Soul Food

I recently dined at the downtown DC cajun eatery, Acadiana, which ended up being, not only a memorable culinary experience, but a searing sweet childhood memory catalyst.

On a client lunch, I sat primly in the formal dining room, feeling natural in my business suit, easy amongst my companions (a group of Congressmen were seated nonchalantly beside us), and perfectly comfortable uttering menu items like "remoulade," "tarte à la bouillie," and "foi gras" (in both pronunciation and familiarity). All-in-all, a very "grown-up" experience.

Then, as I was perusing the menu -- just prior to selecting the best shrimp and grits I've ever had -- I stumbled across the "Natchitoches meat pies." My decidedly adult moment was washed over by a flash flood of early memories of my maternal grandmother, a grand old cajun lady from Natchitoches, Louisiana -- Granny Lu (derived from "Lula," familiar for "Lavesta").

Although she died when I was young, I vividly remember Granny Lu and her intoxicating blend of southern charm and hard-earned eccentricity. Her house carried the heavy aroma of the township's famous meat pies in the morning, and the scorched sugar scent of pralines in the afternoon.

During our summer stays in Natchitoches, I'd spend my days with my southern cousins, foraging through the waist-high grass of Granny Lu's yard: a tangled habitat for fiberglass deer and other species of plastic lawn wildlife, a beguiling bayou for adventurous kids. The scent of my dad's shameless vacation cigars mingled with the tangible heat of the Louisiana summer and my mother's rediscovered drawl would roll across the yard from the porch, where the grown-up's traded old stories and easy laughter.

Nights were more enchanting. Being the only granddaughter, Granny Lu bestowed on me the distinct honor of sharing her great big bed with the special satin sheets and the late-night tales. Long after the parents and cousins and siblings and aunts and uncles were dozing soundly, recharging for another day of slow-like honey fun, Granny Lu would divulge the sacred stories of her girlhood -- misadventures of when she, like me!, was all stumbling alacrity and awestruck by that which surrounded her.

Now that I am a good bit older, a lot wiser, and a little sadder, those memories -- hers and mine -- are carefully stowed, so sharp I can smell the meat pies, so tangible I can feel the slip of satin and the scratch of grass. Even if it takes a piece of my tidy adulthood to stir the stories and bring the best ones, once again, to the surface of remembrance.