Buttermilk Cornbread

November. The month of thanks, the month of turkey, the month my great-grandbaby is due to arrive. I am vibrating with anticipation, baby. I haven't been this excited since Kayla's graduation, and before that, since I don't know when. Excitement is a young person's emotion, they say, but they are wrong. Excitement doesn't age. It just gets better at waiting.

The church Thanksgiving dinner is in three weeks and my army of cooks is assembled. Twenty-two women (and Deacon Harris, who makes the rolls, and no one else is allowed to make the rolls because his are transcendent). I sent out the assignments this week: Sister Johnson has the collard greens. Sister Williams has the yams. Sister Thompson has the mac and cheese. I have the turkey and the dressing and the gravy, because some things you don't delegate. The turkey is the centerpiece. The dressing is the soul. The gravy is the bridge. And I am all three.

Kayla brought a young man to Sunday dinner. Devon. A paramedic. She introduced him like it was the most casual thing in the world — "Granny, this is Devon, he works at Memorial too" — like I haven't known about Devon for two months, like I didn't see his name on her phone when she left it on the kitchen counter, like grandmothers don't have eyes and ears and an intelligence network that rivals the FBI.

Devon is tall, polite, and he ate three helpings of collard greens, which tells me everything I need to know about a man. He shook Earl's hand and called him "sir." He helped clear the table without being asked. He looked at Kayla the way you look at someone who has changed the temperature of every room you walk into. I like him. I'll wait three more Sunday dinners before I say so, because a grandmother's approval should be earned, not given.

Made a test run of my Thanksgiving dressing — cornbread crumbled, celery, onion, sage, poultry seasoning, and enough butter to alarm a dietician. The dressing is the dish I'm most particular about because it was Mama's dish, and Mama's dressing was legendary. Not famous — legendary. There's a difference. Famous means people know about it. Legendary means people still talk about it after you're gone.

Now go on and feed somebody.

My dressing starts here — with this cornbread. You cannot rush the soul of a dish, and the soul of my dressing is a good, honest pan of buttermilk cornbread baked the day before, left to cool, and crumbled with your hands the way Mama taught me. I’m making it three weeks early this year just to make sure the recipe still knows who’s in charge — and with a great-grandbaby on the way and Devon at my Sunday table proving himself one helping at a time, this kitchen needs to be firing on all cylinders. Start here.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 25 minutes | Total Time: 35 minutes | Servings: 9

Ingredients

1 cup yellow cornmeal
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1 cup buttermilk
2 large eggs
1/4 cup unsalted butter, melted (plus more for the pan)

Instructions

Preheat. Heat your oven to 400°F. Grease an 8x8-inch baking pan generously with butter and set aside.
Combine dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the cornmeal, flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and sugar until evenly blended.
Mix wet ingredients. In a separate bowl, whisk together the buttermilk, eggs, and melted butter until smooth.
Bring it together. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and stir gently until just combined — do not overmix. A few lumps are perfectly fine and will keep your cornbread tender.
Bake. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and spread it evenly. Bake for 22–25 minutes, or until the top is golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.
Cool and serve. Let the cornbread cool in the pan for at least 10 minutes before cutting. If using for dressing, allow it to cool completely, then cover loosely and leave it out overnight to dry slightly before crumbling.

Nutrition (per serving)

Buttermilk Cornbread — The Foundation of Mama’s Legendary Dressing