Page 7 of Lulu’s Recipe for Cajun Sass

“No, Tee-John, this is an entirely different recipe. It’s one of those change-your-life formulas.”

“Well, hell’s bells! Count me in. I’m always up for a new experience.”

“Celine would have something to say about that,” Louise said.

“Only good things,” Tee-John protested. “My wife loves all the new experiences I bring her way.” He waggled his eyebrows for emphasis.

“Like the time you were a stripper? Or the time you went to the underwear-optional party? Or when you drove my convertible into Lake Pontchartrain?”

“Those were all before Celine and I got together. So, they don’t count.” He sat back and grinned with satisfaction, as if he’d won the argument.

The fool!

Mary Lou’s head was swiveling back and forth as she witnessed this exchange, probably learning a few things she didn’t need to know about her uncle.

“Anyways, the recipe Mary Lou and I were discussing is fer women only.”

“Aw, shucks!” he said. But then, as he thought for a moment, he added, “I can’t imagine any time when you needed a change-of-life experience, auntie. Seems to me, you’ve always been a bayou gal, born, bred, and stay the same till you’re pushin’ up daisies…or okra.”

“You have no idea,” she said. “Now, skedaddle. Mary Lou will drive me home so we kin continue our discussion. I gotta give her the exact recipe.”

She noticed Tee-John and Mary Lou exchanging a look, probably wondering if she was losing it. People had been giving her that look for decades now. That didn’t matter to Louise. She needed a little time to recollect that period in her past when she’d been at her lowest and felt the need to call on her bayou background…to garner her…yes, her Cajun sass.

Of course, there had been a man involved.

Chapter 1

Bayou Black, 1951…

Don’t get around much anymore…

Louise stepped out the back door and off the porch of her cottage, then flinched as the afternoon sun hit her with a wallop of steam heat.

Even though it was early August in the South with its seasonal high temperatures, she was surprised to find it hotter outside than it was inside where she had a five-gallon pot on the kitchen stove simmering up a new batch of croup syrup. A wave of summer flu had swept through the bayou these past few weeks, leaving her sorely depleted of the highly effective, homemade cough medicine. Fortunately, it appeared to be the tail end of the mini epidemic.

Putting her hands to the small of her back, she arched out a few of the kinks and sighed. What she really needed was to crawl into bed and take a nap. Or a bubble bath would be nice. She probably smelled as bad as she looked.

If only she had the time!

Thou hadst time to drink two cups of coffee this morning. Thou hadst time to take the Lord’s name in vain when chasing that swamp creature. But, forget thy stink, didst say thy morning prayers? No. Ah, the priorities of God’s children!

St. Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases, was Louise’s favorite, ever since he’d saved her from a soul-rending despair six years ago. But then he’d stuck around, speaking to her in her head on occasion…like now. To say he was a royal pain in the patoot at times was an understatement. But still, she couldn’t ignore him. Oh, no! One did not ignore a celestial messenger.

Okay, okay. I’ll shower before Adèle wakes up and then say my prayers.

Priorities again!

She made a growly noise. Got it. Prayers first.

Bless you, child.

Hah!

In Louise’s defense, it had been the day from hell (forgive my language, Mister J, if that sounds sacrilegious), starting with two of her late mother’s customers showing up practically at the crack of dawn needing medicinal herbs, not for the croup, but for equally desperate issues…to them, leastways.

For some reason, without her actually making a decision, people had assumed she would take over as Bayou Black’s only traiteur when her mother died last year. Although she’d learned much at her mother’s side about folk-healing herbs, she was still winging it in many regards. For example, this morning, even though she had the receipt book that had been passed down through three generations of Rivard females, it had taken what seemed like forever, not helped by her sleepiness, to match up the recipes with the dusty bottles on the pantry shelf for two different customers suffering from migraines and male genital rash.

Another job for her when things settled down—organizing Mama’s “pharmacy.”