I was shopping in the Neeses Piggly Wiggly the other day and looked down at the baked goods table and what do you think I saw? A big ol’ batch of chewies.

You may not know anything about chewies. They’re this cookie-type thing, more like a bar. And they’ve got brown sugar and flour and butter in ’em — really, what more do you need?

I’ve seen the baked goods counters at other stores. Croissants and flat bread, maybe a couple of pound cakes. But a store selling chewies? Now that’s country. I looked on the beer aisle to see if I could get a jug of something homemade, but the store isn’t that country.

I got on the cell phone and called one of my sisters because she’s been trying for years to get the recipe for chewies right. I’ve only seen them come out perfect from my grandmama’s magic oven. I’ve seen some varieties come out of that sister’s oven, too, but bo’, ain’t nothing magic about my sister’s oven — unless you think converting food into charcoal is magic.

The ladies in my family love to think they cook like Grandmama. I have an aunt who comes pretty close on the chewies. But they just can’t do it.

Like the sister. She asked Grandmama for the recipe, and Grandmama gave it to her. I’ve seen rebar that was softer to the teeth than my sister’s chewies. And sweeter.

My sister tries. She even asked Grandmama for the recipe. The problem is my grandmother tells the recipe like this: You take two cups of flour, etc., etc. Only Grandma doesn’t have a standard measuring cup. She has this little orange coffee cup she’s used for years, and it ain’t no “cup.”

And Grandma’s greens. Nobody makes greens like my grandmama (except The T&D’s Tommy Brown — sorry, Grandma). Ask her how she cooks them, though, and she’ll tell you to wash some greens, put ’em in a pot with a little bit of water and pork and cook ’em.

Not very helpful, Grandma.

I once asked her how to cook a roast. According to her instructions, you brown it on all sides, wrap it in tin foil and put it in the oven. What temperature, Grandma? No clear answer.

My aunt finally told me, “Your grandmother cooks everything at 375 degrees.” But how does she cook it right all the time? Surely there’s a way to gauge the time a roast should be in the oven. Like a clock. Apparently, she just knows.

Let me break it down for you:

As much as it seems your grandmother just naturally knows her way around the kitchen and can’t give you proper instructions because her cooking is instinctive, the bottom line is she doesn’t want you to know how much flour she’s using. She doesn’t want you to know what her oven temperature is. She doesn’t want your greens to taste as good as the ones she makes.

She wants your pork chops and fried chicken to not taste quite right. Something is wrong with your butter beans, and you know why? Because your grandmother doesn’t want you to know how to cook them right. She gives you poor instructions so you can’t cook as well as she does.

She wants you dragging yourself half-starved onto her porch so she can watch you dig into her food.

Are you going to take that? Are you going to continue suffering under the oppressive boot of your grandmother? Are you going to continue cooking a roast that’s not quite done, or a little too well done?

I don’t think so. Throw off your fetters of culinary mediocrity. Rise up! Steal your grandmother’s measuring cup. Grab that can of bacon grease off her stove and go running out the door. Take it all and flee before she catches you. Be a man!

Not that I plan on becoming a man quite yet. I’m gonna be nice to Grandma. At least until the holidays are over.

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