I’d almost forgotten the rhythmic music rain and windshield wipers create. In drought-prone Texas, there are weeks when the endless sky remains a solid blue and our umbrellas stay snapped shut.
But in Louisiana, where I grew up, the rain is an almost daily visitor. Afternoon summer showers make people slow down and take life a little slower.
Besides, it’s hard to run at full speed when the humidity’s 90 percent and the mercury rises to the same level. People here know you’ll end up panting from exhaustion if you go about your business in a big-city, get-out-of-my-way mode all the time.
Sometimes it’s nice to slow down and savor the special things that differentiate the South, and especially Louisiana, from other states.
Visitors think we talk “funny” but we know the right way to express ourselves. It’s dahlin, not darling, crawfish – never, ever crawdads or mud bugs and just plain grits, never hominy grits. We also know tea is supposed to be served with lots of sugar and ice and Tabasco sauce is a staple on any Cajun’s table.
We use the easy-to-pronounce “y’all” instead of “you guys” and we say “cher” and “mon petit” to people we like. We take our time with stories, often throwing in a few remember-when tales to spice up the tale.
And, believe it or not, the majority of people from Louisiana don’t yell “choot-em” or walk around with ZZ Top style beards.
When those shows air, we smile because we’re laughing all the way to the bank.
People from Louisiana pay attention to the little things: the tastiest crab meat hides in the small claws and just-ripened home-grown tomatoes and cucumbers make the best salad. The Holy Trinity might be found in a Catholic handbook but, to us, it’s celery, onions and bell pepper.
The most flavorful roux requires a well-seasoned cast-iron pot, a sturdy wooden spoon and patience to turn the paste from pale yellow to a dark, coffee brown.
We don’t need starched white tablecloths or Maw-Maw’s prized silverware for a good meal. A wooden picnic table covered with old newspapers fits us just fine.
For when you pour a mountain of hot boiled crawfish, spicy corn on the cob and new potatoes on top of those newspapers, you’re in for the best meal in town.
I’ll give snaps to Boston for their clam chowder, but there’s no way anybody can compete with fresh seafood caught from our bayous and waterways.
People from Louisiana often spend all day on a river bank with a cane pole then come home and fry up catfish and hush puppies for a four-star meal. Top that off with pecan pie, made with pecans gathered from a tree in the back yard, or home-made ice cream using Louisiana strawberries, and you’re eating better than royalty.
Louisiana 1927
I now live in Texas, but whenever I hear Randy Newman’s “Louisiana 1927,” my heart longs for home, especially after a natural disaster. But the people in this state are resilient and have picked themselves up after the death of the Kingfish, the antics of Edwin and the cruelty of Katrina.
She’s a state filled with people who proudly decorate their homes with purple and gold, think football first when someone mentions the power of the saints and can pronounce Tchefuncte without missing a beat.
They know better than to touch a magnolia in full bloom because that delicate flower bruises easily. But those creamy white flowers endure no matter what life throws their way.
Just like any true Louisianan.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.
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