Mission: Possible

The graveyard is full of great recipes. That’s the conclusion I’ve reached after decades of hearing stories about unsuccessful attempts to get recipes from great cooks. I went through it with my late mother and cook par excellence Johnetta Miller. “You know I don’t measure,” was often her response when I asked for instructions.

Foolishly thinking that my mother would always be around, I didn’t take the time to earnestly watch her and learn for myself. I did try to get our grandfather’s chicken-and-dumplings recipe from my twin sister. But even though I’m kin, she refused to give it up because, years earlier, he forbade her from doing so.

Memories of such quixotic pursuits came to mind when Bernetta McKindra and I talked about a beloved family recipe.

McKindra is accustomed to keeping secrets. As a faith leader who’s been in ministry for 35 years, people have shared a thing or two with her that they would never tell anyone else. She also descends from barbecue royalty. She’s the granddaughter of Henry Perry, the African American man whom many credit with jumpstarting the barbecue scene in Kansas City, Missouri in the early 20th century.

Are you thinking that she’s the current guardian of Perry’s secret recipes, the ones he used to train so many of that city’s legendary barbecue artists, people like Arthur and Charlie Bryant, George Gates, and Arthur Pinkard? Think again. She never knew much about her grandfather until she researched him after Perry’s posthumous 2013 induction into the American Royal Barbecue Hall of Fame. No, this is the story of a popular recipe for pound cake.

I’m also accustomed to keeping secrets. My most impressive credential in that respect is that I held top-secret security clearance while working in the Clinton White House. I once flaunted that fact to an elderly Black woman with the hope of persuading her to share a cherished recipe with me. She responded with a long, unimpressed, nonplused look deeply seasoned with silence. I knew I wasn’t getting anything. 

As many know, getting a recipe out of an elder is often both a sentimental journey and a fool’s errand. There are a lot of reasons why such recipes are hard to get. Sometimes a cook, like my twin, has been sworn to lifelong secrecy by the cook who bestowed it on them. They’re just honoring the person’s wishes.

Some cooks feel like they’ll give it to someone when death is imminent, but few know exactly when the Grim Reaper will visit. A broad swath of secretive cooks simply don’t want someone else to steal their shine by knowing how to make their specialty.

Then, there are the spiteful cooks who lead you to believe they’re giving you the entire recipe in written form, except an important ingredient or step is left out. Another tactic is letting you watch them cook, and then, at a key moment, that person will distract you; maybe even say “Hey, baby, could you get me (fill in the blank) from the cupboard?” While you’re not looking, something you don’t even know about is added.

Little did I know that a lifetime of being subjected to such culinary evasions would prepare me for an unexpected moment that could possibly change culinary history. In early March 2025, McKindra came to Denver for a family funeral. Though it was a time of sadness, it was a chance for her to be with extended family. She had a break in her schedule, so on a sunny Sunday afternoon, we went for lunch at a nearby barbecue restaurant.

Then McKindra said something that surprised me: “I have the recipe in my stuff.” I immediately saw an opening because, unlike so many others, she’d written the recipe down. She was already predisposed to share it.

“Is it the exact recipe?” I probed.

With a wry smile, she replied, “Yes.”

“So, do you know when you’re going to die?” 

As soon as I said that, I immediately qualified it because there are some people who actually know that they’re going to die soon. I didn’t want an otherwise pleasant conversation to get so somber. I asked another question.

“Why don’t you want someone to know how to make the pound cake?”

Half laughing, she simply said “I don’t want them to make it.” 

I try to get her to see the issue from another perspective. I decided to get a little personal. “You know, you bring something unique to everything you cook,” I mentioned with soft conviction. 

I saw her warm to my position, but then she mentioned something so obvious that I was embarrassed that I overlooked it.

“If I give them the recipe, my nieces won’t ask me to make it for them anymore,” she said softly. 

At that moment, I realized that the reason McKindra kept that recipe close was about belonging and connection to her loved ones. I assured her that the opposite is the case. They’ll always ask her to make it while she’s alive because no one else can make it quite the way she does.

I know she’s taking it in, but the look on her face shows she remains unconvinced. I needed back up. 

We had a team of two servers at our table, and I thought they were perfect allies in my time of need. The first was an African American man, probably in his 40s. With McKindra sitting right there, I colorfully presented the situation to the server as if I were talking about someone other than McKindra. Then came the climactic question: “So, given all that I’ve told you, would you still want your aunt to make that pound cake?” His answer was on point.

He vigorously nodded his head, saying “Yes, that’s my auntie. I’m gonna have hers if I can get it.” The entire time he gave me a look that could only be interpreted as “Duh.”

McKindra is now smiling because she knows my objective. I motion to our second server, a college-aged African American woman wearing a gold nose ring. She’s not as demonstrative as the first server, but she essentially agreed. McKindra was really smiling now; it was clear she got the point. Strategically, I pivoted to another conversation topic and let the recipe one marinate while we munched on brisket, pork spareribs, coleslaw, and collard greens. 

We finished our lunch, and then I drove her back to her family. As we said goodbye, I planted one more seed by encouraging her to share the recipe before she left us. I repeated my line about the graveyard that I used on you at the start of this story.

McKindra paused, smiled, and said, “I’ll think about it” in a way that convinced me she would. I knew that was all that I could hope for at that moment. 

Feeling really good about myself, and hopefully manifesting reality, I went on social media and posted the following on several social media platforms: “Today, I persuaded a Black auntie to give her family the EXACT recipe for her beloved pound cake BEFORE she dies.”

I got the biggest response on Threads where the post got over 5,000 likes, and a tremendous number of comments. My personal favorite was @Ininthecity responding with “Out here doing the Lord’s work!”

You may ask, as so many have online, did she ultimately share the recipe with her family? I haven’t asked because a change in perspective is fragile. I don’t think it’s good to push. Because McKindra is clergy and a kind and thoughtful person, I take it as an article of faith that she’ll one day share that pound cake recipe with her family . . . before her own homegoing service.

Adrian Miller is a James Beard Award-winning food writer who lives in Denver, Colorado. His latest book, co-authored with Deborah Chang, is Asian Heritage Chefs in White House History: Cooking to the President’s Taste.