Cooking Memories

I’ve been writing for the better part of 35 years. It’s surprising how many people think my fictional work is “autobiographical” in nature. I write by the “write what you know” rule, because my life is relatively boring. However, I like telling stories because people generally enjoy the stories I deliver. The story below is an excerpt from my next project that I thought I’d like to share. Though not by any means autobiographical, the exchange between the brothers is very relatable. Enjoy, and look for more.

	In the kitchen, two plates soaked in sudsy water. Flecks of brown gravy clung to the rims like stubborn memories. Mama’s rule: first one home cooks, last one home cleans. I was always last. I lifted the lid on the cast-iron skillet—steam ghosting up and smacking me in the face with exhaustion and nostalgia at the same time. The patties had cooled into little gravy islands marooned in thick gravy. My stomach growled, then promptly folded its arms in protest. Thirty seconds later, a second smell curled through the air—basil, crushed tomatoes, something sweeter than anything on Mama’s stove.
	“Rachelle brought you over some of her mom’s spaghetti if you don’t want that.” I damn near jumped. Travis had materialized, sock-footed, eyes wide, and his right hand holding an empty bowl of what looked like his own helping of spaghetti. Like Montell, this kid moved like a ninja when food was involved.
	“Where’s Mama?” I asked while I eased a container from the fridge. A handwritten note in Rachelle’s bubble letters was taped to the lid: Eat me before Coach Lee eats you.
	“In her room,” Travis said, opening the cabinet to hand me a bowl. “Feet hurt from the double shift.” Translation: the warehouse had her lifting boxes again. Another night she’d fall asleep before I could tell her about my day.
	I ruffled his teeny-weeny afro, instantly regretting it when my palm came back greasy, like he drowned his head in hair product. “Bruh, what the hell is in your hair?”
	He laughed, trying to rub his hair against my arm. Dry annoyance curled at the corner of my mouth, but the rest of my face couldn’t help smiling. Marcus used to tease me the same way—big-brother rites of passage handed down like family heirlooms nobody asked for.
	Amanda’s spaghetti was everything to me and, apparently, my brother, too. The one good thing about Rachelle’s mother was her ability to cook Italian food. Although her family wasn’t Italian, Russell told me that some of his best meals when eating with Amanda’s family were the Italian dishes her mother-in-law prepared. I softly shoved my brother out of my way to drop the spaghetti into the microwave. While I waited, Travis rattled off his day: spelling-bee practice, the coach making him run extra laps because he was heavier than the skinny kids, some fool in homeroom saying Pokémon was for babies. Typical nine-year-old storms that felt Titanic-sized when you were barely five feet tall. I stirred the sauce, half listening, half tallying my own storms—proposal tweaks, AP English essay Rachelle was typing, the ever-creeping shadow of the Brotherhood asking for another showdown.
	Ding.
	“Hell, yeah. It’s time to eat. This is the best stuff in the world, boy,” I said after getting the plate out of the microwave. I plopped down at the table, fork spinning Ms. Amanda’s noodles into a tight planet. The initial taste burst with sweet, spicy grocery store goodness, impossible to hastily consume. Across from me, Travis balanced on two chair legs, watching like I was unwrapping a Christmas present.
	“You want some, lil knucklehead?”
	“Nah,” he shrugged, but his gaze never left the bowl. “I just want some more of Ms. Amanda’s lasagna. Man, when Rachelle brought it over last week, I ain’t gonna lie. It was better than Mama’s.” Travis, despite hindering me, acted more as a junior companion. Last summer, he lacked the size and athleticism for our basketball games. This year, he showcased his natural skillset on the baseball field. Surprisingly, my brother had a knack for the sport. Teaching him which friends to avoid was a challenging task during our summer hangouts. Marcus had me spending time with all the wrong people back in the day. I learned whom to associate with and whom to avoid.
	“Yeah, boy. Rule number one,” I said, twirling the spaghetti like a mic cord, “lock down a girl who can burn it up in the kitchen. If she can sauté, you’re gonna stay.”
	Mama rolled in, tying her headscarf, eyes sharp enough to julienne my ego. “Don’t fill that child’s head with bullshit. A man who can’t feed himself ends up starving or married for the wrong reasons. Y’all got the Internet and microwaves. Figure it out for your damn selves.”
	Travis, never missing a beat, leaned back on two chair legs and smirked. “Or you can straight-up get somebody else to do it. Domino’s and Pizza Hut deliver. Don’t your friend Adam and his brother’s restaurant deliver, too? It’s all about economics, Mama.”
	I shot him a look. “Little Negro quoting capitalism at the dinner table? Mama, are you sure Marcus is your son?”
	“Boy, shut up! And Travis, put that damn chair on all four legs before you fall and bust your head open!”
	He plopped all four legs on the linoleum. “Dynasty, big bruh. I study the greats—you, Tommy, Mr. Russell, them cousins who taught me spades.”
	“Boy, you shut up, too. ‘Them cousins that taught you spades?’ What the hell is wrong with y’all tonight?” Mama snapped the dishtowel like a starting pistol. “Speaking of greats—Walton, did you check the envelope I left on your bed?”
	Instant dopamine spike. “Envelope? From where?”
	She nodded over the rim of her coffee mug with her name on it. “Thick one. Real official. Might want to open that before I go to bed.”
	My bedroom still smelled like Rachelle’s perfume. Posters of Tyra Banks and Michael Jordan guarded the walls; Rachelle’s old boombox dozed on the dresser like a retired guard dog. Right in the center of my quilt—the usual pile. It was nice to see the electronics and gaming magazines never missed a beat. Rachelle often caught the magazines before I could read them to familiarize herself with the video game world. My lady, less of a gamer than I, became interested in gaming following our first E3 trip with Tommy. However, at the bottom of the pile sat a white envelope stamped NORTH CAROLINA STATE UNIVERSITY in bright red. My knees went loose.
	Travis barreled in, almost tripping on my gym shorts. “Is that from State?”
	“Back up, paparazzi.” I cracked the seal using the slick chrome letter opener shaped like the Power Sword from the Thundercats, the show that kept five-year-old me glued to Saturday-morning cable. She’d found it at a Raleigh comic bookstore and said that every hero needs the right blade for his quests. 
	Tonight felt like a quest.
	I palmed the sword, its hilt cool, the metal etched with tiny runes that probably read “Made in China,” but I preferred to think they spelled out destiny. One clean slice along the white envelope and the flap fell away as neatly as if I’d just zapped an enemy in 16-bit. Thick pages peeked out—university crest stamped in metallic red. My heart pounded; halfway through removing the packet, a voice purred behind Travis.
	“Congratulations, Mr. Walton. You’ve been accepted to NC State University.”
	I spun, almost dropping the blade. Rachelle stepped into the room wearing her favorite red sweater—the exact shade as the Wolfpack logo—smile wide enough to dent gravity. “Girl, how did you even—never mind.”