Chapter 1: The Roast Lamb Curse

My father was the most famous chef for miles around. His roast lamb came out with a skin so crisp it crackled under your fork, and the meat inside was juicy enough to make even the grumpiest customer sigh with happiness.

On weekends, folks would drive in from neighboring counties just for a bite, pulling up in old Ford pickups or dusty Buicks, lining the gravel lot next to our family’s place. The bell over the door chimed as folks came in, the Formica counters sticky with spilled sweet tea, and the air thick with the scent of hickory smoke. When that lamb hit the smoker, the scent would drift straight down Main Street—making even the mail carrier double back for a sample.

Word got to the governor’s newest flame, and she sent for my father herself, insisting he cook his famous lamb at her mansion.

The invitation arrived in a thick envelope, sealed with an official-looking stamp. He ran his thumb over the raised seal, tracing it like he was checking for the real thing. It was the kind of thing my father would lay flat on the kitchen table, smoothing the edges with his palm, a hint of pride flickering across his face.

My father went. When he was thrown out, his entire body was burned—his flesh roasted to a pulp.

No one who saw him that night could ever forget it. His jacket, blackened and stuck to what was left of his skin, had to be peeled off with a paring knife. The neighbor boy, Carter, said the ambulance lights made his wounds glow red like molten glass. I hid behind the curtains, peeking through my fingers, wishing I could unsee what the world had done to him.

It turned out the beloved girlfriend had a sudden whim: she wanted roast lamb with no trace of lamb flavor.

It was the kind of mean-spirited story folks swapped in hushed tones at the barbershop, never loud enough for the wrong ears to hear. The story spread, twisted at the edges, but always ending with that bizarre request—lamb without lamb.

When my mother learned of this, she didn’t shed a single tear.

She sat at the end of the bed, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the peeling wallpaper. My grandmother called, offering to come down from Macon, but Mom just thanked her and said, "We’ll manage."

But three months later, she set up a huge kettle in front of the governor’s mansion and began selling lamb stew.

The sun beat down on the sidewalk, sweat trickling down her neck as she stirred the stew, her hands steady even as her heart must’ve been racing. The kettle was battered but proud, a remnant from my father’s earliest days as a cook. My mother stood tall, her back straight as she ladled out steaming stew to anyone who dared approach, the aroma hanging stubbornly in the air like a challenge.