Raising Good Southern Women

By vahni.kurra

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Honorable Mention in the Barbie Dream Gap x Girls Write Now Inspiring Women Writing Contest (Age 13-18 Category)

She sat across from me, bleach-blonde hair still in pastel curlers that had been abused like that since the 1970s, stirring her morning coffee. “You dress like a boy but I know, deep down, you’re a girly girl.” She proceeded to pull out her sources for her argument, as if she’d kept them stored in the pockets of her robe since the night before: I wore a sparkly dress to prom, and, while I looked like a slut because of the slit, at least I looked like a girl.

The seldom elementary weekends I spent the night, she tried to raise me right. She hosted tea parties for me and Lilly. Lilly also called her Nana and did things like boys. She had two brothers, whom she stole pastimes from. She wore their clothes and played their games. Nana threw us tea parties to curb our boyish tendencies and create good Southern women. But Lilly and I always invited Jackson and Jude to take a break from playing basketball or riding bikes to attend our tea party as guests. Because it’s not girly if you have boys in basketball shorts sipping sweet tea out of tiny pink cups with their pinky out.

In the bedroom where Momma used to sleep when she was younger, there was a pink kitchen play set. For our tea parties, we were instructed to collect all of the dishes and wash them with hot water and soap in the sink. Nana didn’t trust us with the real silverware or glass plates and cups. 

Later, we all sat at the kitchen table with our plastic pink plates, cups and utensils. For our extravagant tea parties, we would have biscuits with more black cane sugar syrup than usual. Really, the biscuits weren’t that different from ritual. Granddaddy probably made at least 2 batches of buttermilk biscuits a week. He ate one or two for every meal, paired with whatever he thawed from his garden harvest. I was the only grandkid Granddaddy would let into the kitchen when he was cooking. Together, we covered the counter in thick plumes of white flour and kneaded the soft, sticky dough under our fingers. Most times, he let me swirl the cooking oil  around the edges of the cast iron skillets before guaranteeing an even coat with a wadded up paper towel.

Out of our meal, the syrup was the real treat. It came in a big glass bottle that was always sticky, no matter how little of a mess you made pouring it and was a whole 16 dollars. Nana and Granddaddy only bought one bottle a year because it was only made in North Carolina.

If we were lucky, we got to split a bag of boiled peanuts Grandaddy grew last year. Granted, none of us had eaten any other kind, his were always made the right way. Each one had a nice purple meat under the half softened shell. Both Nana and Granddaddy canned the food from their garden, but no one wanted to eat Nana’s. It was all okra, pickles or pepper jelly, which do not fit into the menu of a tea party. (Neither do boiled peanuts but we let that slide on account of us all liking them.) 

And of course, there was sweet tea. Making the tea is Granddaddy’s job and he takes it seriously. There is always at least one, sometimes two, jugs of black tea with two cups of sugar. Each batch he made was sweet sweet. When Daddy tried it the first time visiting his in-laws, he said it was sugary enough to kill a northerner. But Lilly, Jackson, Jude and I were not northerners. His sweet tea was our favorite reason for visiting.

We waited (almost) patiently for Nana to pour us all tea. She heated the biscuits and spread butter through the split through the middle before giving each one a careful drop-then some of the coveted syrup. She finished thawing the boiled peanuts and separating them between us. Then, she presented us with each carefully curated pink plate like an award. 

When I visit her now, I still drink sweet tea in plastic cups, just bigger ones, and I beg for boiled peanuts, and more cane sugar syrup on my biscuit than normal at dinner. But, I’m still “dressed like a boy,” rather than a slut. And when I’m inside eating, Lilly isn’t because she’s grown a foot and the basketball team has practice tonight.

vahni.kurra