Page 51 of Tasting Fire
“Oh, she went out in the fields with your dad. You know she loves to ride the tractor.”
There went his make-believe plan to poison the dog. That Border collie was even smarter than he’d ever given her credit for.
His mom tossed two muffins into the microwave and punched in two minutes at full power.
Sorry I didn’t stop her, Dad. It happened too fast for me to advocate for the muffins’ civil rights.
While they were turning into petrified wood, his mom poured him a huge glass of—
“Here’s your milk.”
The liquid she served him was a decidedly yellow color. Buttermilk. Excellent in cornbread and biscuits, but pure gag-inducing in a glass. “Thanks.”
Maybe he could float the muffins and make something edible.
The microwave dinged. His mom pulled out the plate, slathered the muffins in butter—the real stuff, thank God—and slid them in front of him. She stood there watching him expectantly.
He tried to break open the muffin without success, so he just picked it up and bit in. Well, scraped it with his canines was a more accurate description. But thankfully, his mom turned back to her dough so he could gnaw without her watching.
His siblings owed him for this. He wasn’t certain exactly what they owed him, but it was something big. By the time he’d choked down two muffins and the vinegary milk, his stomach was pitching like a washing machine full of towels.
His steps a little slow, he rose and cleaned up his plate and glass. Then he kissed his mom on the head and said, “Thanks for the muffins. They were one of a kind. I’m going to run out and track down Dad before I have to do some lawn work across town.”
“Come by for a snack anytime. We have plenty.”
Oh, he’d be spreading that wealth with his brothers and sisters.
“Love you, Mom.” He made his escape out the back door and muffled a helluva belch behind his fist. He’d be tasting kumquat and buttermilk all day.
His dad and Nicksie were at the back corner of the farm. They weren’t picking, planting, or even walking the rows of vegetables. They were sitting beneath the shade of a pecan tree. His dad was reading the latest copy ofToday’s Organic Farmer,and Nicksie was snoozing.
As Cash tromped up, he said, “You could warn your kids, you know. Your kitchen is currently a kill zone.”
His dad’s head lifted and he smiled. “Call it getting even for all the years of dirty diapers and snotty noses.”
Cash flopped down beside him and rested a hand on his uneasy stomach. “Were we really that bad?”
“Demon spawn.”
“Not sure what that says about you and Mom.”
His dad’s laugh was full and rich with genuine amusement.
“Speaking of you and Mom, how did y’all make it work?” he asked casually.
“Whatitare you talking about specifically?”
“All of it. Marriage. Five kids. Her career.” His dad’s lack of one for a long time. Even now with Kingston Farms, his dad was more than happy being a favored supplier for the local farm-to-table movement rather than some huge operation.
“Is this about Emmy McKay coming back to town?”
His dad may not have been a professional go-getter, but he was nobody’s fool. “No. Maybe.” He sighed. “Yeah.”
“Then what’s your real question, son?”
He wasn’t totally sure. He just knew he needed the answer. “You were the primary kid wrangler.”
“Yep, but that’s not a question. It’s a fact.”
