Steak Eggs Benedict with Cajun Hollandaise

When I was a kid, I spent many a day on my grandparents’ cattle farm. My PawPaw wasn’t what you’d call a sweet man. If you wanted to learn how to feed the chickens, maintain the catfish pond, fix a tractor, or watch a calf be born—my PawPaw was your man. If you were looking for snuggles and bedtime stories, well… an old blanket and Matlock reruns would have to do.

He had strange ways of showing affection. As an adult, I realize that pointing out when the blackberries were ready or letting me take the steering wheel on small gravel roads was his way of saying “I love you.”

One of his quirks was naming cows after family members. You’d think that would be endearing—and it might have been—if my PawPaw hadn’t been such a harsh man. It also would’ve helped if someone had informed my five-year-old self that this was a fairly common farming practice.

There I’d be, eating my breakfast, when he’d come storming into the kitchen cussing about Jenny.

“That damn Jenny—she’s a bitch! She better watch it or she’ll be supper tomorrow!”

I didn’t know what my Aunt Jenny had done, but I genuinely feared for her safety.

Then I’d overhear conversations about castrating Ryan, or that Michelle had blackleg. I’d sit there staring at my cousin, waiting for her leg to start changing color, or wondering if I should warn Ryan about this castration thing. I wasn’t entirely sure what it was yet, but I knew it didn’t sound good.

It all came to a head one day when he came in yelling about Jolie going into the catfish pond again.

“Damn it! I’m not going to get Jolie again. She’s so dumb I should just let her drown and let the catfish take care of her dumb ass!”

I had tried fishing earlier that day and was desperately trying to figure out what I had done wrong. Did I leave my pole? Had the rules about fishing the pond changed? What did I do? Do I run into the woods and try to survive until my Daddy comes to pick me up?

Before I could stop myself, I burst into tears.

This got his attention. PawPaw wasn’t a fan of any kind of fit-throwing, and all crying fell squarely into that category.

“Mais, what’s dis all about? Why you crying those big tears like a baby?”

Through snot and tears, I managed to say, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be eaten by the catfish.”

He looked at me for a second—and then broke into the loudest laughter I had ever heard. After he caught his breath, he said, “Girl, you wouldn’t even feed a baby catfish,” and walked out of the kitchen.

For weeks after that, every time he saw me, he’d immediately burst out laughing. Eventually, one of my cousins finally took pity on me and explained everything.

And just in case you were wondering—Jolie did eventually meet her demise in that catfish pond. She really was pretty dumb.

So this Mother’s Day, I’ll be celebrating by making this decadent steak dish in honor of the other Jolie. May she always bring my PawPaw laughter, even in heaven. And I’m sure if he ever looks down and catches a glimpse of me, he’s still getting a good chuckle at my expense.