When I was six, my family switched from Baptist to Methodist. The move was a big deal, though near as I could tell, Methodists were Baptists who were afraid of water and public outbursts. Given my somewhat dramatic nature, the Methodists and I never really took to one another. During communion, when I lined up for my dose of grape juice and a paper wafer, I felt like I was being vaccinated. In search of passion and gore, the blood and body promised by scripture, I often went to church with friends.

Communion at Ellen and Mary Tom’s Catholic church was very appealing. Real wine and real bread, the Body of Christ done right. (That should be the tagline for their new ad campaign.)

Eliza’s Lutheran church was similarly authentic. Red wine from a magnificent goblet that could have been the Holy Grail. Hunks of bread torn from a godly loaf. The sanctuary was a dark, exotic, cavelike structure and I was reading The Hobbit at the time. I was certain that if Hobbits went to church, they’d be Lutherans.

I knew one Jewish girl, Marcy. When I asked my mother what "Jewish" meant, she said, "It means Marcy doesn’t believe in Jesus." I had an Assembly of God uncle who believed there were spirits in the TV, so not believing in Jesus fell on the acceptable end of crazy, and Marcy had a Madame Alexander doll collection that I was dying to undress. But she lived five or six houses beyond where I was allowed to walk, so we never became friends, and I never got to see how Jews take communion.

My communion fixation was short-lived, and I was only reminded of it years later when I came across a recipe for "The Body of Christ," a recipe reported to be the same used for communion bread at the Vatican. I was horrified and intrigued. Would it be okay to put peanut butter on it? Ham? Would you -- could you -- ever change the recipe? Some recipes are seriously sacred! I often think of that recipe when I hear people arguing about food, the sacrosanctity of recipes. No beans in real chili. No cream cheese in genuine sushi. No sugar in true Southern cornbread. None of those foods is sacred, and most of the fun in cooking (and eating) is moving beyond tradition, exploring the wide selection of ingredients now offered to us.

My Aunt Floy – who had her own resurrection of sorts – would agree.

Aunt Floy was a woman of Old Testament temperament, part Queen Esther, part Jezebel. She always followed her heart even though it had a disastrous sense of direction. Near the end of her life, she found love, or so she believed. After her death, Uncle Henry married a woman who coveted the plot where Aunt Floy was buried. Dutifully, Uncle Henry renounced Aunt Floy and demanded her body be moved, so that one far off day he might lie next to his newest true love for all eternity. Before anything could be settled, Uncle Henry died suddenly and was buried next to Aunt Floy. (I have no doubt she had Uncle Henry smited. I crossed her once, and she flayed me alive with her eyes – wind whistled through my exposed ribs. I did not cross her again.)

Uncle Henry’s woman continued to fight for the precious real estate next to his corpse, and being serene Methodists, my family gave in. They did not want Aunt Floy buried beside a man who had turned against her. She was dug up and laid to rest in our own family plot.

Anyway, I know she would agree with me about the recipes (sacred/not sacred) because in 1976, Aunt Floy brought jalapeno "cornbread" to Thanksgiving dinner.

Until that day, we had eaten cornbread that resembled a very thick tortilla. On its own, it had little flavor; it came to life, and barely, when dunked in the liquor from a pot of greens. This is the recipe:

To 1 cup self-rising, fine ground cornmeal, add a little bit of salt, and enough hot water to make a paste you can handle and mold. In a well-seasoned cast iron skillet, heat a bit of oil until it’s medium-hot. Pat a handful of the corn paste into a flat disc about half an inch thick and lay it into the pan. When the underside is browned, flip and cook the other side.

The resulting cornbread is supremely authentic in the rural South. I sometimes crave it, if only to remember my Nanny’s kitchen, but I wouldn’t suggest you bring it to a potluck

Aunt Floy’s jalapeno cornbread, though, is something special. Serve it with chili – with beans or without. No fighting! It’s food, not the Body of Christ.

Aunt Floy’s (Rest in Peace, Finally) Jalapeno Cornbread

1 cup yellow cornmeal

1 cup flour

1 Tbsp baking powder 

1 tsp salt

1/3 cup sugar (optional, if you’re the kind to take offense)

1 cup buttermilk

2 eggs

1 cup corn kernels, fresh if available or thawed if frozen

1 and ½ cup grated sharp cheddar cheese

2 jalapenos, roasted, peeled, seeded and chopped (or saute them like my Aunt Floy did back in the day)

1 small red bell pepper, roasted, peeled, seeded and chopped (or sauteed with the jalapenos until tender)

5 Tbsp butter, divided

Preheat oven to 425. Place 3 Tbsp butter in a 10 inch cast iron skillet, and put the skillet into the oven to melt the butter and thoroughly heat the skillet.

In a large bowl, mix the dry ingredients. In a smaller bowl, mix the eggs, buttermilk, corn, peppers, cheese and 2 Tbsp of melted butter. Mix the wet ingredients into the dry and stir just until blended. Spoon this mixture into the hot skillet, on top of the melted butter. Reduce the oven temperature to 400 and cook for 25 - 30 minutes. The sides should be browned and crispy. I like to place under a broiler for the last couple of minutes to evenly brown the top.