Papaw, Potatoes & Piano Playing...

I've had 3 Thanksgiving meals already, and it's not Thanksgiving yet. No complaints, I'm just saying I've never been one to turn down mashed potatoes.
My first Thanksgiving meal was last Thursday with the Pea at the Pond. A "shout-out" goes to the cafeteria ladies - I love their food. (My Mother is reading this and saying, "Seriously? I packed a sack lunch every day for you for years and NOW you decide to love school lunches?") Anyhooooooo, I helped myself to salad (both kinds) mashed potatoes AND stuffing, turkey and green beans, sweet potatoes, a roll and banana pudding. Once I reached the sweet tea, it occurred to me I was probably supposed to choose a meat and 2 sides instead of the self-proclaimed Sampler Platter I piled on my tray. Nevertheless, nothing but a smile from the lunchroom ladies. LOVE THEM! So the Pea and I sat down and I mostly listened and nodded while inhaling the meal. Partially because I was hungry, but partially because of strategy. One can learn a lot from the conversations of second graders.
Last Friday I had lunch at school with the Bug for her grade's Thanksgiving. Again I piled on the fixin's. Again the sweet cafeteria ladies smiled. Again I inhaled the meal. Again I listened to the wild and wonderful conversations, this time of fourth graders.
But Saturday's Thanksgiving meal took the cake (well, apple pie). My Aunt J graciously invited our family to her lovely home on a lovely farm in Kentucky. You won't find a more Rockwell-ian (yes, I did just coin that word...) Thanksgiving anywhere. Mounds of mashed potatoes, green beans, made from scratch butter rolls, turkey, corn, homemade macaroni (or mac-a-noodles, as I used to request when I was a kiddo). China on the table, crystal, big pitchers of sweet tea and lemonade. Family everywhere. Ages ranging from my cousin's newborn twins to my 94 year old grandfather.
I sat next to my Papaw during the meal and caught up on all the goings-on. He just had cataract surgery on both eyes and he hopes to be able to read by Christmas. I mentally set aside some books to loan him. (Like me, he's a sucker for Yancey and Strobel.)He chatted about the new gadgets my Dad helped install...an intercom system, hospital bed, medical-alert bracelet ("Look, all I have to do is press this button." "No Papaw! Don't really press it NOW!!")He told me all about Brooklyn, one of his home health nurses. The Meals-On-Wheels delivered to his door, the doctors appointments. And then something happened that I don't remember ever happening during our family Thanksgiving meal...
My Aunt P, who is an accomplished pianist, gathered everyone close to the piano in Uncle B's den. Papaw grabbed his walker and strolled over to an armchair, and settled himself next to the piano bench. Aunt P began to play hymns, by heart, and my Papaw....my 94 year old grandfather...began to sing. Loud and beautiful and clear. I have never heard him sing before, ever. I've seen pictures of him with guitars, I knew he was musically gifted, I'd just never heard him.
A few hymns later, the Bug and the Pea scrambled up beside Aunt P and began to sing as well. They tried to teach Papaw, "Peace Like A River...", that was a new one for him! Then they dove into Christmas carols, as my cousin's newborn twins drifted off to sleep in their pumpkin seat carriers.
Thursday we've been graciously invited to spend Thanksgiving with a sweet neighbor...who also happens to be a fabulous cook, I'm just sayin'... And the food will be amazing. But more than the food, I'm thankful beyond measure for the amazing blessings God has bestowed on me. Blessings that include time spent with chatty second graders, lunchroom ladies, feisty fourth graders, next door neighbors, infant second cousins, old friends, and new friends, and Papaws singing about the birth of baby Jesus...

What Is This Cocktail Fork You Speak Of?

I’m happy to report the more time I spend in New Orleans, the more I learn what I ought to do or say. (Unfortunately, this is a process of elimination that usually begins with me sticking my foot in my mouth. At which point I realize, too late, what NOT to do or say.) My biggest fear is to inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings, so please allow me to apologize…in advance…to the entire city of New Orleans, as my family transitions from the Bluegrass State. Although the proverbial road is long before me, I have high hopes that one day…I, too, will proudly bear the moniker of a NOLA “local.”
In the meantime, it appears you can take this girl out of Kentucky, but you can’t take the Kentucky out of this girl. Thankfully, I’ve recently made the acquaintance of three lovely locals. Little do they know, they are my new BFFs, a trio I refer to as The Super Heroes. These gals are sharp, funny and beautiful. Sweet BB, LG, and JC continue to gently and diplomatically share nuggets of wisdom, for which I will be eternally grateful. Bless their hearts, the poor things have had to start at the absolute, very beginning with me. But to their credit, even in a matter of weekends, I’ve learned several crucial lessons regarding the metamorphosis from “tourist” to “local”. The early fundamentals include phonetics, and food.

TOP TEN WAYS TO REMOVE ALL DOUBT YOU’RE NOT A NEW ORLEANS LOCAL…YET10. Sit down in front of a shrimp & crab platter and announce your seafood experience, thus far in life, consists of tuna salad sandwiches
9. Wear a sweater and winter coat in mid-November, instead of shorts and a blouse
8. Appear bewildered at the drive-thru window of a store serving Take Out Daiquiris
7. Get lost on the way to Bourbon Street for dinner
6. Ask your realtor to suggest homes north of Espionage (instead of Esplanade - Es-plah-nade)
5. Forget the French culture and ask the concierge where nationally known Gala-‘tor-ees is located, instead of Galatoires (Gal-uh-twah-z)
4. Remember the French culture and ask for museum suggestions in ‘Or-lay-own-z Parish instead of Orleans (Or’leeens) Parish
3. Mention you’d love to try a pound of crayfish instead of three pounds of crawfish
2. Show up for the Po’Boy Festival, expecting only seafood sandwiches, not realizing the distinguishing feature is the bread…and there’s such a thing as a Po’Boy Hamburger
1. Keep referring to the city as New Or-‘leeeens. Apparently rule number one is: pronounce the name as New ‘Or-Lenz. End of story.

Of course, I’m still a novice. Perhaps the best advice was given by my new Super Hero BFF JC: “Leigh, just think about what you WANT to say, and then say the opposite.”
Watch out New Orleans, here we come!