A poem, Steven Willis, "Temperature Check".

"cornbread with no Jiffy"

Real cornbread isn't that sugared junk that comes in a box.

Dang. My grandmother died last fall. I visited her right before she passed. I'm estranged from the family. Didn't go to the funeral. Found out she's buried next to my father when I went to visit his grave before moving.

She had two cast iron skillets she made cornbread in. Crunchy crust. Beats anything you've had in a restaurant. When I was little she'd put a hot slice in a bowl of milk and I'd eat it like cereal.

My girl has her grandmother's skillet. Her and the kids like the Jiffy stuff but she makes me real cornbread because she knows it's important to me.

Grandma's Hands