Making Sure They Get Home

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Making Sure They Get Home

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I don’t think Southern hospitality is just about sweet tea. I think it’s making sure everyone has a good time and gets home alive.Southern hospitality is supposed to mean something.Growing up, the Fourth of July meant my mother’s barbecue. It wasn’t just dinner. It became the neighborhood gathering, the family reunion you didn’t know you were having. Friends drifted in. A few cousins or uncles might show. No one brought anything because even Mama had already made it with at least three different options. You came because my mother cooked, and everyone knew that meant you were going to leave full, laughing. You were going to have a good time.That was Southern hospitality on a 4th of July Weekend. It was exciting, even before the fireworks.But this Fourth of July felt different.I don’t know many people who gathered with neighbors. Most stayed home. Even the celebrations in Washington, D.C. looked very quiet, quieter than I expected for America’s 250th birthday. Across the country, storms interrupted festivities, forcing some families to seek shelter—even inside the African American History Museum. Others didn’t feel the hospitality as they rode on buses with White Supremacists and Reuters photographers. I’d like to think that the photographers would’ve been neighborly and helped out, but they had a duty, I suppose, to capture the mask-wearing marchers.Sometimes hospitality means making a safe environment. No one should be fearful on the 4th of July.Again. This 4th felt different.No amount of BBQ or sweet tea can make up for fear or anguish. What happened to checking on your neighbors, making sure everyone has a ride, or that they make it home to call their mother?I thought about how my mother always wanted to know where I was, who I was with, and who the adults were. At the time, it felt overprotective.Now it feels like another expression of hospitality.Real hospitality isn’t simply welcoming people in.It’s making sure they get home.There are families who will never forget this holiday weekend because someone they loved didn’t make it home. My heart especially goes out to the family of Nolan Wells, a young Black man who went to celebrate with friends and never came home. Amid the unimaginable grief, his mother publicly thanked the volunteers, the United Cajun Navy, local law enforcement, and neighbors who searched alongside her.That, too, is Southern hospitality, showing up when someone else is hurting.On Sunday, the 5th, I had the opportunity to be hospitable to my readers at a release party to celebrate the of A Deal at Dawn. II held a tea party.What better way to celebrate a Regency romance?Picture tablecloths, teacups, ceramic platters, cookies, flowers, and just enough balloons to make a corner of Barnes & Noble feel less like a bookstore and more like someone’s parlor. We were tucked into the music section, and honestly, what could be more neighborly than books and music sharing the same space?Of course, I have a terrible habit of never doing anything halfway.I love to cook. Left to my own devices, every gathering becomes a catered affair. But Barnes & Noble has a café, which meant there were limits on bringing in outside food.Reality met Southern determination.I had to get creative.Normally, my backup plan is Cheryl’s Cookies. I always keep a stash in the freezer for emergencies. They’re delicious, dependable, and have rescued me on more than one gathering.But this wasn’t an emergency.This was a celebration.I kept thinking about the afternoon my daughter and I spent at the Russian Tea Room in New York. The tiny pastries. The beautiful presentation. The sense that every bite had been chosen with care.If I couldn’t recreate that menu, I could recreate the feeling.Every Southern tea needs cake.So I invented tea cake cupcakes.The recipe grew out of the world of A Deal at Dawn. While writing the novel, I kept returning to preserved fruits and candies. In eighteenth-century Saint Petersburg, oranges were rare luxuries. When people had them, they treasured them, preserving every bit they could in marmalades and jams.That became my inspiration.I took my favorite pound cake recipe, whipped the butter until it was impossibly light, folded in rich orange marmalade, and added buttermilk because Southern baking practically demands it. The result tasted like sunshine tucked inside a cupcake.Maybe it was over the top.But it was neighborly.That’s what Southern cooks do.I get it from my mother.I get it from the soil and the air that she raised me in.I want to feed people.I want them to slow down.I want them to feel safe.I want them to feel seen.As joyful as Sunday was, the weekend as whole kept reminding me why those things matter. I’m often asked which book signing has been my favorite. Every signing is my favorite.Whether one person comes or a hundred, someone has carved out space in their day to spend time with me and my stories. They’ve read my books, shared them ...

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