I want to be clear about one thing before I start: I did not begin this argument. I married into it.

My mother's cornbread is sweet. Has always been sweet. One cup cornmeal, one cup flour, a quarter cup of sugar — real sugar, a meaningful amount of sugar, not a polite pinch — eggs, buttermilk, butter. It's almost a corn cake. She serves it at room temperature with regular butter and I have eaten it my entire life and I love it and I did not know there was another way until I met my husband's family.

My husband's family's cornbread has no sugar. I want to stress this. No sugar whatsoever. Cornmeal, flour, eggs, milk, lard (his grandmother's version) or butter (the updated version), salt, baking powder. That is the entire recipe. It's dense and savory and you eat it with chili or soup or anything that needs something substantial to sop up liquid with.

I married him anyway.

But the cornbread situation was always there, waiting.

How the Fight Started

We were not married three years before his mother made her cornbread at a family dinner and my husband said, in the casual way of someone who has no idea he's wandering into a minefield, "This is what cornbread is supposed to taste like."

I said, "What does that mean?"

He said, "Like cornbread. Savory. Not sweet."

I said, "My mother's cornbread is sweet and it is cornbread."

He said, "That's more like cake."

I said, "Your cornbread is more like a dinner roll that got confused."

His mother, who was sitting six feet away and pretending not to listen, said, "I could get either of you the recipe."

We both said no. We both meant different things by it.

What Everyone Believes and Why Everyone Is Wrong

My husband believes that sweet cornbread is a Northern corruption of a Southern dish. He has said the word "authentic" more times than I am comfortable with. He cites his grandmother, who cited her mother, who presumably cited someone else all the way back to a time when sugar in cornbread was considered absurd.

My mother believes that sweet cornbread is correct because it tastes good and that is sufficient reason. She has also noted, with some heat, that she has been making cornbread for fifty years and it has been eaten and enjoyed fifty years' worth of times, which she considers a defense against criticism.

I believe that both of them are right and that this is somehow the most aggravating position to hold.

My Solution

In my infinite wisdom, I decided to make a cornbread that incorporated both traditions. A hybrid. A peace offering.

I took my mother's base recipe and cut the sugar from a quarter cup to two tablespoons — enough sweetness to acknowledge it, not enough to call it cake. I added jalapeños and sharp cheddar to give it the savory depth of my husband's family's version. I added crispy bacon bits because I thought the smokiness would bridge the gap between the two styles.

I was very proud of this cornbread.

I brought it to the first family dinner where both my mother and my in-laws were present. I was thinking of it as a diplomatic gesture.

My mother tasted it and said, "Why is there a jalapeño in this?"

My mother-in-law tasted it and said, "Is there sugar in this?"

My husband tasted it and said, "It's good."

My mother said, "It's not cornbread."

My mother-in-law said, "It's very interesting."

In my family, "very interesting" means "I have questions I've decided not to ask."

What Actually Happened

I had not made a diplomatic cornbread. I had made a third cornbread that satisfied neither camp and introduced a new set of objections from both sides.

My mother wants her sweet, simple cornbread. The addition of jalapeños and bacon and cheddar turns it into something she doesn't recognize as the dish she raised me on. She's right — it isn't. I changed it.

My mother-in-law wants her savory, substantial cornbread. The two tablespoons of sugar make it sweet in a way she finds unnecessary. She's right — they do.

The version I made is a genuinely good dish. It has complexity. It has layers. If you came to it fresh, without fifty years of family cornbread expectations, you would probably like it.

But I did not come to it fresh, and neither did anyone else at that table.

The Corn

I also added fresh corn kernels to the batter, which I should mention, because both mothers noted it independently and it somehow became a separate disagreement.

My mother: "Real cornbread doesn't have pieces of corn in it."

My mother-in-law: "Why would you put corn in cornbread?"

Me: "To add texture and sweetness and a little chewiness."

Both of them, in their own way: "That's not what cornbread is for."

I have kept the corn. I am the one who makes the cornbread. This is the one decision that is mine.

The Current Situation

I make three versions, which is either a reasonable accommodation or an admission of failure depending on how you look at it.

When I'm cooking for my mother, I make hers. Her recipe, her proportions, her quarter cup of sugar. It tastes like my childhood and I love it and I am not confused about why.

When I'm cooking for my in-laws, I make the savory version. No sugar. Dense. The kind of cornbread that stands up to a bowl of chili and does not complain.

When I'm cooking for everyone, I make my version — the hybrid with jalapeños and cheddar and bacon and the two tablespoons of sugar and the corn kernels — and I serve it, and both mothers eat it, and neither says anything critical, which I have come to understand as the best possible outcome.

My husband eats all three versions without complaint. He is, in this area, a model of diplomatic neutrality. I respect this and also find it maddening.

I asked him once which version he preferred.

He said, "Whatever you make."

I said, "That's not an answer."

He said, "I know."

The cornbread argument, in this household, will never be fully resolved. I have accepted this. I have made peace with being a person who makes three versions of a simple quick bread in order to not offend anyone.

This seemed, when I married into it, like a very small problem. Cornbread. How complicated could it be.

I now have strong opinions about lard versus butter, about the ratio of cornmeal to flour, about fresh versus frozen corn kernels, about whether the pan should be cast iron and preheated before the batter goes in.

Nobody asked me to have these opinions. But here we are.

My mother and my mother-in-law are both right about their cornbread. I am right about mine. We have agreed not to discuss it at meals and to let the cornbread speak for itself.

So far this has mostly worked.