2021
On the 18th of December, 2021, a photo pops up on my screen, texted from an unknown number in the 405. In the photo is a baton of darkish red, against a background of wrinkled wax paper. At first glance, I mistake the thing for a Slim Jim.
The accompanying text reads, “And by the way this is your cousin. And that is our grandfather’s garlic cheese. Was submitting for your critique.”
It’s Steve Fielder, my father’s sister’s son. For years, we all spent Christmas Eve together, taking turns as host, either in Tulsa or in one of his dad Jerry Fielder’s various ministerial outposts: Bixby, Okmulgee, Oklahoma City, Moore, Okmulgee again. Even before that, before our grandparents moved into an apartment on the municipal golf course, the earliest Christmas celebrations we can remember were held at their house in Seminole. It was there where our taste for garlic cheese was cemented.
“We made five,” Steve texts. “I am curious to know how you do it.”
It’s the beginning of a text thread now four years in the unraveling.
“I use three cheeses,” I reply, “an aged Gouda and a Wensleydale cheddar1, then a white one for visual variety. I use fresh garlic—an almost sinister amount—then blend a bit of smoked paprika in with my chili.”