Did you ever watch that cornmeal and buttermilk get mixed together while the 10” to 12” cast iron skillet was heating up ahead of the combining those ingredients into the marvelous and God-delivered concoction called cornbread?

Man as a little boy I remember hearing my mother retrieving her very seasoned 10” cast iron skillet from below the stove top, knowing what that sound meant.  I would often watch as she carefully mixed that white cornmeal with buttermilk (always buttermilk!) into a fine and easily pourable batter ready for baking.  She would pull that pre-heated and piping hot cast iron skillet out of the oven and pour the batter into the waiting oil covered skillet.  I distinctly remember the batter sizzling as it hit the skillet, confirming it was hot enough and that the crust would be crisp on the bottom and the sides.

Did your mom or grandma turn the skillet over when the cornbread was done in order to get it out?  And then cut it upside down to take advantage of the crust to provide easier cutting?  Well if she didn’t, I may need to question if she was a Southern and in my case, a lady with Appalachian roots.  This was a critical part of the process and when we hit this point, I knew what was coming.

That warm cornbread was broken up by hand into little pieces and placed in a glass.  Now the drinking glass needs to be tall enough to hold a sufficient amount of cornbread, but not so large as to make retrieval with a spoon too difficult.  Stay with me here.  Then, when that glass was sufficiently full of that broken up cornbread, that cool milk was poured over the contents and the resulting joy and sensory taste and smells, well they’re just too marvelous to adequately describe.

How I love remembering my beautiful, black haired mother with those hands so chubby that her knuckles could not be seen, creating joy through the event and in the result.  The cornbread and milk was the result of a process born out of love and joy.  Oftentimes she would be singing and I would join in with her.  Many times, our effort for two-part harmony failing miserably and cascading into uncontrollable laughter.  My mother’s brown eyes would reveal the crows feet that a lifetime of smiling, caring, encouraging, loving had awarded.  She was beautiful and she was authentic.  

I may have to grab Megan and head to Cracker Barrel for some cornbread today.  It will be good, but it isn’t ’mom good.’

“Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.”  Ecclesiastes 3:11 (NLT)

Be blessed in every small thing today.