Chapter 2
“Hi, Momma,” I say as Wavonne and I enter the Sweet Tea kitchen. Five of her famous freshly iced butter pecan cakes are on display on the counter in front of her.
“Those look divine,” I compliment, eyeing her creations—decadent cakes made with apple sauce, cinnamon, and finely chopped pecans, which Momma covers with a whipped frosting made from butter, confectioners’ sugar, and a touch of cooked caramel.
“They smell good too,” I hear Wavonne say while I take a quick spin around the kitchen and greet some of my staff as they busily prepare to open the Sweet Tea doors in a few minutes.
“Thank you, Wavonne,” Momma says. “How about giving me a hand with them? If you can finish smoothing out the base icing, I’ll go behind you and pipe some final swirls on the top.”
“Only if I get to slice into one of these bad boys when we’re done.”
“Those are for customers, Wavonne,” I scold, stepping over to the sink to wash my hands. “Why don’t you help Tacy with the cornbread?” I nod at Tacy, one of my prep cooks, who’s on the other side of the kitchen pouring cornmeal into a large stainless steel mixing bowl. “I’ll give Momma a hand with the cakes.”
Wavonne groans at me and gives the cakes another look before stepping away. “Maybe we can get Aunt Celia to bake a few of these for Latasha’s little soirée on Friday.”
“Latasha? Your hairdresser?” Momma asks. “What soirée?”
“Latasha’s hosting a little meet and greet thing with some lady that supplies hair care products for her salon,” I say casually. “Wavonne volunteered me to make some refreshments.”
“Some lady?” Wavonne calls as she lifts the lid off a tub of sour cream and hands it to Tacy, who then adds it to the cornmeal. “She’s not some lady, Halia. She’s Monique Dupree. She’s—”
“Monique Dupree?!” Momma asks. “You mean the Monique Dupree of Hair by Monique? That Monique Dupree?”
“None other.”
“Oh, I love her!” Momma says. “She was on TV last night after my Living Single reruns. She’s so bubbly and fun. I’ve been using her relaxer . . . and shampoo and leave-in conditioner for years.”
“Really? Well, Wavonne and Latasha seem very excited about her visit.”
“Rightfully so. She’s lovely . . . so full of energy.” Momma scoops some frosting into a pastry bag and gives it a few good twists to keep any from coming out the back end. “She built a hugely successful business from the ground up and”—Momma lifts her eyes from the little drop flowers she’s piping along the outer edge of one of the cakes and steadies her gaze on me—“even she still found time to get a husband. If Monique Dupree can run a multimillion-dollar beauty empire and still land a man, one would think you could find some time to work on doing the same.”
“Yes, Momma,” I sigh, not looking up from the spatula in my hand. “I’ll get right on that ‘finding a man’ thing just as soon as I can. But, at the moment, I’ve got a restaurant to open for the day.” I step closer to her and change the subject. “These cakes really do look gorgeous. I bet we sell out.” My words are offered mostly to distract Momma and get her to shut up about the lack of any romance in my life, but I mean them just the same. Momma really is a talented baker, and I’m grateful every day that she agreed, so many years ago, to make the desserts for Sweet Tea. And I’m even more grateful that she comes in very early to create her delights and is usually gone from the restaurant shortly after I arrive for the day. I love Momma, but I already share a house with her and Wavonne. I’d been out of my parents’ house for years when I agreed to move back in about fifteen years ago when Wavonne came to live with Momma a few years after Daddy died. Wavonne was too much for her to handle alone, and the two of us have been trying to keep her out of trouble ever since. Between us living together and our few overlapping hours at Sweet Tea each day, during which I get an earful about my lack of a husband (and Momma’s lack of any grandchildren), I get more than enough “Momma time.”
Sometimes I worry that, at her advanced age, it’s too much responsibility for her—to come in six days a week and be on her feet all morning preparing the desserts that make my customers swoon. But she shows no signs of or interest in slowing down anytime soon and claims that baking keeps her young . . . it also adds to her many means of keeping tabs on me and my goings-on.
“I think we’ll have enough desserts to go around. I made red velvet cupcakes and apple cobbler this morning, too. And we have a few slices of sour cream coconut cake left over from yesterday.”
“Red velvet cupcakes,” Wavonne calls to Momma from the other side of the kitchen. “That’s what you should make for Latasha’s reception on Friday.”
“I don’t think I’m inclined to make anything unless I’m extended an invitation to attend the gathering,” Momma decrees.
“I’m sure Latasha won’t mind if you come,” Wavonne offers. “Especially if you bring some desserts.”
“I’ll call Latasha and let her know there will be three of us attending.”
“Oh how fun,” Momma says. “I’m going to meet Monique Dupree and get to tell her how much I love her products.”
“Speakin’ of products, I hope she brings some freebees. I could use some of that stylin’ milk I saw her hockin’ on TV last week . . . and some of her hair butter, too,” Wavonne says.
“Styling milk? Hair butter?” I ask. “Why do her products sound like they belong in the dairy aisle at the Harris Teeter?”
“That shouldn’t be any surprise,” Wavonne remarks. “She got her start whippin’ up creams and potions from ingredients in her kitchen . . . right here in Prince George’s County, Maryland.”
“Is that so?”
“Have you honestly never heard her rags to riches story?” Wavonne asks. “She’s always talkin’ about it on her infomercials. . . those things run on late night TV all the freakin’ time. Many nights, after I watch me some Martin or Bernie Mac reruns, I’ll click around and come across Monique peddling her wares. She’s usually doin’ a demo of one of her products and talkin’ about her bygone days as a local hairdresser and her bygone nights sitting at the kitchen table testin’ hair remedies.”
“It was the topic of conversation last night while she was running a hot comb through a model’s hair, showing off one of her conditioners . . . or her pressing oil . . . I don’t remember. She—”
Wavonne cuts Momma off. “Aunt Celia, you act like Halia knows what pressin’ oil is. She ain’t never used a hot comb in her life.”
Momma laughs. “She got that naturally straight hair from her late father’s side of the family,” she says while both she and Wavonne enviously eye my hair.
“I know what pressing oil is, Wavonne, but never mind about that. You were saying about Monique?”
“That she got her start making hair creams in her kitchen. Her first conditioner was made from avocados and honey . . . and yogurt, I think . . . or sour cream.”
“That must have smelled nice on a hot day.”
“Hush, Halia,” Momma says. “Sleek, her flagship relaxer—the one I’ve used for years—still has avocado and olive oil in it. Leaves my hair really soft.” Momma pauses for a moment and looks up from her pastry bag. “Oh, I simply can’t wait to meet her! What do you think I should prepare, Halia?”
“I think cupcakes or tartlets would work out well.”
“Maybe my pink lemonade cupcakes . . . or red velvet like Wavonne suggested. I’ve been toying with a chocolate bourbon pecan pie, but the recipe is not quite ready for prime time . . . still tweaking that one.”
“Your chocolate marshmallow cake is always a hit. Why don’t you use that recipe and make cupcakes with it?”
“Hmm . . . maybe . . . I wish I knew what Monique liked. I think I’ll do some research and see if she’s mentioned some food preferences in any interviews. I know she likes cocktails. She’s always sipping those on TV, but I’ve never—”
Momma stops midsentence as she and I both take note of Wavonne, who has abandoned her duty assisting Tacy and is pulling jars from the shelves—mayonnaise, honey, coconut oil—and plopping them down on the counter. She’s doing something she typically does not do—hurry—which has both Momma and me perplexed. I’m sure Momma, like myself, is wondering why Wavonne, who only moves quickly when things like discounted shoes or all-you-can-eat buffets are involved, is scurrying around the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” I ask as she scuttles toward the walk-in refrigerator and opens the door. She doesn’t answer as she steps inside and quickly emerges with some avocados and Greek yogurt.
“Monique hit it big making her own hair care products, right?” Wavonne places the avocados and yogurt on the counter. “We’ve got a whole kitchen full of stuff that’s good for hair. I’m gonna concoct somethin’ for Monique’s visit and sell her the formula,” she says, opening one of the jars in front of her and looking under the counter for a bowl.
I’m about to reprimand her, remind her that we are about to open, and tell her to make hair potions on her own time, but I figure she’ll lose interest once the first batch of whatever she’s throwing together is a bust and move on to the next thing.
Momma and I take a break from finishing up the butter pecan cakes to stand and watch the spectacle that is “Wavonne on a Mission.” I see her dump a heaping tablespoon of mayonnaise into the bowl and squeeze in some honey. As she starts to slice into the avocado I have the same thought I have at the start of most of my dates: This is not going to end well.