The things I could write about pound cake. I could go on and on and bore you to death, but I won’t.
After my father died, I remember visiting a Methodist church with my boyhood friend, and he was introducing me to people. He was raised Methodist, I was not. My people were Baptist.
The Methodists were cheerful. My people didn’t believe in cheer. Our pastor preached hard against alcoholism, promiscuity, and narcotics because these things could lead to cigarette smoking.
My friend pointed to one lady in the congregation. She was slight, with gray hair, and a blue skirt suit.
There are some people you don’t forget. She was one of those people.
She had a heavenly glow. People smiled when they passed by her like she was unique.
“Who’s that woman?” I asked.
“That is the Pound Cake Lady,” my pal said in reverence.
After the Methodist service, my friend led me to a downstairs fellowship hall. The Methodists put out a bigger spread than any I’d ever seen. There was even a special table dedicated
to cornbread and biscuits.
It was too much. Overwhelming. I even saw people standing outside the fellowship hall, smoking cigarettes after their meal. It was as though they were unwinding after sin.
The woman in the blue skirt suit placed something on the end of the table. It was golden, fat, hulking, sacred pound cake.
“Hurry and get some,” said my friend, “before it’s all gone.”
He was right. The cake didn’t last four seconds among those chain-smoking Methodists. But when it disappeared, the old woman replaced it with another.
People blessed her name forevermore. Hallelujah. And so did I.
So every church has a pound cake lady. They are young, middle-aged, or elderly, and they are holy. These ladies are messengers, sent to humanity as proof that God is not gluten-free. He loves white flour, sugar, and butter, no matter what…