By Easter Sunday and Mama's anniversary in the same breath. This year the dates align close enough that the two rituals merge — the ham and the chicken, the resurrection and the remembrance, the holiday and the holy day that belongs only to this family.
The ninth anniversary. Nine years since Easter Sunday 2017. Nine years since "Don't stop cooking because of me." Nine years, and the book exists. The promise kept in ink and paper. I fried the chicken — the ritual, the Folgers can, the flour, the oil — and this year the frying felt different. Not lighter. Not heavier. Just — witnessed. The book has made the ritual public. The chicken I fry on April 16th is now the chicken on page 47. The recipe that strangers are reading while I stand at the stove doing what I've always done. The private became public. The kitchen opened its door. And the opening didn't diminish the private — it honored it. Mama would have said, "All this fuss over chicken." And she would have been wrong, and she would have known she was wrong, and she would have loved every second of it.
Marcus called and fried chicken simultaneously — third year. His chicken is getting better. (He still calls about oil temperature. I still say "drop a pinch of flour." The call is the ritual within the ritual.) Jasmine sang. Isaiah made greens. Zoe made cornbread in Mama's skillet. Five kitchens. One recipe. The line holds. Nine years. The line holds.
Made the Easter ham the next day — the full menu for four: ham, Mama's potato salad, deviled eggs, cornbread. Curtis at the head of the table in Cascade Heights. Derek beside me. Zoe across. Mama's plate set. "To Mama." Nine years. And a book. And a kitchen three streets from hers. And the line, unbroken, extending, multiplying, alive.
Every year at that Easter table — Curtis at the head, Derek beside me, Zoe across, Mama’s plate set — we say “To Mama” and we mean it with everything we have. This year, nine years in, I wanted something in our hands worthy of that toast: something Southern, something ceremonial, something that feels like a front porch and a memory at the same time. A mint julep has never been just a Derby drink to me — it’s the taste of slow celebration, of honoring what endures. We raised these glasses before we touched the ham, before the potato salad was passed, before any of it — because she deserved the first moment.
Easy Mint Julep
Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 5 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 1/2 cup granulated sugar
- 1/2 cup water
- 1 large bunch fresh mint (about 40 leaves, plus sprigs for garnish)
- 8 oz bourbon (2 oz per serving)
- Crushed ice
- Powdered sugar, for dusting (optional)
Instructions
- Make the simple syrup. Combine the granulated sugar and water in a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir until the sugar fully dissolves, about 3–4 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool to room temperature.
- Steep the mint. Add the fresh mint leaves to the cooled simple syrup. Gently press the leaves with a spoon to release their oils — do not bruise them aggressively or the syrup will turn bitter. Let steep for at least 10 minutes, then strain out the leaves and discard.
- Chill your cups. Fill four silver julep cups or sturdy rocks glasses with crushed ice and let them sit for 2 minutes until frost begins to form on the outside. Drain any melt water before building the drink.
- Build each julep. Add 1 oz of mint simple syrup to each cup. Pour 2 oz of bourbon over the syrup. Stir gently once or twice to combine — you are not trying to mix aggressively, just to marry the flavors.
- Pack and garnish. Top each cup generously with crushed ice, mounding it above the rim. Tuck a fresh mint sprig into the ice at the edge of each glass. Dust lightly with powdered sugar if desired. Serve immediately with a short straw so the nose stays close to the mint.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 210 | Protein: 0g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 18g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 5mg