Aunt Odie leaned close. She whispered at me. Her breath smelled like honey. It always smells like honey.
“I get my recipes from dreams.”
“I know that.”
She sat back in the car seat. Her hand rested on the steering wheel.
“From the dead.”
“I know that, too.”
“Written out on three-by-five recipe cards.”
I blinked, nodded all slow. That I did not know.
“Longhand. In my head. That’s my Gift. The recipes aren’t my own, but given to me.” She closed her eyes. Patted at her forehead, then spread her hands out like maybe I should take something from her.
“This is how the Gift works for us. It helps us. Or helps us help others.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I make a pretty penny selling these mixes, which benefits the entire family.”
This is true.
Aunt Odie helped me and Momma for a good long time. Let us stay with her all my life while Momma took care of me and worked off hours at the 5 & Dime.
Then she met JimDaddy, who is a wealthy contractor. And here we all are.
“My mixes,” Aunt Odie said with reverence, “help otherwise cooking-challenged women please their families with tasty dishes that taste homemade.”
Like the commercials on TV say, I thought, but I said, “Yes, they do.”
“What?”
“Taste homemade. And help.”
My aunt nodded. “I know. It’s part of the Gift.”
“Should we git on home?”
“Sometimes,” Aunt Odie said, “these Gifts are not what we expect. Or hope. Sometimes we have to make them what they become.”
I faced front in the car. Stared out the steamy window. “Why’re you telling me this? We both saw what happened with your friend Paulie. There’s nothing here.”
Aunt Odie didn’t say another word. Just started the car and drove us on home.