Mama Flowers kept a garden behind the house she shared with her daughter. Out of the earth sown in their tiny inner-city backyard came fresh, succulent turnip greens that she washed leaf by leaf then simmered for hours with chunks of greasy salt pork. She served the greens with barbecued chicken slow-cooked in tangy sauce or with crispy fried chicken, along with cornbread baked in a cast iron skillet. After the meal, when I finally convinced her that I couldn’t eat a third helping, she put me to bed in the bedroom her son used before he moved out. Warm and full, I napped deeply until the smell of warmed sweet potato pie enticed me into consciousness.