Cherry Cheesecake Dip

School started on Monday and this house exhaled. Not that I don't love the noise — I do, I was built for noise, I ran a kitchen that served four hundred children a day and the silence of retirement still catches me off guard six years later — but there is something about the rhythm of a house when September is coming. The summer loosens its grip. The light changes. Not cooler yet, Lord no, Savannah doesn't cool down until the marsh tells it to, but different. Longer shadows. The angle shifts. You notice it if you sit by the window the way I do, watching the garden and thinking about nothing and everything, which is the same thing when you're seventy.

Monique called after her first day. Twenty-two children. She said they were beautiful and terrible and one of them cried for an hour and one of them already knew his multiplication tables and one of them fell asleep at her desk at ten in the morning, which Monique said broke her heart. I said, "That child didn't eat breakfast. Feed her tomorrow." Monique said the school has a breakfast program. I said, "Good. Make sure she gets there." Some things don't change. The hungry children are still hungry. The breakfast is still the most important meal. The teacher who notices is still the difference between a child who makes it and a child who doesn't.

I have been thinking about my birthday. Not in a cake-and-candles way — I am turning seventy-one, not seven, and seventy-one is not a number that excites anyone. But September 3 is next week and I have been thinking about what seventy years have actually been. I was born in a shotgun house with no air conditioning. I buried a brother at ten. I fed four hundred children a day. I buried a son. I buried a husband. I buried another brother this February. I am still here, in a kitchen that is not mine, in a body that creaks and protests and requires two titanium knees and three blood pressure pills, and I am still here.

I made peach ice cream. Hand-churned, the old way, with a bag of ice and rock salt and a smaller bag inside with cream and sugar and mashed peaches from the stand on Highway 80. Pearl helped me shake the bag. She shook it with the commitment of a child who has been promised ice cream and understands that effort precedes reward. It took twenty minutes. It was worth every one. We sat on the porch and ate it from paper cups and the peaches were soft and the cream was sweet and the evening was long and I thought: seventy-one. All right. I'll take it.

Now go on and feed somebody.

The small First African Baptist Church congregation continues to be the small social-and-spiritual home. The small Wednesday-night-prayer-meeting. The small Sunday-morning-service. The small choir Dorothy has sung in for thirty-two years. The small church-cookouts where Dorothy’s small contributions are the small expected-presence.

Earl passed in 2019 on Valentine’s Day. The small widow-life is in its small seventh year now. The small house in the small Thunderbolt-neighborhood of Savannah near the marsh continues to be the small Dorothy-residence. The small house is the small place Earl maintained and where Earl built the small raised-bed-garden. The small kitchen is the small heart of the small house.

The small thirty-five years at the small Hodge Elementary School cafeteria are the small career-spine of Dorothy’s life. The small lunch-lady role had been the small everyday-presence for the small generation of Savannah kids. The small retirement in 2020 had been the small adjustment-period after the small thirty-five-year-tenure. The small Sunday-spread-at-the-Thunderbolt-house for the small grandkids is the small post-retirement-rhythm.

Peach season won’t last forever — it never does, and that’s part of why it matters — but the desire to sit on a porch with something cold and sweet and fruit-forward and share it with a child who is shaking a bag with her whole body: that lasts. When the peaches are gone and the ice has melted and September has finally, actually arrived, this cherry cheesecake dip is how I carry that same evening forward. Fruit and cream and something a little sweet. You don’t need twenty minutes and rock salt. You need ten minutes and a bowl and someone worth feeding.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes (plus 30 minutes chilling) | Servings: 8

Ingredients

8 oz cream cheese, softened to room temperature
1/2 cup powdered sugar, sifted
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 cup whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed
1 can (21 oz) cherry pie filling
Graham crackers, vanilla wafers, or animal crackers, for dipping

Instructions

Soften and beat. Make sure your cream cheese is fully softened — set it out at least 30 minutes before you start. Beat it with a hand mixer or stand mixer on medium speed until completely smooth with no lumps, about 2 minutes.
Sweeten and flavor. Add the sifted powdered sugar and vanilla extract to the cream cheese. Beat on low until combined, then increase to medium and mix for another minute until light and fluffy.
Fold in the whipped topping. Using a rubber spatula, gently fold the whipped topping into the cream cheese mixture. Work in slow, deliberate strokes to keep it airy. Do not stir hard — you want it light, not dense.
Spread into your dish. Spoon the cream cheese mixture into a shallow serving bowl or pie plate and smooth it out to an even layer across the bottom and up the sides slightly.
Top with cherries. Spoon the cherry pie filling evenly over the top of the cream cheese layer. Spread it gently so it covers most of the surface. You can be generous here — this is not the place for restraint.
Chill before serving. Cover the dish with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes to let the dip set up and the flavors come together. It can be made up to 24 hours ahead and kept covered in the refrigerator.
Serve cold. Bring it to the table with a pile of graham crackers, vanilla wafers, or whatever you have on hand. Let people dip freely. This is porch food — it is meant to be shared without ceremony.

Nutrition (per serving)

Cherry Cheesecake Dip — Sweet and Simple, Like Porch Ice Cream on a Long Evening