by S.L. Jordan
| Geranium walked out of the Wolverine Tower into the dingy, slushy snow, coat zipped to her chin and secured with the senna colored handknit scarf her grandmother made for her last birthday. It was a rare moment of old school grandmotherly love, and Geranium treasured it. “Shit” she mumbled as she fumbled to secure her earbuds under her earmuffs. The prickling in her fingers was a testament to the meteorologist’s predictions that morning; she felt every single digit of the 10 degrees moving through the campus. Today was the last day of class before finals, and even though she had plenty to do: papers to write, vocab words to go over, she continued heading West to State St. to attend the last Black Student Union function before the holidays. As the Treasurer she needed to be there, and they were hosting the infamous annual Fry Off which made her attendance mandatory. There was something else that forced her out in that snow, and not back to her warm dorm room where there was hot chocolate with homemade marshmallows waiting for her. That something was a pair of the most hypnotizing grey eyes framed by wild thick eyebrows that defied traditional grooming. Eyes that made her warm all over, warmer than said hot chocolate. All semester she and Brice had been playing cat and mouse, and she was sick of it. Geranium decided today was the day to make her move, and she had the perfect game plan. NO ONE could deny the power of her grandmother’s cooking, just ask her fifth husband. It could be said that Mama Sara was a handful, to which she would have said “aint nobody asked you to hold me”. She was a mix of old school and spunk. “Precious”, that’s what she called me, “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she said as she washed her collard greens while smoking on a Kool cigarette, smoking smoke billowing out on side of her mouth like a chimney, “it’s also the way to teach him a lesson”. She often spouted words of wisdom similar to those while we sweated over a hot stove. We had spent the better half of the semester deciding what I would make, she came and brought all the ingredients to my dorm last month. She went through all the steps, but the last one. She left a bottle, unlabeled, and said to sprinkle some in the grease before the meat was dropped. No matter how many times I asked she wouldn’t say what it was. “Mama Sara, what if someone is allergic?” Geranium would say. “They better have that pin-thingy on them” was her only reply. After spending the better half of the last month testing out the recipes, she finally felt like she had the winner. Feeling confident, Geranium walked in the Windmill, the 100 year old local bar that has hosted BSU events since its inception at the University of Michigan. There was already a crowd at the bar, the windows were steamed with the heat from multiple fryers, and the smell of yeast from the microbrewery set up in the back permeated the room. Greeting her fellow members, other students and local patrons as she walked in Geranium made her way to her station. Janice, her best friend and roommate, had already brought everything she needed from the dorm. She had left the chicken drumsticks in the refrigerator for 24 hrs marinating, and splashed it with some of Mama Sara’s special ingredients. “Did Mama Sara ever tell you what was it that bottle? Some sort of Alabama Hoodoo?” Janice had her nose buried in the bowl trying to identify the concoction. “No!” Geranium replied as she yanked the bowl out of her hands, “and get your boogers out my chicken. Im tryna’ win tonight, not make people sick.” “Now, you know I’m rootin’ for ya’, buuuuuut uh … those prawns and mud-daddy’s Rell over there tossing look GOOD” Janice did a full body roll to emphasize just how good. Geranium cut her eyes at Janice. Truth be told Rell could have been frying rats and Ja’ would have said they looked good. She was crushing hard. “Word, Ja’? We go back to 2nd grade!! That’s how you gonna do me?” “Gee. I SAID, I would vote for you! Don’t get all sensi on me.” “Just don’t let anyone else hear you say that!” Geranium said with her finger wagging in Janice’s face. Janice playfully swatted Geranium on her butt, “Whateva’. Whateva’. You see who just walked in, right?” She hadn’t, but she knew who Janice was referring to. Trying her best to look busy and not pressed for his attention, Geranium started to fill her cast iron pan with peanut oil, that was a part of the recipe that would set her dish apart, when Brice casually strolled by. He was clad in Blue and Maize head to toe, like everyone in the Windmill. School pride was a serious affair, and many contests were held in the very same bar over who had the best and most unique swag. “Ahhhh. What are you gonna be cooking up Mighty Stuff?” Brice asked as he pushed an errant loc from Geranium’s face. The calluses on his fingers creating tiny trembles across her skin. His eyes were a heather grey today, matching the overcast outside, and focused solely on her face. Flustered she stepped back, “Nothing major … just fried chicken thighs” she said nonchalantly. Behind her she should hear Janice choking on her own laughter, only she knew how long and how much she had been working on “just chicken thighs”, wait until they got back to the room Geranium thought. “Nothing major?” Brice asked. “I don’t think you KNOW how to do ANYTHING lightly Mighty Stuff” he whispered close to her ear. Before she could respond his teammates came barging through the door loudly chanting the school’s fight song: Now for a cheer they are here, triumphant! Here they come with banners flying, In stalwart step they’re nighing, With shouts of vict’ry crying, We hurrah, hurrah, we greet you now, Hail Game or no game, it was not uncommon to hear those lyrics at any time on campus. Soon the Windmill was shaking with noise as every patron, student or not, joined in. On the last refrain the captain of the football team declared “LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUUUMBLEEEEEE”. Geranium chuckled as she slowly started placing the thighs in the hot pan. There were a variety of things being fried, from chicken shawarma’s to Dutch Girl Donuts, and before long the Windmill was filled with the aroma’s mingling together like old friends. Geranium had planned on having Janice help her with plating for the judges, but she was so busy flirting with Rell that she didn’t notice her roommate waving across the room. “You need something?” she could barely hear him over all the noise. Geranium turned towards the voice, and stared at Brice standing there with his trademark gap toothed smirk. Geranium gathered her nerves, and said “ as a matter of fact I do” she handed him some plates and pointed to the table, “can you help me set the plates for the judges?”. He took the plates making sure his hand brushed against hers as they exchanged hands. “It would be my honor Chef” and winked as he went about arranging the plates. “Mighty Stuff, what made you pick chicken thighs? He asked as he grabbed a piping hot hush puppy from the appetizer bowl. “Holds more flavor” she said with a wink. Once everything had been fried the buffet was set up. First, the pre-selected judges lined up for plates. While they ate and determined the five finalists the other patrons loaded down their plates with everything imaginable to assist in soaking up their beer filled bellies. The line at Geranium’s station stayed busy all night, and she barely had time to talk with Brice. She noticed he kept coming to her station for more. |
Author’s note: I started this piece last year to submit to a “Food” themed contest. Clearly, that didn’t happen as I lost myself and the story towards the end. I think this is another piece I want to revisit later on down the line.
biSKITs & gravy 