Today's Reading
I pulled into my grandmother's shady driveway and drove up to her Creole cottage on the southern tip of a channel connecting the bayou to the gulf. Before I could even shut off the engine, the front door opened and Punk raced down the porch steps, her arms outstretched. I breathed in her perfume as she wrapped her arms around me and held me tight.
At last, she stepped back, her hands on my shoulders. "How's my girl?"
"I've been better, Punk."
She nodded and took me by the hand. "Come inside, Edie. We'll worry about your things later." At the top of the steps, she squeezed my hand and winked at me. "You're in luck. I just happened to make gumbo."
I kissed her on the cheek and followed her into her kitchen on a back corner of the house. Adjoining it and filling the opposite corner was not so much a dining room as Punk's answer to a French salon, a place for lively conversation fueled by her cooking. The exterior wall facing the gulf was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, always open to gulf breezes even when the air conditioner was running, while the interior wall held a bank of overflowing bookcases. A mix of unmatched upholstered chairs—all of them comfortably worn from countless gatherings, large and small—surrounded Punk's long cypress farm table, brought here from Louisiana many years ago. Behind the far end of the table, opposite the kitchen, was a wall hanging that Punk had needlepointed before I was even born. It was the second half of one of her favorite Bible verses, from Hebrews: "For thereby some have entertained angels unawares."
"Want me to fix the tea?" I asked.
She nodded as she spooned a layer of white rice into two soup bowls, topped it with chicken-and-sausage gumbo—my favorite—and put a small scoop of potato salad in the center.
Punk still had those old-school metal ice trays with the lever you pull to loosen the cubes. She put our bowls and a French loaf on a tray as I grabbed the tea, and we headed out to a small table and chairs tucked into a corner of her back porch, wisely screened against the buggy seasons. It ran all the way across the back of her house, offering spectacular views of gulf sunsets.
I dipped my spoon into the gumbo, being careful to capture a little chicken, a bit of andouille sausage, and a touch of potato salad. Tasting those familiar and long-missed flavors, I leaned back in my chair and sighed. "Now I'm home."
Punk reached over and patted my arm. "Yes, you are, sweet girl! Yes, you are."
"Don't tell Mama, Punk, but I've always felt misplaced. This is where I'm the most at home. It's where I'm the most myself."
She took a sip of her tea. "You get that from me."
When I first told my big-city friends about my grandmother, they asked if she was like all those old Southern women in the movies—feisty and eccentric, with big jewelry and an even bigger mouth. I guess it was the nickname, bestowed on her by her older brother. Truthfully, my grandmother—real name Adele—could give Grace Kelly a run for her money. Tall and slim, she had the bone structure of a Vogue model and a sense of style to match. Her eyes were sky blue, her shoulder-length silver hair worn in a neat chignon. Her uniform of choice was a pair of cigarette pants or clam diggers ("nobody wants to see an old lady's knees") and blouses of crisp cotton or soft linen. Minimal jewelry. Revlon Persian Melon lipstick. Chanel No. 5. She often said she was "kicking down the door to ninety" but was barely eighty and didn't look a day over sixty.
"So did you decide?" she asked before blowing on a spoonful of gumbo to cool it. "Are you taking a leave of absence or leaving New York for good?"
"Leaving for good."
She plopped the spoon down in her bowl. "Well, hallelujah! Not that you can't live anywhere or do anything you set your mind to. You're perfectly capable. It's just that you've always had such a connection to this place. Even your Pop wasn't as smitten as I was, and he's the one who wanted to move here. You're the only one who loves it as much as I do, Edie."
I propped my elbows on the table and rested my chin in my hands—a faux pas not to be committed in your finer French Quarter restaurants, but perfectly acceptable on this forgiving old porch. "
What am I gonna do, Punk?"
She reached out and squeezed my arm. "Whatever is meant to happen will happen, Edie. I pray about it every night. You should too. God expects a little conversation from us."
We watched as a V formation of pelicans flew low over the water. I loved the look on my grandmother's face, at once serene and awestruck, as her eyes followed those birds in flight.
"Can we go, Punk? Can we go right now?"
She tapped the tip of my nose with her forefinger. "Boat's already packed."
...
