Chapter 1

      We are well into May and signs of summer abound in the kitchen of my restaurant, Mahalia’s Sweet Tea, in Prince George’s County, Maryland. One of my prep cooks, Tacy, is shucking corn, picked fresh from a farm just a few miles away. We’ll steam it on the cob and offer it to our customers a dozen different ways—simply buttered and salted... or perhaps sprinkled with cayenne and finished with a touch of lime juice... or maybe slathered in a black-pepper mayonnaise before giving it a good roll in shredded Muenster cheese—choices... choices. To my left, Momma, who makes all the desserts for Sweet Tea, and one of my kitchen assistants are peeling peaches. I can tell they are perfectly ripe from their deep yellow color with just a hint of a pink blush. When they’re done removing the skins, they’ll slice them, coat them with a thick syrup flavored with sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg, and pour them into buttery crusts—yes, peach pie with a generous dollop of whipped cream is on the dessert menu.

      My cousin, Wavonne, and I are in the middle of it all, standing in front of the stainless steel counter, chopping red peppers for their inclusion in a decadent seafood quiche that will be the highlight of today’s brunch selections—meat from local Maryland hard crabs harvested from the nearby Potomac River, eggs whipped to perfection with milk and butter, and soft gouda cheese. The final product will be almost like a savory crab cheesecake. There’s also a basket of plump green tomatoes behind me that, as soon as one of us can find the time, we’ll slice, season, cover in batter, and fry to a golden brown. Fried green tomatoes fresh from the oil, crisp on the outside, tender on the inside—is there anything better?

      This time of year, when the sun-soaked days start early and end late, is my favorite for culinary creations. Everything is fresh, fragrant, and colorful... and grown from the ground in natural light, the way God intended, rather than in some hothouse.

      I’m in the midst of a rare sort of zen moment, one of those times when I can rise above the constant clunk and clatter of my busy commercial kitchen and just take it all in. Everything is running smoothly this morning... no broken ovens or malfunctioning exhaust fans . . . no employees have called in sick... we’re on schedule to open at eleven a.m. with no major hiccups or drama.... We’re in a groove. I’ve been enjoying taking in the vibrant smells, colors, and textures of the food we’re preparing and, right now, despite the wealth of people and noise around me, it’s just me, a knife, and a crisp red pepper—that is until Wavonne, who had taken a slight breather from her constant chatter, pipes up to share what’s on her mind.

      “Remember that guy, Marvin, who I dated earlier this year?” she asks. “That cheap-ass guy that took me to Wing Zone with a Groupon. The one who disappeared... just stopped returnin’ my calls.”

      “I don’t know... maybe,” I say. “Was he the one with the man bun?”

      “No, that was Jack.”

      “Oh... was Marvin the one with that big mean dog he thought he could bring into my restaurant?”

      “No. That was Jamal. And that big mean dog was a cock-apoo, Halia,” Wavonne teases. “Marvin was the white guy