I was told the woman who cooked us breakfast and dinner every day was named Shirley, and she claimed all her ingredients were whispered to her directly from Jesus. With my stomach growling, I was left in the kitchen to wait for the next new person who would be telling me what to do from now on. Perhaps it was penance that I hadn’t been offered Thanksgiving dinner though it was almost eight at night. Lined up on the counter were fractions of pecan pies, lemon pound cakes, and red velvet cakes. A couple of chicks eased into the kitchen in order to shovel out sweet wedges to wrap into paper towels, all of them staring at the new girl while trying to keep their cool. The kitchen still held the scent of every Black Thanksgiving delicacy there was—greens, ham, candied yams, corn bread dressing, even chitterlings. My mouth watered, and if it wasn’t for pride I would have dug in without permission.

Then, a small woman named Sister Maureen came in and laid down the law under a sloppy head rag and over the best peach cobbler I had ever tasted in my life. If Jesus had come up with this recipe, then he had wasted his talents trying to save mankind. The Devil was definitely winning the battle for the world, but not everybody who thought they could could actually turn out a decent cobbler.

“Prayer meeting is Wednesday from seven to nine,” Maureen told me in between bites, “and Bible study is on Tuesdays same time. Sign-up for washer and dryer time ’fore you even think about touching either one. You leave your clothes in the washer or dryer then the next girl got the right to take ’em out and set ’em aside. They get dirty again, oh well. Responsibility—it can make you or break you in this life.”

I built up the nerve to interrupt her.

“Ma’am, I plan on getting a job soon. I can try to get Tuesdays and Wednesdays off, but you know how jobs are these days. If they don’t let me have it…”

“Then you gonna have to quit. Jesus said, ‘Therefore ye put me first and all other things shall be added unto you.’ Priorities—that’s what makes you or breaks you for the afterlife. Can I go on?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Alright now. Bible study Tuesday, prayer meeting Wednesday. Church on Sunday—at Second Baptist of course—goes without saying. Sunday School is optional because I know you young girls get tired, taking care of yourselves all alone. You need your rest.”

Maureen gave me a couple seconds to digest those rules before she kept going.