Most people call me Fuzz. I was born 75 years ago in Picayune, Mississippi, with a soft halo of unruly hair that reminded my father of a fuzzy little peach. He began calling me “Fuzz,” and the name stuck—first with my family, then with my friends, and eventually with just about everyone in town.
My father gave me that name before leaving to serve in the Korean War. He never returned. After being captured, he was summarily executed. I carry enormous pride in the father I lost, and his nickname for me remains one of my most treasured possessions. Every time someone calls me Fuzz, I hear a small echo of him.
I have lived a full, complicated, and decidedly imperfect life. I have 13 grandbabies, strong convictions, and enough contradictions to keep anyone humble. I am vehemently opposed to abortion, although I have had four abortions myself. If contradiction were a category at the county fair, I would have another blue ribbon. I do not share that truth lightly, but after 75 years, I believe an honest testimony ought to include the parts that do not fit neatly together.
Baking has long been one of my greatest joys—and, if the judges are to be believed, one of my greatest talents. I frequently win baking contests, and my recipes have become nearly sacred to me. They hold memories of family kitchens, shared tables, hard seasons, happy celebrations, and the people I have loved along the way.
I am now living with a terminal illness, the details of which I prefer to keep private. Because I'll soon be resting in the arms of Jesus, I reckon it's time for me to share those sacred recipes here while I still can. Consider this website part cookbook, part family inheritance, and part insurance against somebody ruining a perfectly good pie crust after I am gone to glory.
My life has held laughter and grief, conviction and contradiction, loss and abundance. Through it all, I have remained Fuzz—a proud child of Picayune, my father’s fuzzy little peach, and a baker who believes the best things we leave behind are meant to be shared.