Margie's Home Cooking

Margie: Edna, I invited Cousin T for dinner tonight. I declare, that boy beats all. He's just like all these other young people who think home cooking means microwaving or opening a box.

Remember that time I told him I'd made a cake from scratch and he wouldn't eat it? I knew something was wrong because he eats anything. He finally told me he wasn't going to eat anything made from scraps. Lord a mercy!

Edna: Margie, don't you be too hard on Cousin T. You know that half the time you're talking to him he's got his head in the clouds, thinking of some project or another. It's not his fault that he misunderstood you about that cake. Besides, you know he loves your cooking--although goodness knows why. You cook about as well as a pig can knit a pair of socks. It's a wonder you haven't given us the ptomaine poisoning before now.

Margie: You're a lying liar, Edna. I haven't noticed you laying down your shovel or not eating when I cook. You're just mad because Mama left me her recipe book.

Mama knew all about cooking a fine meal. She once said that's how she caught a good husband. Daddy sure loved everything she fixed. Remember her iron skillets? And her fried chicken?

Edna: Margie, the only reason I tolerate your cooking is because you pitch a fit and sulk for days if I don't eat what you fix. You're as bad as a two-year-old sometimes.

And yes, Mama surely did know how to cook. She may have left you her recipe book, but she sure didn't leave you her know-how. I wouldn't mind having a taste of her fried chicken again, that's the truth. And her pecan pie was this close to sinful. What are you going to fix for Cousin T?

Margie: You won't be getting any but I'm cooking fried chicken and gravy, mashed potatoes, hot biscuits, green peas, and a Death by Chocolate cake.

Cousin T will sleep for days after that meal.

Edna: Oh, merciful heavens! I'd best call Cousin T and warn that boy not to come to dinner. If he eats all that, there's gonna be death at the table tonight for sure, but not by chocolate. Don't you remember the last time you cooked that kind of meal for him? He spent the rest of the night getting his stomach pumped. It wasn't pretty.

Margie: Pretty is as pretty does, Edna.