The white lady sticks her hand out to me and I study her. She might be built like Marilyn, but she ain‘t ready for no screen test. She‘s got flour in her yellow hairdo. Flour in her glue-on eyelashes. And flour all over that tacky pink pantsuit. Her standing in a cloud of dust and that pantsuit being so tight, I wonder how she can breathe.

"Yes ma'am. I'm Minnny Jackson." I smooth down my white uniform instead of shaking her hand. I don't want that mess on me. "You cooking something?" "One of those upsidedown cakes from the magazine?" she sighs. "It ain‘t working out too good."

I follow her inside and that's when I see Miss Celia Rae Foote‘s suffered only a minor injury in the flour fiasco. The rest of the kitchen took the real hit. The countertops, the doubledoor refrigerator, the Kitchen—Aid mixer are all sitting in about a quarter—inch of snow flour. It's enough mess to drive me crazy. I ain‘t even got the job yet, and I'm already looking over at the sink for a sponge.