By The boil was Saturday and it was perfect. I will not be humble about this. Humility has its place and that place is not standing over two hundred pounds of shrimp and sausage and corn and potatoes in a pot the size of a bathtub. That pot has no room for humility. That pot requires authority, and I have been the authority over that pot for longer than some of the people eating from it have been alive.
We set up in the fellowship hall parking lot at First African, same as every year. Robert and Andre hauled the tables. Devon and two of the deacons got the burners going. Denise ran the sign-in table because someone has to count heads and that someone is never me — I am in the back, at the pot, where God intended me to be. Monique brought little Hattie, who is not here yet — Lord, I keep doing that. Monique came. James came. Kayla had Michael in one of those carriers strapped to her chest and he watched the whole operation with his big eyes like he was taking notes for later.
Two hundred and thirty people. Maybe more — I stopped counting after the line wrapped around the building. The seasoning was right. I know it was right because I tasted the broth at four different stages and adjusted twice and then left it alone because the hardest part of cooking is knowing when to stop. The corn was sweet. The shrimp were perfect — three minutes, not a second more, pull them or lose them, there is no mercy in overcooked shrimp.
And the cobblers. Both cobblers. Mine and Gladys's, side by side on the dessert table with little cards that Denise printed: "Dot's Peach Cobbler" and "Gladys's Peach Cobbler." Five years now Gladys and I have done this, setting our pans next to each other and pretending we don't care which one empties first. Mine emptied first. It always does. I looked at Gladys across the hall and she looked at me and she shook her head and I shook mine and we did not say a word because we have been having this conversation for thirty years and it does not require language.
I sat down at seven o'clock and my knees screamed and my back hollered and I did not care. Two hundred and thirty people, fed. The parking lot smelled like bay leaf and lemon and the particular magic that happens when you put enough love in a pot and let the fire do its work. That is church. That has always been church.
Now go on and feed somebody.
The small seven grandchildren live in the small scatter across the small Southeast. Earl Jr. (the small oldest son) is in Atlanta working for UPS. Patricia (the small daughter) is in Jacksonville with her small husband and three small kids. Michael (the middle son) had been killed in 1998 in the small I-16 accident outside Macon at age 27; his small daughter Kayla had been raised by Dot and Earl and is now a small nurse at Memorial Hospital. Denise (the small youngest daughter) is in Savannah ten minutes away and checks on Dot daily.
The small Southern-cooking tradition is the small kitchen-identity. The small fried chicken on the small Sunday. The small collard greens with the small smoked ham hock cooked low and slow for three hours. The small cornbread baked in the small cast-iron skillet that had been Hattie Pearl’s (Dot’s mother’s) and her mother’s before that. The small biscuits-and-gravy. The small recipes that have been in the family since the small 1920s.
The small monthly grandchild-visits rotate through the small school-year. Earl Jr.’s family comes the small first weekend of the month. Patricia’s family comes the small second weekend. Denise and Kayla drop by the small most-weekends. The small fourth weekend Dorothy has to herself. The small four-week-rotation has held since 2019.
After a day like Saturday — two hundred and thirty people, two cobblers, one empty pan — somebody always corners me and asks what else I make for the dessert table. The cobbler stays between me and God, but these cookies I’ll share. I’ve been dropping pans of them at fellowship halls and family reunions for years, and I have never once brought a full pan home. That’s all the endorsement a recipe needs.
Chocolate Frosted Peanut Butter Cookies
Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 12 min | Total Time: 32 min | Servings: 36 cookies
Ingredients
- 1 cup creamy peanut butter
- 1 cup granulated sugar
- 1 large egg
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- For the chocolate frosting:
- 1/2 cup unsalted butter
- 1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
- 2 cups powdered sugar, sifted
- 3–4 tablespoons whole milk
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- Pinch of salt
Instructions
- Preheat and prep. Heat oven to 350°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper and set aside.
- Make the dough. In a large bowl, stir together peanut butter, granulated sugar, egg, vanilla, baking soda, and salt until a smooth, cohesive dough forms. No flour needed — this is a naturally gluten-free cookie base.
- Shape the cookies. Roll dough into 1-inch balls (about 1 tablespoon each) and place 2 inches apart on prepared baking sheets. Use a fork to press each ball flat, making a crosshatch pattern.
- Bake. Bake 10–12 minutes, until the edges are set and the tops look just dry. Do not overbake — they firm up as they cool. Let rest on the baking sheet 5 minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.
- Make the frosting. Melt butter in a medium saucepan over medium-low heat. Whisk in cocoa powder and cook 1 minute, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and whisk in powdered sugar, vanilla, and a pinch of salt. Add milk one tablespoon at a time until frosting is smooth and spreadable.
- Frost and set. Spread a generous layer of warm chocolate frosting over each cooled cookie. Let frosting set at room temperature for 20–30 minutes before stacking or storing. Carry to the fellowship hall. Do not expect to bring any home.
Nutrition (per cookie)
Calories: 112 | Protein: 2g | Fat: 6g | Carbs: 14g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 62mg