Croissant d'Or (Memoir - a building that's important)

I place my hand on the window of the ancient, peeling, wooden door and push. A brass bell jingles and a whiff of espresso and buttery, sugared pastries greets me as I enter the French Quarter coffeehouse. The left side of the space is filled with a charming array of mismatched tables and chairs, and to the right is a massive oak counter and pastry case, every surface covered with jars of cookies, bags of coffee beans, mixed with fliers for this weekend’s hot concerts. Our friendly barista greets us with a grin, smiling through pierced lips and tongue. My friends and I place our orders and chat over the roar of the espresso machine. Coffees in hand, we make our way to the courtyard out back.

Floor-to-ceiling French doors lead the way outside, and we step into tropical splendor. Ferns hang from balconies, palm trees arch over the tiny tables, and ivy covers the weather-worn brick walls. We choose a table in a corner, near a bubbling fountain, and settle in for some writing and relaxing.

Three other people are in the courtyard, each in their own private silence.

A businessman, on a mid-morning break from the glass walls of his office building, I would guess, sits at the center table. He is tap-tap-tapping furiously on his laptop, ending each burst with a decisive whack on the keyboard. As he does this, he is fiddling with his ear. He looks nervous, and it’s a tic that seems totally out-of-character with his put-together, in-control aura. Part of me wants to ask what’s wrong, but I hear my mother in my head telling me I know better.

The corner table diagonal from us is occupied by a rumpled, academic sort. The cobblestones beneath him are littered with pastry wrappers, crumpled sheets of looseleaf, and dog-eared paperbacks that I recognize from my college lit classes. The telltale white cords extend from his ears, and he occasionally bursts into action, drumming a rhythm on the table. He refills his ceramic mug at least three times, and I have a feeling the caffeine is fueling what will be an all-day study session.

There is a table almost hidden by palm fronds, and this is the resting place for the third person out here. I see a pair of calf-high, black patent Doc Martens at the end of a pair of stretched-out legs. Red-and-black striped tights lead up to a black miniskirt held closed by a few dozen safety pins. A vintage Kinks t-shirt tops off the outfit, and her hair is streaked red and black to match.

I know I’m supposed to be writing, because technically that’s the mission for the morning, but this motley crew is too fun to resist. I lean back in my wrought-iron chair and wonder how an eclectic group like this has come together. We’re not at the Starbucks on the main road. Croissant d’Or is off the beaten path and could easily be mistaken for someone’s house if you don’t know what you’re looking for. It’s the kind of place a person seeks out deliberately, and I love that we’re all strangers sharing the companionable silence.

Lucky Dog

Friday night.
Apathy sets in.
Off we go
to the playground of sin.


Bourbon Street
all aglow.
Drunkards and strippers
roam to and fro.


From Bar A to Club B
we shimmy and shake,
and after four hours
our bellies do quake.


For alcohol? No.
Something much keener.
We set out in search
of a big, tasty wiener.


One block, then two.
We need to be fed.
There it is! The beckoning cart,
bright yellow and red.


We pass over our cash,
we sing and we cheer,
'Cause we're stuffing a Lucky Dog
On top of our Big Ass Beer.

À la tombe du Marie Laveau

Marie traced her name on the bronze plaque affixed to the concrete and marble tomb. Her fingertip stung as it followed each letter on the blistering memorial. The New Orleans sun blazed on her bare mahogany shoulders and the humid air caressed her elegantly outstretched arm. How strange to see your own name on a grave, she thought. St. Louis Cemetery #1 was opened in 1789 and her great-great-great grandmother was buried there almost 100 years later, long before the red-brick pathways were taken over by clover and dandelions, long before rust blossomed on the wrought-iron railings. All this faith. She marveled at the mementos left at the foot of the tomb. Bouquets of flowers, once vibrant, but now dehydrated by constant, fierce sunshine. Yellowed photos, cracked around the edges. And everywhere, the "XXX" left as a sign of hope that their wishes and prayers would be answered. Marie glanced around. Nobody here but me and the mosquitoes. She trailed the glass shard across her index finger and drew her own red X's on the tomb. "Dearest Marie...since I was a baby, my mama always told me I had your gift. Help me use it well. Help me stay true." She kissed the scorched stone, and turned away.

"Mom! Come see this one!" "Oh, honey, get the camera, would you?" "And if you read the sign on this memorial..." "Daaaaaaddddd...I'm hooootttttt..." Sharon tried her hardest to block out the guide and the rest of her babbling group. They clucked like a flock of hens. She trained her ears on the wisp of improvised lonely jazz notes, floating to her from the saxophonist across the street. She really had no desire to take the whole cemetery tour with her church group, but when she discovered that this particular tomb was included, she signed up. The bare, pale skin on her scalp was tingling beneath the red bandana she wore. St. Joseph Ladies' Auxiliary had been wonderful over the last few years, bringing tuna casseroles, shuttling Brian and Tracy to games and rehearsals, holding prayer circles...the church was conservative and traditional, and that was her comfort. But how many prayers do Jesus, God, Mary, St. Jude, and all the others does it take to hear the magic word? Remission. Three tiny syllables. "Sharon! Come on, lady! Catch up!" "On my way!" She watched the ladies of St. Joseph turn the corner and disappear into the maze of cracked and ancient mausoleums. She unwrapped the red bandana, relishing the direct sunlight on her naked skin. She folded it and nestled it with the other offerings of candles, baseballs, and Mardi Gras beads. She took her red Clinique lipstick from her purse and drew three red X's. "Marie. It's come back four times. Please say a prayer that it stays away for good this time." A tear fell and disappeared into the steamy bricks at her feet as she pressed her forehead to the tomb.

The police sirens wailed past the weathered, red-brick wall, which didn't do anything to muffle the shrill sound. Lamar's head was bowed, eyes closed, hands clasped so tight that his ebony knuckles looked almost pink. "Marie, God ain't listenin'. He never did." A tear slid down his cheek, leaving a shimmering trail in the moonlight. A balmy, swamp-scented breeze cooled his skin. He clutched his hands tighter, and the muscles in his wiry, tattooed arms bunched. "I don't know what to do no more. T-Paul won't mind me. Not now that he think he growed up." The sirens continued, waves of sound rising and washing over him. "Please, please don't let those be for him." Lamar knelt. The phone in his pocket buzzed, but he ignored it. "I ain't seen him in three days now, mama's sick from cryin', an I done look everywhere." Lamar gazed at the cool marble, his heart as cold as the stone itself. His eyes traced the markings left by so many others in prayer and knew it was time to leave his own. He lit a stick of incense and watched the glowing ember for a moment. "Marie, I know I'm done for. Ain't nothin' gon' save me now." He scraped the red-orange tip along the stone. X. "My little bro don't need to end up like me." He scratched again. X. "Watch over 'im. Keep 'im straight. I'll do anything." One more motion. X. Lamar vaguely noticed that the sirens had stopped. His phone buzzed again. He tapped the screen. "Found him. Come home." Lamar kissed the tomb, jumped the wall, and headed down to the Lower 9.

Opa...

I remember hearing stories over the years about Opa being a tough dad. It always seemed odd to hear them, because I literally cannot remember a time that any of us “little ones” ever really got scolded or corrected by him. Even if it completely upset him that we would destroy his shed on a regular basis, looking for paint and wood scraps for our latest architectural venture, he basically let it go.

I guess that’s the perk of being a grandkid.

Our Opa became the neighborhood Opa. I’m still not sure some of our friends even knew he had a name until we were at least teenagers, and the fact that at least a dozen unrelated children comfortably called him “Opa” is a testament to the kind of man he was.

While Opa wasn’t as openly cuddly or traditionally affectionate as some grandfathers may be, he was always, always thinking about his family. Not that there weren’t the occasional bear hugs, but more often his love was shown through a ruffling of our hair and a “Ja, girl…” as he passed by. If he found a magazine article or National Geographic he thought one of us would like, he made sure we got it. If there was an animal or place we liked, we got a handmade statue of it. Our favorite colors, teams, and cartoon characters were turned into fuzzy pillows. There are quite a few little wooden desks floating around our houses that the next generation of Smoorenburg babies will be big enough to use pretty soon.

Opa is always on our radar, consciously or not. Sometimes, his comfort with a person served as a barometer for predicting the longevity of our romances. If Opa liked our “friends” enough to spend time telling him stories about WWII or his days as a Merchant Marine, we knew he was a keeper. Other times, we could hear the buzz of a plane and automatically think “Opa would know what that is.” Even little things like grocery shopping are touched, like when there’s an interesting little oily canned fish on the shelf and our first thought is “Ooh…Opa would love that.”

While it is easy to imagine Opa as a father with high standards for his kids, a boss with the same for his employees, and a scout master doing likewise with his troop, we got, in the most traditional sense of the word, a “grandpa.” We got a piano-playing, storytelling, craft-making, tripod-loving man who could do a mean shuffle on the dance floor.

Recliner

She reclined in the tattered La-Z-Boy, thumb planted firmly in mouth, and gazed, zombie-like, at the TV. She tucked her Dora-slippered feet beneath her and twirled her hair with her free hand, stuffed bunny gasping for breath from beneath a dimpled arm.

The screen flickered, the only light in the dark room a lemon-hued glow coming from Spongebob's underwater antics. The picture reflected in her glassy eyes. Occasionally, there was an audible "pop" as the wrinkled nub of a thumb was removed from its home, the hand moving mindlessly toward the bowl of cheddar-pungent Nacho Cheese Doritos by her side. Thirst was quenched with slurping sips of "orange drink" sucked through a twisty straw.

One cartoon led to the next, and the next, show after show, wasting her day away. The faded, Mickey Mouse-emblazoned towels thumbtacked over the windows made telling time impossible. The only indicator was the 30-minute intervals of canned theme music. There she sat, all day long, morning into afternoon, staring at the TV, sucking her thumb, satisfying herself with chemical-soaked foodlike products in hues of orange not found in nature, until the front door burst open.

The glare of real sunlight shot pins into her eyes, like it must do to an all-night casino rat emerging from the tunnel.

"Shut the damn door!"

"Sorry, mama," came the tiny, dejected reply of her daughter.

The Ballad of Josh and Ned

...Thursday, October 2. Night.

The fluorescent tube lights in the hallway flickered and clicked off at 6:00, leaving only the few dim backup bulbs to lead the way for those die-hards who found virtue in staying late. There weren't many. The janitor - Ned, according to the oval patch sewn onto his frayed workshirt - slid his key into the office door, shooting a furtive glance over each shoulder before turning his wrist. He tiptoed in his scruffy workboots (an odd sight to anyone who may have seen) to the tiny, battered metal desk in the corner. The red-haired stepchild of desks. It belonged to Josh. The peon. The gofer. Coffee-fetcher. Whipping boy. Office clerk. The only one lower on the office totem than Ned himself. Josh was not remotely important enough to the workings of McDonald Publishing to warrant staying late. Ned moved, catlike, and did what he came to do. He slid away as quietly as he slid in, moving to higher floors, larger offices, better views.


...Friday, October 3. Morning.

Josh bustled into the office the same way he did every day - fifteen minutes early, buttoned, starched, and spit-shined. He took his duties seriously and he was proud. As he whistled his way to his cubicle (it was more of a dingy corner, really, but he liked to think of it as "his cubicle"), he thought about that shining day somewhere in the future that he'd have his name on a door with a title that said "Editor." He put his coffee cup on his desk and froze. At first, he couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong, but then it hit him. The hole puncher. It belonged on the left side of the desk. Everyone who's right-handed knows that's how it should be, but there it was, plain as day, sitting on the right! And a new horror greeted him! The typewriter! It was supposed to be center stage, but it was off to the side and...what??...crooked?!

Josh spun around, fingers clenched in his once-combed hair. His eyes then landed on the pen cup and he actually groaned aloud. The caps were on the wrong ones...they were mixed up...some even left open to dry out! He collapsed into his rusted folding chair, which protested laboriously under the strain (even though Josh barely topped 120 pounds soaking wet). Josh stared, glassy-eyed, across the room and his gaze then fell upon one more thing. The filing cabinet. More precisely, the labels. They were upside-down. Even though Josh left every day at 5:00 PM on the button, he knew that of all the people there past that time, only one would have done something so despicable, so loathsome, so diabolical...


...Friday, October 3. Evening.

Ned was about as keyed-up as he'd ever been about coming to work. He even left his trailer a few minutes early, sacrificing the answer to "Who is your baby's daddy?" on Maury, just to get to the office in time for the evening's fun and games. He swiped his security badge through the scanner at the front door, a spring in his step like that of a teenage boy who just saw his first pair of breasts. His first stop was to fetch his supply cart from the closet so he could make his "real" rounds. For all his faults, Ned would never neglect his duties. As he wiggled his cart through the door, he noticed that the daytime janitor had left a full garbage bag on it. He sighed. Some people, he thought. Lazy, useless, good-for-nothing...he half-mumbled to no one in particular. He struggled with the wobbly cart towards the back door that led to the dumpsters. "Damn. What did someone do? Throw out a dead body?"


...Monday, October 6. Morning.

Jaunty whistles and sprightly steps announced Josh's arrival at work. By 9:30, he was happier than he'd ever been, despite his (pleasantly) aching back and arms. Even when his supervisor noticed him wince as he shut the file drawer and asked if he was okay, he smiled as he answer, "Just a little tight from lifting this weekend." He flexed a wimpy bicep and winked. He didn't even notice when his coworkers wondered aloud around the water cooler later that day about the strange absence of Ned, "that nighttime guy," who hadn't cleaned their trash cans over the weekend.

Why do we eat?

“Food is fuel,” some nutritionists say. In that case, couldn’t we just eat a bowl of multivitamins with protein powder and call it a day?

Although I am no nutritionist, I will respectfully disagree. “Food is life,” I say. Literally and figuratively. Obviously we need calories from a variety of sources for physical survival and good health, but the traditions, mores, and rituals that surround food go worlds beyond simply filling an empty belly.

Food can fill hearts, minds, and souls. Good food. Real food. Not processed, packaged, preserved things that our grandmothers wouldn’t even recognize as edible. Things with ingredients that come from nature and can be easily pronounced by any third-grader. Things that come from healthy land and healthy animals. Things that do not come through a window into your car. We as a society have lost sight of the adage that “You are what you eat.” If that’s the case, we’re worse off than we realize.

Being from New Orleans means that I’ve grown up in a food-centric culture. During a meal, if we aren’t talking about that current meal, we’re talking about previous meals we’ve eaten or meals we want to eat in the future. Not only is it significant in that sentence that food is the main topic of conversation, it’s significant that there is, in fact, conversation. Gathering around a table as a family or group has been tradition since humans were squatting around cave fires. Somewhere along the way, a drive-thru burger eaten alone has become the norm, and society has lost that human connection that happens so easily and naturally while communing around a meal.

Some of my fondest memories revolve around the dining table. Flaky, crispy Thanksgiving turkey pastries at my grandmother’s house with the whole family…an icy sweet tea and crawfish poboy in the French Quarter with an old friend…chocolate-chip Mickey Mouse pancakes with my husband and daughter on a quiet Sunday morning…fruits and brownies dipped into molten chocolate with friends on Girls’ Night Out…it’s an endless list that could continue for pages.

The point is that food has become an afterthought in our worlds, and as a result, we no longer have the respect for food we once did, and in turn, have lost respect for ourselves in the process. Parents stand by idly while their children gorge themselves on sugar and junk at school and don’t think twice about pizza or Chinese take-out three nights a week. More care is spent choosing a cell-phone plan than is spent choosing what we put into our bodies. Just last night on TV, I saw a restaurant owner admit that he wouldn’t feed his children what he serves his customers. When we watch the news at night and see the atrocious behavior of some individuals, or when the “old folks” start to get misty about “the good ol’ days,” maybe we should start looking for solutions in our kitchens and dining rooms. If people have time to shop and play Facebook games and do all the other wasteful things people do, then there’s definitely time to prepare a real meal with love and share it with those we care for.