My grandmother used to make soup like that every year. She prepared it over an open fire in an old cast-iron wash pot in the backyard. One of my earliest and fondest memories from childhood is of helping her when she canned her produce and made soup. In the depths of the winter I would look at all those jars arrayed row upon row in the pantry, and I would think of them as being filled with the captured warmth and essence of summertime. I knew exactly what Darcey meant when she called it her summer soup.

Looking at those jars in Parker’s hands, I could feel my mouth water—and more than that—I felt the warm hand of a caring woman as it touched my soul.

“To the galley!” I cried out.

I reached into the pan cabinet and handed Parker a pot for the soup. Then I pulled out a ten-inch cast-iron skillet and sat it on the countertop.

“This is a special occasion,” I said with enthusiasm. “You tend to the soup, and I’ll make us a pone of cornbread.”

Parker was unscrewing the lid of one jar but paused to cast me a glance.

“And none of those questioning looks, you doubting Thomas, you. I’ll have you know that I make the finest cornbread you’ll find anywhere along the Atlantic seaboard—or, for that matter, within the Gulf of Mexico and also the Caribbean,” I boasted as I got out a mixing bowl and set it on the counter.

“Tasting is believing,” Parker said with a smile. “As an engineer, I put my faith in empirical data. Mere talk is of no relevance whatsoever.”

“Then you don’t scald the soup—and hand me the buttermilk from the fridge. And if it’s proof you demand—just give me a little elbow room and thirty minutes—then we’ll see what you have to say.”

An hour later we pushed our chairs back from the galley table. A small scrap of cornbread remained on the plate in the center of the table. We eyed it at the same time, but when Parker looked up with lifted eyebrows, I shook my head, waved a hand side to side, and patted my stomach to indicate, I can’t; it’s all yours.

Parker quickly reached out a hand and popped the morsel in his mouth. He closed his eyes and lifted his head slightly as he chewed and swallowed the last of our supper. Then, with a contented smile on his face he looked at me across the table.

“I admit the veracity of your claim. That was the best cornbread I’ve ever tasted. In fact, before this, I was never a fan of the dish. But I believe you’ve managed to change my attitude,” he said with a sigh.