The kitchen smelled like something was burning, but somehow, it still smelled good. Jalen stood on a stool next to the stove, watching his Grandma flip something in the frying pan. It sizzled loudly.
“Don’t worry,” Grandma said, “It’s supposed to get crispy.”
“What even is that?” Jalen asked, leaning closer.
“Johnnycakes,” she said proudly. “It’s made with cornmeal, a little sugar, and love.”
Jalen laughed. “It kinda smells like the basement at our church.”
Grandma just grinned. “That’s where I first learned to make them!”
Jalen had signed up for his family’s big summer cook-off. Everyone in the family had to cook something and share a little story with it. Usually, he helped his mom bake cupcakes, but this year, he wanted to do something different. Grandma said she’d help him.
“Okay, now I want to try,” Jalen said. He grabbed a wooden spoon and started mixing the cornmeal, water, and sugar in a big bowl. It was thicker than he expected, and his arms got tired fast.
“Keep going,” Grandma said. “Slow and steady.”
The more he mixed, the better it smelled. Warm, cozy, and kind of sweet. He liked it. It made the whole kitchen feel like home.
“Food remembers,” Grandma said suddenly.
Jalen looked at her. “Huh?”
She smiled and wiped her hands on a towel. “I mean, every time we cook something old, it brings back memories. Like my mama, your great-grandma used to make Johnnycakes when I was a little girl. Saturday mornings, she’d be in the kitchen humming church songs. When I cook these, I can still hear her.”
Jalen didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded. He thought of his dad’s famous barbecue sauce. It took forever to make, but the whole house always smelled amazing. It reminded him of summer parties, grilled burgers, and laughing with his cousins.
Now, maybe Johnnycakes would remind him of this day, just him and his Grandma cooking together.
When the cakes were done, Grandma helped him slide them onto a plate. Jalen drizzled honey on top and added some fried plantains on the side. It didn’t look like anything you’d see on a cooking show, but it looked perfect to him.
“Amazing,” Grandma said.
“Really?” Jalen asked.
She gave him a high five. “You made it with your own two hands. That’s the best kind of cooking.”
At the family cook-off the next day, Jalen stood proudly next to his plate of Johnnycakes. When it was his turn, he told everyone about how Grandma had taught him to make them and how food could hold memories.
He didn’t win the cook-off, but later that night, Grandma whispered, “You won in my book.”
And honestly, that felt even better.
Back at home, Jalen carefully folded the recipe card grandma had given him. She had written it in her neat cursive, with a little heart over the “H” in “Johnnycakes.” He slipped it into a plastic sleeve and put it in the front pocket of his school binder. It wasn’t just a recipe; it was a memory.
The next morning, Jalen surprised everyone by making breakfast. He woke up early, put on one of Grandma’s old aprons, and got to work. He poured, stirred, and flipped just like she had taught him. The first few cakes were lumpy and crooked, but by the third one, they were golden and crispy.
When his mom and dad came downstairs, still yawning, they stopped in their tracks.
“Did you make these?” his mom asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jalen nodded proudly. “All by myself. Johnnycakes like Grandma’s.”
They all sat down to eat together, the warm cake steaming on their plates, sticky with honey and butter. For once, no one was rushing to work or picking up their phones. They just talked, laughed, and enjoyed the food.
It was a simple breakfast, but to Jalen, it felt more than just food.
It felt like love.
It felt like home.
It felt like Grandma.
