I spent the entire drive home panicking. Jimmy Carter Delight? Was it a casserole? A dessert? Some secret family recipe passed down like an heirloom? I googled it at red lights, in parking lots, even while brushing my teeth. Nothing. Not a single reliable result.
So I did the only thing I could: I improvised.
I decided it sounded like something Southern. Comforting. Presidential, even. I made a warm, sweet-savory casserole with cornbread, pecans, a hint of honey, and a creamy layer that smelled like Christmas itself. I tasted it twice, adjusted the seasoning, then stared at it for a long time, wondering if I was about to humiliate myself in front of my in-laws.
At dinner, I set the dish on the table, heart racing.
My father-in-law froze. My mother-in-law blinked. Then they burst out laughing.
“Oh honey,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “Jimmy Carter Delight isn’t a real dish.”
Turns out it was an old family joke—named after a long-ago Christmas when someone brought a mystery casserole that no one could identify, but everyone politely ate. They’d been testing me.
Then my father-in-law took a bite.
Paused.
Took another.
“Well,” he said, smiling, “this one deserves the name.”
By the end of the night, the dish was gone, the recipe was requested, and the joke officially retired.
Next year, they asked me to bring it again—on purpose.
