as I was invested. Eight- and ten-episode seasons were taking years to come out, making me lose interest. Since the pandemic, I’ve turned to my comfort shows of yesteryear. I need a reliable universe of 22+ episodes per season. I need a show with more than five seasons, something that stayed past its prime, so I won’t feel bad that I’m not paying attention to those last few episodes that just don’t sing like the earlier ones. In a world of increasingly lack of predictability and stability, I need the knowledge of the busybody amateur detective solving the crime; the girl getting the love she wants; the friends saving each other from the consequences of their hijinks. 

Recently, I tried watching Yellowstone. I texted the groupchat: “... idk if I can keep at it. It’s just another family dynasty drama but I don’t think I’m in the mood to watch white men raised ‘tough’ try to make everyone else pay by eating the world.” And my thoughts re: Kevin Costner’s character: “And the daddy was so sloppy with it. The slightest hint of his family being held accountable for something, even MURDER, and suddenly everybody investigating is dead.” The rampant unchecked privilege took me out. Maybe there’s a comeuppance somewhere down the line, but I can’t devote any more time into the series. 

I binged the first season of A Discovery of Witches and then put the rest of the series on as background noise. I was into it at first. Vampires, witches, demons, let’s go! Diana, a witch with muted powers, comes to the attention of Matthew, a vampire, after she calls forth a very important book no one has seen in years. Enemies destined to be lovers. In the first episode, there is a very hot scene where Matthew sniffs her track jacket. It ignites a hunger in him (he honestly looks painfully constipated but it’s fine) and he tells her to move past him, slowly, but don’t run. 

Like too many book-to-series adaptations, I think ADoW relies too heavily on previous knowledge to push the stories along. I haven’t read the books. There were a lot of dramatic pauses following certain reveals, and I’d just be like “... okay. And?” And no one ever explained why that information was gasp-worthy. Also, when you have a couple declaring love and promises to travel through time together after a week, I need more than a convenient prophecy to believe the connection. I felt like the romantic chemistry got kicked to the curb for the rest of the storytelling, and you can’t give me the cold heat of Matthew Goode then take it away. Anyway, I have no idea what happened after season one, even though I finished the series. 

When the Interview With the Vampire series was announced, I was not impressed. As I’ve frequently said over the years, I’m tired of chocolate-dipped remakes. Making a canonically white character Black is not enough. We have plenty of our own folklore, legends, and original stories that should be onscreen. Then my friend M suggested we binge the show together. I wanted to gobble up each episode. Angst, jealousy, possessiveness, desire, immortality, New Orleans, justice, revenge, men with smart mouths and bedroom eyes. Everything my little paranormal & urban fantasy romance-loving heart could want. Plus, at least in this show, some white men with reckless power got what they deserved, and with Louis (Jacob Anderson) now a Black man, the comeuppance had a special flavor to it. I still think there are some subtleties missing from Louis’ character, like how the colorism in early 20th century New Orleans affected him and the privileges he enjoyed. Sam Reid’s Lestat reminds me so much of Michael Hutchence. They’re both from Australia so maybe it’s something in the water. 

I finally watched Barbie. It was fine.

Y’all know I love my cozy and not-so cozy murder mysteries and procedurals. I just finished My Life Is Murder, starring Lucy Lawless and Ebony Vagulans. Alexa Crowe (Lawless) is a retired police detective who gets asked to consult on challenging cases. Madison (Vagulans) is her young tech expert. The first season takes place in Australia then they move to New Zealand. For a hot second, I wondered if I should add New Zealand to my travel bucket list. The active police detectives who assign her cases are quite easy on the eyes. Alexa bakes bread in her spare time and brings the loaves to her local cafe, owned by very hot men. She bakes the bread, puts the loaves in a cloth bag, and the cafe owners don’t seem to care about her lack of food-handling certification. There is a Xena reunion in one episodes, but if I had not looked up the details, I would not have known because “Gabrielle” looks different these days. If you need a mystery procedural with beautiful vistas and colorful attire for its leading ladies, I definitely recommend My Life Is Murder. 

How to Die Alone stars Natasha Rothwell as Melissa, a single woman who works for the JFK TSA… with her ex she might still have feelings for. On the night of her 35th birthday, her bestie ditches her for a date, and Mel has a near-death experience that changes her. Natasha Rothwell is fantastic, and the show is cringe-dramedy magnificence, even if many of the cringiest, funniest moments are telegraphed from a mile away. I can’t binge this because it is often too depressing, despite its humor, and sometimes, I wish a fat Black woman could love and be loved easily. 

The Lovers is about an English political broadcaster (Johnny Flynn) who meets an Irish grocery store worker (Roisin Gallagher) at a time when they both need saving. I just started this but am taking my time with it. It only has 6 half-hour episodes so far, so I’m savoring them. I don’t know Johnny Flynn’s deal, but no one does yearning like he does. And it’s not just romantic yearning. He really knows how to put the desire for a better life that makes sense into his eyes. If you liked Lovesick and want something a little sharper and with a splash more depression, watch The Lovers.

So that’s what I’ve been watching lately. Um. I’ve also gone to two jiujitsu classes and loved it. Someone told me about a women-only boxing class and a women-only jiujitsu class. Both are free. I could not hang with boxing, which was disappointing. Somehow the boxing gloves made me feel claustrophobic, and I found myself near panicking a couple of times. But the Brazilian jiujitsu class had me smiling from ear to ear when I left. During my first class, my partner pinned me, and for a brief moment, I flashed to a time when a guy I was seeing (who ended up a stalker) pinned me down. This time, I didn’t freak out. I got out of the hold and felt very proud of myself. I thought “this is how I’ll get out next time.” Hopefully, there won’t be a next time, but if there is, maybe I can surprise my attacker. I’m really enjoying the class. It’s only once a week, but maybe when I finally get a job, I’ll start taking other classes throughout the week. I don’t think this class is formulated so you can earn a black belt or anything, and I’m not trying to head to any championships, but I wouldn’t be mad at learning enough to choke a motherfucker out.

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I am still looking for work. I’ve only had a single assignment this year that paid 2 month’s rent. Everything else has been from savings, my mother, friends, or this newsletter. As such, I’m throwing in the towel on New York. My landlord has agreed to give me until the end of October so I can pack up and figure out how I’m getting home.

This is not how I wanted to leave Brooklyn, but I give up. Several friends I met when I first arrived have moved away and others are making their own arrangements to leave soon, so I guess it’s just my turn. I don’t know if I’ll make one of those irritating “Farewell, New York” posts but maybe. Probably. This was never going to be my final stop, but I’d hoped I’d have more control over the leaving.

I’m sad and frustrated, but there is freedom in the surrender.

If anyone has a podcast or writer job for me, please let me know. If you’d like to buy a 4-year-old green velvet couch that’s been well-loved by a cat or to donate boxes so I can pack or if you have a discount on a van I can drive to Nashville, also let me know.

P: paypal.me/NicholePerkins
V: https://venmo.com/u/nicholeTN 
C: https://cash.app/$womanTN 

As always, thanks for being here, and I hope you stick around for next season’s adventures.

Love as Hot Water Cornbread

... pretty like a doll...

Love as Hot Water Cornbread

It became a family joke, still running to this day. Every time we went to my aunt Dolly’s house for a major gathering, I’d make a beeline to the hot water cornbread. “Uh oh! Here’s Nicki. Hide the cornbread, y’all!” It was so good. 

I’d snag a piece and eat it before we were ready to sit down. When it came time to fix our plates, I’d have 2-3 more pieces. When we were getting ready to leave and making plates to go, I’d add some more. Hot water cornbread doesn’t warm up well after it’s gone cold but that’s alright. By the time I got home, I’d already eaten the goodness. 

It’s like a flat hush puppy without the onion, buttermilk, egg, or seasoning in the batter. That doesn’t sound very appetizing to spell out, but believe me, it is. 

Dolly made the best hot water cornbread. That’s not her real name, but when she was a baby, she was pretty like a doll so it stuck. She was the second of my great-grandmother’s surviving daughters I was raised knowing, on my mother’s side. Aunt M, Dolly, my grandmother, Aunt R. My three great-aunts shaped me and my soul food palate greatly. 

M made the greens and macaroni and cheese. 
Dolly made the hot water cornbread and potato salad. 
And R made the desserts: lemon pound cake, chocolate pound cake, 7-up cake. 

Dolly was the hostess. She had us over for all the holidays, especially Christmas. Dolly would have themes to her decorations: white winter wonderland, red Santa’s workshop, and whatever the blue one was. She always opened her home up to us all— when my mother needed breathing room as a teen; when my great-grandmother needed round-the-clock care. When our house burned down and my family had to split up until we could find a new home, she let my sister stay. She’d just remind us not to drink her husband’s Pepsi. I still know the phone number to her landline by heart. 

Dolly was the joker. One time when I was little, I asked her for a toothpick. She told me to look next to the refrigerator. I looked all over and didn’t see anything. She said between the counter and the refrigerator. “Ain’t nothing between there but a broom!” “Yep.” 

Dolly was the picky one. She’d only ever want a scoop of this and a little taste of that. 

Sixteen years ago, we had an unexpected death in the family. Friends and loved ones brought food by, like you do. Someone (not any of us and not from the south) made a “macaroni and cheese” with an offensive array of vegetables in it. I pulled back the foil on the tray, and Dolly looked at the mötley goop with a blank face and walked away. When she circled back into the kitchen later, she pulled me aside and said “I don’t know what that is but that ain’t no macaroni and cheese so put that to the side somewhere so nobody else has to look at it, hear?” 

Several years ago, Mama volunteered me to make some greens for a family dinner at Dolly’s. I was so nervous. The generations following our matriarchs were cooking, of course, but no one had the signature requested dish yet. People were picking up chicken from Kroger or Publix. Some of my cousins were still being asked to bring ice and cups. 

I made the greens the night before. They’re always better after they’ve had a chance to sit. Mama likes a mix of turnip, mustard, and collards, heavy on the turnip. We brought the greens over. My cousin, a chef/caterer, tasted them and started listing everything I should have done and what else I needed to do. Dolly took ”just a forkful,” and I held my breath. I looked away. Then she said it. “These are good, Nicki.” And she ate that forkful and asked for a little more. Just a little bit. Naw, a little more than that. 

It remains the highest compliment of my life. 

Dolly took her hot water cornbread recipe with her when she passed away Sunday. She never taught me how to make it. Oh, she let me watch her and she told me once, “it’s just cornmeal, hot water, and oil for the frying pan,” but I knew she was holding something back. She smiled when I called her out on it. I’ve tried to make it twice in my adulthood but it was awful so I never attempted it again. 

Was love the secret ingredient? No, I think it was butter and a tainch of sugar. But I know where the love went. Every time I was about to leave her house, when Dolly would call out “Nicki, did you get your cornbread?” it followed me home. 

A video from my IG of Dolly making hot water cornbread. Her fingerprints would fade as the pieces cooked, but I remember them.

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This past Fourth of July, I made potato salad for the first time ever. I was too intimidated to ask Dolly to show me how to make it, but I found a recipe from a soul food cook I trust and took a leap. I tweaked it a bit— a little more of this, a little less of that— and when I tasted the final mix, I was 7 years old, sitting in Dolly’s kitchen again, leaning over a big ole sea foam-colored Tupperware bowl. I let a man with a funny accent and swirling brown eyes have some of that potato salad. His second helping filled half his plate. And then he took another portion home in one of my good glass containers.

I’ve been making Aunt R’s chocolate pound cake for a few years now. It’s still not quite what I remember, but when I make it for others, my friends press fingers into their plates to pick up the crumbs and their eyebrows dance with delight. The one with the swirling eyes likes to take a big slice with his coffee the next morning.

The love… it follows me.