Aunt Jean never made chicken-fried steak out of anything but venison. My family has a genetic propensity for diabetes and alcoholism; penchants to over-season. Too much pepper in Gram's gravy and fuck proliferate family discussions. A double shot of truth always gets you in trouble the next morning. Don't mention the time your cousin felt you up; guilt when you visit cousins who lost their father in Nam. Your child's prayer: Thank you God for not taking my Daddy. In fifth grade you played a cousin's make-believe game naked; stopped before it began to get out of hand. Shame creeps red along your cheekbone. The family tree: words like horse thief, train robber, and unsavory grow out of the truncated stub out so far from creation. Genetic remnants from a Cherokee grandmother somewhere further up that unrecorded arm. Skeptics abounded, yet Sissy and I were the first ones to finish college; a day pass to claim southern genteel respectability in exchange for color, rambunctiousness, full-spirit and boldly-spoken opinion. Cousin Bobbie always said she could never eat wild animal. Aunt Jean always winked at me as she ladled cream gravy over a third helping. My family is touchy about my stories; no one appreciates a writer.