Once I checked into the hotel in Marksville, Louisiana, that became my home base for exploring the surrounding areas for the long weekend. My shy bookworm nerves settled into a new comfort zone, and after taking a few minutes to unpack and get my bearings on both the paper map and smart phone app, I took the elevator back downstairs to embark upon my new world.
Since the lobby only held a handful of people at that hour, and none of them were standing impatiently at the front desk, I approached the same friendly woman who had checked me in a few minutes ago. Odds were high she was a local and could offer recommendations about the best places to eat in the surrounding area, and hotels often have simplified maps showing interesting places to visit. She offered both, and I grinned when she slipped right into that Southern Woman hospitality that made me feel warmly mothered by a woman probably half my age. My temporary home base took a step closer to feeling like a home. If I needed someone to confide in or to weep over bumps and bruises or to share my excitement with, I was 100% sure this woman would take me in and make soothing noises and express outrage on my behalf and dispense practical advice and exchange words with anyone who hurt my feelings. There’s some powerful magic in that sort of personality, imparting an extra boost of confidence to go out and conquer the world without fear of the consequences.
Foodcapades
I love food, and food escapades (“an act involving daring, excitement, or adventure”) are one of the best parts of traveling to a new place. I’m not any kind of connoisseur of fine foods, or even adept at finding great places to eat; I just appreciate delicious flavors and new experiences, and sometimes I happen to stumble across them both, much to my delight. At heart, I’m really a roast-and-potatoes-for-Sunday-dinner and Navajo-tacos-for-community-dinners and Swedish-pancakes-for-family-gatherings kinda girl, but over time I’ve learned to love hummus and sushi and couscous and coconut curry with lemongrass and latkes and poutine and wood grilled tilapia and mango lassi and falafel and empanadas and dozens of other new foods that make me light up inside with happiness.
Family, friends, and some new acquaintances made several suggestions for food and restaurants I needed to try in Louisiana: fried (or grilled) alligator, beignets, crawfish, gumbo, boudin, cracklins, jambalaya, Tunk’s Cypress Inn & Oyster Bar, and Pont Breaux’s Cajun Restaurant. I tried them all (except for the beignets, because I couldn’t find any…that experience would have to wait until France in the Fall.)
I arrived at Tunk’s Cypress Inn as the sun was setting. The parking lot was a large gravel area without any painted lines, with newer trucks and older cars lining up in orderly rows. It was comforting, a familiar aspect of small town life where expensive asphalt isn’t the highest priority. The restaurant is situated next to Kincaid Lake, and the wooden walkways had a lakeside dock feel to them.
A fancy black chalkboard menu hung outside before turning the corner to the entrance, and I smiled at the permanent golden text of “Community Coffee.” I’m not a coffee drinker, so I’m generally indifferent or oblivious to the relative values of different brands or blends. But one thing I had learned in my reading and research up to this point: Cajuns or people from Louisiana were vocally passionate about their Community Coffee. I wasn’t sure if the loyalty was due to taste or tradition, but I imagined the subtle message of that one unchanging portion of the board was: “We got you. The rest here is good, too. Come on in and make yourself at home.”
It’s always an interesting social ripple to walk into a restaurant alone. Tables at restaurants are meant to accommodate larger groups of people, and often the surrounding tables are filled with large groups of people and laughter and good-natured disagreements. Sometimes tables have young couples with helpless grins and shiny stars in their eyes; or couples wrestling a handful of kids and french fries and macaroni; or middle-aged couples with nothing to say to each other and weary, unsmiling faces; or elderly couples holding wrinkled hands and exchanging contented twinkles in their eyes. Increasingly, tables are full of people in all stages of life looking at their cell phones instead of talking to each other… but I’m always delighted to see those without phones finding a way to re-connect over food.
I’ve gotten used to the curious glances in my direction as I sit down at a table with empty chairs. Thankfully, the unease of feeling like I owe anyone an explanation passes more quickly than it used to. Social connection over a large meal is a strong need that crosses cultures and sub-cultures, and transcends place and time, and I am not immune. I always pictured raising kids the way I grew up, where the family gathered at the kitchen table for breakfast and dinner every day (sans screens, because we didn’t have them). Although I didn’t intentionally step outside that convention, I’ve consciously chosen to live life to the fullest with my family of one. As an introvert who doesn’t like to draw any attention and is often content inside her own world, stepping alone into a restaurant full of social people requires a daring act of bravery every time.
My table was near the transparent wall of windows overlooking the lake and the sunset, and I relaxed with contentment almost as soon as I was seated. The menu was full of enticing new flavors and curious delicacies: seafood gumbo, grilled quail, fried crab claws, snapper pontchartrain, farm raised catfish, crawfish fettuccine. I settled on a platter with a variety of interesting food samples to try: fried alligator, frog legs, oysters, okra, and shrimp gumbo. I didn’t love all of it, but it was worth tasting everything.
I’ve heard people say that alligator (and frog legs, lizards, just about anything, really) tastes like chicken… but it really didn’t. I could understand why people say that, because it did have a texture and consistency that reminded me of chicken, but the flavor seemed different to me. I suppose neither chicken nor alligator has a particularly strong, distinctive flavor on it’s own, and like tofu, both tend to take on different flavors depending on how they are cooked and with what spices or marinades or batter. One of my cousins said I should try grilled alligator sometime, because fried kills the flavor.
I decided I don’t really need to try frog legs again. But at least I know they are edible if I ever find myself in a situation where food resources are scarce. I don’t love oysters, either, though I think it’s more the texture I don’t like rather than the flavor. The gumbo was amazing (and I usually don’t like shrimp, so that says something). And… you know, I really don’t remember how I felt about the okra. It didn’t stand out enough to make a lasting impression, I guess. I don’t remember disliking it, but I think if someone offered me okra now, I’d feel like I was trying it again for the first time.
Pont Breaux’s Cajun Restaurant
I drove about 80 miles (90 minutes) from Marksville south to Lafayette and on in to Breaux Bridge to try more Cajun food with a glowing reputation. The food, music, and festive atmosphere was totally worth the effort. The drive gave me an opportunity to glimpse a little more of north-central Louisiana along back-roads and highways. Billboards, stop signs, speed limits, school zones, aging buildings and new convenience stores, spaces between homes, and overgrown or neatly manicured yards were all clues creating a larger sense of the geography and small-town rhythm of life. Lafayette was definitely a city, and while it shared some things in common with all cities, it also had it’s own unique feel that reminded me more of Alexandria than other cities I had visited or inhabited. I wondered if Louisiana culture and practicalities of local geography have perhaps imprinted their own flavor on the towns and cities there. I’m still sorting out what those unique elements are, and their possible sources.
I felt slightly nervous when I found the restaurant and parked in the side lot. It wasn’t a brand new place, and the parking lot was smaller than I had anticipated; I was grateful to find a spot to park my small rental car.
I took a deep breath as I eyed the older couples walking toward the entrance. I always experience a wave of uncertainty and insecurity going to a new place with unfamiliar people: I don’t know the layout. I don’t know the social rules and expectations. I don’t know if I can afford the prices. I don’t know what my senses will encounter and if I’ll be prepared to take it all in gracefully and with inoffensive curiosity. I don’t know if I’ll be brave enough to ask questions or assert preferences or make new acquaintances. I don’t know if people will take advantage of my uncertainty in cruel ways or will reach out with unexpected kindness. I don’t know if people will ask me questions I won’t know how to adeptly answer, because questions raise a torrent of thoughts and I have to quickly identify and parse out the limited information that is socially relevant instead of burdening strangers with the fascinating flashes of insights and interconnections happening in real time (that really only matter to me, sigh).
But that’s what makes it an adventure, all the unknowns and new experiences and opportunities to be brave. So I hauled on my social armor and stepped out of my car, willing my heartbeat and adrenaline to settle into a background noise so I could appreciate and savor the new people and sounds and flavors I was about to enjoy.
The hostess welcomed me with a warm smile and led me past a small dance floor and raised stage with instruments, through the pillars that supported the large room of open space, and around long tables covered with cheerful red checkered tablecloths, to a booth that felt wonderfully secure and offered a pleasant vantage point for all the activity in the restaurant.
The waitress called me “hon” and settled me in with a glass of ice water, and responded with cheerful enthusiasm to my questions about her recommendations on the menu for someone new to Southern food. I ended up selecting boudins, crawfish étouffée, and jambalaya this go ’round. The boudins were my favorite, and the jambalaya was delicious. I decided that I liked the crawfish étouffée better than the fried crawfish.
I know I keep saying this, but it bears repeating: I love Southern women. I just do. It could be obnoxious or suffocating to be hovered over by someone who uses terms of endearment and wants to make sure that I’m okay and have everything I need… but for some reason with Southern women, I eat it up like sunshine after a long and dreary winter. I think it’s because they (all the scant handful I’ve met) all seem to balance genuine concern and caring with the practicalities of being concerned and caring for dozens or hundreds of people at a time. I feel loved and seen and heard without feeling like the prolonged target of attention and scrutiny and judgment. (Maybe that changes with longer contact, like being in a Southern family. I should maybe stick to short encounters within the service industry, haha.)
If I ever went on a real adventure to slay (or ride) dragons or discover new lands or uncover hidden treasures protected by lethal traps, I think I would pick a Southern woman to be part of my party, because it would be like bringing home with me. Maybe not my home, but all the elements of what makes any place feel like the comforts of home.
When I first arrived at the restaurant, it was early enough in the evening that only about a third of the tables were full and the musicians hadn’t started playing live music yet. As my food arrived, instruments were tuned among the sounds of growing conversation as more people filtered in and the tables became crowded with neighbors, friends, and distant family (usually, I think, a pleasant combination of all three).
Spritely accordion scales and the deep vibration of bass strings mingled with surprised greetings across the room and hugs across tables, questions about how absent people were doing, exclamations over how much young children had grown, and the occasional rasp of a cymbal and sharp staccato tap of a drum. This wasn’t a formal restaurant filled with discrete groups of polite strangers adhering to subdued gastronomic etiquette; it was an entire community full of nosy curiosity and warm friendship and a long history full of connections. Food and music just happened to provide a background fabric, an excuse to get out of the house and gather together for the first time in days or weeks or months.
When the Cajun music started, the hum of conversation didn’t stop, but the tables were arranged so that everyone could easily look over and enjoy the music with tapping feet, bouncing shoulders, clapping hands, and enchanted smiles. Every song included multiple couples on the dance floor, no matter how energetic or mellow the beat. My favorite part was watching moms and dads take their young kids and teenagers out on the floor to teach them how to dance, and seeing the kids hesitate, then grow in confidence as they caught on—a new generation savoring happy memories and preparing to carry on decades- or centuries-worth of traditions handed down by their ancestors.
All of it was wonderful: Absorbing the unfamiliar strains of this almost-swing-jazz-country-polka music with its own unique identity. Being anonymously enveloped in the laughter and smiles and joy of connection. Hearing conversations in charmingly accented Southern English, full of gentle, drawling vowels sprinkled with y’alls, chers, c’ests, laissezs, with that curious Louisiana variation on the standard French pronunciations I’d learned in high school and college, and whole words that had evolved along a separate etymological course for nearly four centuries. When I finally left after several hours—since no one seemed to resent my continued occupation of space in the crowded room—it was with some reluctance, and that made me very happy.
Church Potluck
One of the things I look forward to when I travel is visiting new congregations of my own religious denomination. Our worldwide church has standardized both the lesson outlines and the format of church services, so I’m always comfortable joining the congregation and even participating with my own comments. It’s not much different than I would experience at home with my own neighborhood congregation each week. I instantly feel like I already belong there among strangers, like these are already “my people,” but at the same time I get to enjoy a bit of the unfamiliar local culture mingled with the lifelong familiar church culture. Those moments are probably my most relaxed and contented for the duration of my travel, at least in the social context. (Being out in nature is a whole ‘nother layer of peace and serenity.)
Congregations vary in size and geographic footprint. Most of the places I’ve lived have consisted of a few hundred people over a small area that includes a handful of adjacent neighborhoods, meeting in decades-old brick buildings. When I travel outside the Intermountain West, I frequently encounter much smaller congregations of a few dozen people gathered together from different towns or cities, sometimes in smaller portable buildings with modular walls to create different-sized rooms as needed. In some congregations, visitors are the common rule instead of the rare exception, and I can easily go unnoticed for an hour or two (although, by the time we split up and I meet together with a group of all women, I know I’ll have to end up introducing myself no matter how big or small the congregation is.)
When I arrived in the parking lot of the church in Marksville, just a block or so off of Main Street, I noticed that it was a smaller portable building. Adults and children of all ages wearing suits and dresses were making their way inside as we all arrived several minutes before the morning services were scheduled to begin. There were no nerves or spurts of adrenaline, no need to take any deep breaths. I might not know the layout of the building, but I knew the religious rituals and ordinances that would take place inside, I knew what the topics of conversation would be. I might not know the individual people who would surround me as I sat down, but I knew their hearts and minds were more or less facing the same direction as mine. I might not know their local dialect and culture, but their overarching vocabulary I had known since childhood. Our communication would be pretty much on the same page, with variations mostly attributable to personal experiences. For all that this was a new and unfamiliar place full of strangers, it was also simultaneously home. It was no effort at all to park my car and find my way inside with a friendly smile on my face.
Several of the adults introduced themselves, shaking my hand and telling me their names and asking where I was from and pointing out their family members. They were openly delighted I was there, and some of them encouraged me to stay forever, making me laugh. I found that I wasn’t entirely comfortable explaining the purpose of my visit (“well, see, there are these stories I want to write eventually, and I’m sort of thinking about having one of my characters grow up around here, but I didn’t know anything really meaningful about Louisiana and wanted to experience it first hand so I could write more authentically, and I had some vacation time from work, and it sounded like a good idea…and…I’m not even really a ‘Writer,’ just someone who likes to write…”)
An interesting consequence of my vague reasons for visiting is that some of the members assumed I felt spiritually compelled to fly across the continent, and they hoped I would feel the inexplicable desire to stay. They let me know unequivocally that I would make a wonderful addition to strengthen their congregation. I totally understood where they were coming from, on multiple levels. I felt slightly (undeservedly) flattered and warmly welcomed, but I wasn’t ready to break their hearts by spilling out the whole convoluted story of me wanting to write stories someday. I loved them for wanting to keep me so instantaneously. Everyone should get to feel like that in life, at least a handful of times.
This particular Sunday happened to be a conference where church leaders were visiting not only from other cities or counties, but from across state lines. As I listened to the announcements and joined in singing the opening hymn, I readjusted my mental image of the local congregational footprint… and the rippling implications for many church-related activities that I take for granted with people I see in my neighborhood every day, but that would be much more of an effort for this congregation spread over a very large area. Where I could walk in a matter of minutes, they would have to drive, in some cases for hours.
One of the features of conferences (local, regional, world-wide) is an opportunity to vote for the approval of church leaders to serve in their various positions. Several of the names were very distinctively Southern or even Cajun, which made me smile. But one name in particular caught me off guard. Because he was also a speaker later in the meeting, I saw his name on the printed program: Aloysius. The person reading off the names for the sustaining votes mispronounced Aloysius, and was teasingly corrected and easily forgiven for being from Mississippi (aka, “not from around here”), with a joke and a wink about sending him to a Cajun language training center so he could learn to speak the language where he served.
Never in a million years would I have guessed that Aloysius was an actual name, or that it was spelled in that way. We used to tease my little brother by calling him “allo-wish-ous,” because when he was a toddler just learning to speak he would scowl so adorably and say, “I not ‘wishous, I Cwaig.” And in the manner of mercilessly loving families, we persisted just to enjoy his endearing reaction. (Poor Craig; he endured it well, and for the most part still puts up with us.)
After three hours of being spiritually fed–listening to thoughtfully prepared talks, singing familiar hymns, reading scriptures, and engaging in discussions in various meetings around the small building–I discovered an old-fashioned benefit to joining a small congregation that had traveled long distances to worship together: a potluck lunch. Of course, I hadn’t come prepared to share any food, but they generously included me in the extended social activity. I rolled up my sleeves to help set up tables and chairs. “Many hands make light work” has always been part of the fabric of my church culture, and I felt the subtle approval around me as I didn’t hesitate to join in and help.
Over an assortment of the most amazing, delicious, home-cooked casseroles and side dishes and desserts, I got to visit for more than an hour with people of all ages in a very personal way, sharing stories of childhood and careers, spiritual growth and painful trials, hopes and dreams, disappointments and setbacks, and testimonies and faith. I loved them for sharing their lives so intimately with me on such a short acquaintance, and for asking about and listening to my life experiences in return. People I had only met a few hours before let me into their lives without reservation, and I felt like I belonged.
And I loved their food! Holy Toledo Batman! It seemed every time I tried a new dish, my mouth was celebrating the new flavors. I must have said, “Oh my gosh, this is so good, what is in this?” at least half a dozen times. And invariably they would laugh, obviously pleased that I enjoyed their food so much, and tell me it was Tony Chachere’s seasoning. I found some at the store the next day, and made sure to take it home with me.
Billy’s Homemade Boudin and Cracklins
On my last day as I was traveling from Breaux Bridge back to the Alexandria airport, I remembered one last food I intended to try: cracklins. I happened to see a sign advertising cracklins and boudin at a small store (larger than a convenience store, but with a much narrower selection than an ordinary grocery store) with a fast food counter inside.
The line for the food counter snaked impressively around the aisles; clearly, this was the good stuff. I had time to be curious and nosy and look all around the inside of the store without looking suspicious, because what else was there to do while waiting?
And I smiled as new people entered the store and there was sort of a Cheers moment (“Norm!”) as various people already in line recognized the newcomers. Warm greetings were exchanged, family news and local gossip passed around, and some conversations continued as each new person took their place in line. All things considered, the line moved pretty quickly, and I was grateful for some time to read the menu of unfamiliar food options and see what other people ordered.
So, for the uninitiated (which I was), cracklins (also known as grattons if prepared a particular way) are pieces of pork skin, fat, and meat that have been flash fried until they are crisp, salty, spicy, greasy, sort of puffed full of air and not at all good for one’s cholesterol. But surprisingly tasty. To me it seemed almost like bacon “kernels” were popped into bacon “popcorn.”
The boudins I ate were balls of rice, meat, and seasonings stuffed into a round sausage casing and breaded on the outside, and most likely fried. So much fried food, whew. And I knew it I would pay for it with indigestion later. But it was worth the taste of something new. Now I know for myself.
storycapades.com 