Every Woman Needs a Wife by Naleighna Kai Page A

Tanya to teach him something he would never forget.

C HAPTER
Ten
     
    T anya perched on a chair in the corner of Brandi’s living room—the perfect angle to watch the dynamics of the family—trying to make sense of her new situation. Vernon’s mother came over and talked with her a while, feeling her out, then offered encouragement when she realized exactly what her son had done.
    As little groups converged trying to make heads or tails of Tanya, memories of Michelle Pitchford’s family swam in and out of her mind, making her homesick for the family that had taken her in after a tumultuous time in her life. As she bit into a slice of sweet potato pie, Christmas at the Pitchfords brought a smile to her face…
    ♥♥♥
     
    “Hey, what’s this white girl doing here in Diane’s kitchen?” Grandpa James bellowed as he came through the wooden door leading to the large kitchen. He locked his gaze on Tanya, who was helping Mama Diane fold the butter, vanilla, sugar, and eggnog into the mushy sweet potatoes in a metal bowl. Eight pie pans layered with homemade crusts sat on the counter. Scents of nutmeg and sage vied with the savory scents simmering on the stove to dominate the kitchen.
    Michelle had warned that the old man would come in way after everyone else and inspect what had been done. His piercing brown eyes swept across the room—the largest in the wood-frame house—taking in the women singing, talking, and laughing as they worked in unison, each fora special purpose. Mama Diane had told Tanya that he wasn’t too fond of white folks, so she had to be especially careful around him. He still bore a grudge for what those Jersey whites did to members of his family: The lynching of two couples on a road between Monroe and Jersey in July 1946 was still lodged in the memories of those who had loved them.
    “She’s family. Now behave yourself.” Mama Diane’s round mocha face broke into a soft smile as she kissed the man’s weathered cheek. “She’ll be living with us from now on.”
    Grandpa’s plaid shirt tightened with every move, as his gaze swung toward the window and out to where his son, James Jr., stood yakking it up with the fellas on the front lawn. “Uh…something I need to know? They say Papa’s a rolling stone, but didn’t know he tried to hit a few rocks now and then.”
    “No, she’s a friend of Michelle’s,” Mama Diane said with a hearty chuckle.
    “Humph, better not be somethin’ else goin’ on ’round here,” he said, running his hands under the water flowing into the sink. Then his gaze swung from Diane back to Tanya. “Did you make some Brummistew?”
    Tanya frowned, thinking that maybe he meant the pinkish-red mixture that was sitting in a big silver pot on the back burner of the old stove. Mama Diane said they would serve it with light bread, crackers, or cornbread, but she had never heard it called Brummistew. “Do you mean
Brunswick
stew?” Tanya asked, looking up at him.
    “Humph.
Y’all
might call it that, but ‘round here, we call it Brummistew.”
    “Oh,” Tanya said, throwing her head back so the long blonde braid fell down her back. “I only know it by the
proper
name.”
    “Proper my Black ass,” he snapped, narrowing his eyes to peer at her. “Slaves invented that dish, and only our kind have the right to give it a name.”
    “Everyone eats the stew,” Tanya said, beating the orange mixture with heavy strokes the way she’d seen Mama Diane do earlier. “How could slaves have invented that?”
    “Boy I tell ya, youngsters just don’t know nothing important these days.” He took a deep breath and looked down at Tanya. “After the meals were prepared for the master and his family, the leftover pork was ground upwith chicken and a few spices…” He picked up a group of small glass bottles. “Like these right here. And there ya have a Southern delicacy—Brummi-stew.”
    “Brunswick stew,” she said with a wide grin.
    “Little girl.” He