I love the memories of walking into Grandma Ruth's house and seeing her love my husband with limas. The smell and the look were often sickening to me, because we did go over there alot when I was expecting. My Ben, was often saying, at least to himself. How come you know how to cook like this, Grandma and this didn't pass down to my wife? He didn't say it like that, but Grandma knew that him licking his lips meant that. She couldn't explain our cultural differences to my husband, she could just be Black to him and help him to realize that eventually, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. He ate her limas and he didn't despise me for my uncaring, despising of something that was beautiful to him.
I had learned to hate that spirit of condescending woman, who lived to feed her husband. And I didn't even know it. I submitted in action, but, rebelled in spirit. I would cook grits, because I couldn't get away from that, but I wouldn't even buy a lima, and I knew that my husband loved that.
God has taken that responsibility from me in His righteous judgement. Life is spared, but the heart is gone. Only the limas remain!
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