.png)
Prue and the Red Velvet Society
Prue Blevins lived in a village so small the post office doubled as a bait shop and the mayor’s dog held unofficial office hours on the church steps. The whole town leaned up against a lazy river that looped like a lopsided smile, and everything—weather, gossip, and tomato yields—moved at the speed of porch rockers and polite pauses.
Prue, widowed these past fifteen years but no less opinionated for it, was the reigning matriarch of the Violet Valley County Horticultural Society, a group she founded with two other women and one man who only joined for the lemonade. Now, it boasted twelve active members and one waiting list (Tammy Jo Elkins, who refused to deadhead anything and once mistook a peony for a cabbage, had been gently told to “just enjoy nature from a respectful distance”).
Most days, you could find Prue in the community parkette, a glorified triangle of land wedged between the diner and the feed store, tugging weeds with the precision of a surgeon and muttering things like, “Heaven help me, these marigolds are drunk on sunshine.” The bronze fountain in the center—a ring of dancing children cast in 1963—sprinkled merrily beside her, though one child had a slight lean due to an unfortunate incident involving a mischievous raccoon and an overenthusiastic high school band fundraiser.
But the real magic happened the first Tuesday of every month, when Prue hosted her gardening ladies at Dot’s Diner. Dot, who ran the place with a spatula in one hand and a can of Aqua Net in the other, reserved the corner booth under the big window. Prue would waltz in, hair pinned up in what she called her “bouffant with backbone,” and treat every single woman to a thick, glorious slice of Red Velvet Cake.
Now, this was no average cake. Dot made it from scratch with buttermilk, cocoa, and a cream cheese frosting that could redeem even the rudest cousin at a family reunion. It was the unofficial currency of kindness in town.
Prue had a tradition. Before they ate, she’d raise her fork and declare:
“Here’s to dirt under our nails and frosting on our lips. May your mulch be rich, your petunias obedient, and your neighbor’s cat stay out of your zinnias.”
The ladies would laugh, clink forks like champagne glasses, and dig in.
One Tuesday, a newcomer named Clarabelle—who had just moved from Collingwood and wore gardening gloves with rhinestones—asked, “Prue, why Red Velvet?”
Prue dabbed her mouth delicately. “Because it’s dramatic,” she said. “It looks like it’s got a secret. Just like gardeners—we know what goes on under the surface.”
The women all nodded. There was wisdom in that cake.
So Prue weeded. She hosted. She celebrated soil and sweetness. And in a town where not much changed, she became a quiet legend: the woman who kept the parkette tidy, the roses pruned, and the Red Velvet flowing—proof that a little sugar, a lot of sun, and a stubborn root system can hold a village together just fine.
ORDER a fine art print of ‘Red Velvet Cake’ here.
No comments:
Post a Comment