you like a glass of milk with this?” she asked after she’d served the chili into bowls and put it on the table, along with the sliced cornbread and some canned fruit.
“Didn’t you make coffee?” he asked, glancing up.
“Sure. I just thought...”
“I don’t need anything to put out the fire,” he told her with a wicked smile. “I’m not a tenderfoot from Jawja.”
She moved to the coffeepot and poured two cups. She set his in front of him and sat down. “For your information, suh,” she drawled, “we Georgians have been known to eat rattlesnakes while they were still wiggling. And an aunt of mine makes a barbecued sparerib dish that makes Texas chili taste like oatmeal by comparison.”
“Is that so? Let’s see.” He dipped into his chili, savored it, put the spoon down, and glared at her. “You call this hot?” he asked.
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