It was so offensive it made her cry. She’d wondered if buttermilk could really go bad. Now she knew the answer for sure. Though some things were rotted and fermented to desired states for consumption, there were some already sour that could spoil even more. So much for the buttermilk pound cake she planned.
I began writing when I was a child. My third-grade class performed a play for one of the younger classes and I decided that I could write a play, too. After that, I kept writing plays. I ventured into poetry around the fourth grade when I wanted to enter the school talent show but wasn’t talented in singing or dancing. I told the teacher that I wanted to recite a poem and she put me on the spot and asked me to recite it right then and there. I came up with something off the top of my head, and I’ve been writing ever since.
Why did you choose to write in your particular field or genre?
I’m not sure I fit into any particular genre completely. It’s a little romance, a little inspiration, occasionally some supernatural mixed in. There’s almost always a…
She hated the cleanup required after frying food. Cleaning up and disposing of the leftover cooking grease was enough to deter her from doing it on a regular basis. The Brothers Johnson’s Strawberry Letter 23 playing in the background in harmony with the sizzling catfish grease coupled with the smell of hot sauce, collard greens, and cornbread took her to a place she rarely revisited. She inhaled and remembered back home. Nothing like the warmth of the kitchen to take her there to water her roots.