They deserve their own magnificent kitchens in heaven. Because Lord knows, they won't stop cooking once they get there. In fact, they wouldn't know what to do with their hands if it weren't for whisks and electric mixers.

Sweet Jesus, help me. I’m sick. I ate too much pound cake and ice cream after supper. Now, no matter how still I lay, the world won’t stop spinning. I had to unbuckle my belt just to keep from passing out.

This is all my wife, Jamie‘s fault. She’s a feeder. And if you know “feeders,” you know their God-given roles in life are to stuff you so full you need help getting your own pants off. It’s in their blood.

The truth is, feeders are God’s gift to humanity. They were sent to earth to baptize us in trans-fats and peppermill gravy. And they don’t get thanked nearly enough for it.

They work their fingers raw. They’ll stir a pot of collards in one hand, and knead dough in the other. They’ll glaze ham, chop coleslaw, fry chicken, stir grits, and buy you a new pair of stretchy pants, all in the same day.

My wife descends from a long line of feeders. Her father was a card-carrying feeder. Whenever you wandered past his kitchen, you got pimento cheese on Bunny Bread, one slice of pound cake, Coca-Cola, and some Pepto Bismol.

He was the kind of fella who’d go to the trouble of preparing a nine-plate breakfast, just because it was Tuesday. Who’d spend eight hours on a steak supper — complete with sliced tomatoes. Who kept a can of bacon grease on the counter, and used a dollop in everything from turnip greens to Raisin Bran.

Feeders are special folks.

They deserve their own magnificent kitchens in heaven. Because Lord knows, they won’t stop cooking once they get there. In fact, they wouldn’t know what to do with their hands if it weren’t for whisks and electric mixers.

These kind souls believe all your troubles can be treated with chicken and dumplings. And if you waltz through their door wearing a sad face, they’ll start flouring up the counter without saying a word.

Their love looks like an overloaded stovetop, that’s why they smile whenever you help yourself to seconds. Because they’ve yet to meet a soul in this world who’s ever eaten “enough.”

For crying out loud, say, “thank you,” once in a while. Because that pound cake that just put a smile on your face, wasn’t cake at all.

It was your wife.


  1. Rozena Mahar - April 1, 2016 2:42 pm

    Sean, what a beautiful way to say THANK YOU! to Jamie

    Crisco had it right when they coined their famous slogan, “Nothing says lovin like something from the oven….”

  2. Martha M Wilson - November 21, 2016 2:33 pm

    Hahaha! My sister is one of these!

  3. Dottie Till - April 24, 2017 4:45 pm

    Hi Sean, I’m a follower of yours. Love your stories. I was searching for one about of all things —-pound cake and the crust – which is the best part, of course. My son took some back with him to Birmingham that I had made. Took one piece to his girlfriend, leaving three pieces. When he got up this morning, the crusty good part was gone on all three. He was LIVID!! Apparently his roommate helped himself, but when confronted only admitted to eating it off one piece. My son apparently had a few choice words for him, well I think a lot of choice words he would not repeat to me, he said. He said roommate may be moving out by this afternoon. His roommate offered to go buy him another pound cake, and my son told him unless he was going to Pigeon Creek and getting his mama (me) to make it not to bother!
    I told him I was sorry, that I knew how he felt. His dad had habit of doing things like this to cakes and pies before, but I broke him from it, I think. Any how I was trying to find the term for the greedy cake destroyers out there and told my son I’d make him another cake to hide away, but in the meantime his day has been ruined.

    Do you have a story that relates to this I can send him? Thanks, Dottie Till, Greenville, Al


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