AllFreeNovel
Share Us
It was cute how Mason strained to see what his friend was pulling out. The minute he saw the bottle, he said excitedly, “Gimme, gimme.”
When Rob’s hand came up with a smallish brown bottle sporting the image of a whacky voodoo doll, Mason made a slurping sound. “Come to daddy.”
Rob passed him the bottle. “Straight from Baton Rouge, Louisiana.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Rob. This has been my favorite for as long as I can remember. I can’t believe you got it so fast.”
“Bayou Magic Foods has an online store, I ordered you a box,” Rob replied, looking bemused by the way Mason gazed at the label as if mesmerized. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face the entire time we finished filling our plates and got drinks. Mason grabbed us a table in the thick of the action. Sitting down, surrounded by his club brothers, the big biker seemed very much in his element. Me, not so much, but I tried to appear relaxed.
I watched him peel off the shrink wrap and carefully open the bottle. Caught in his own little world, he took a whiff from the open bottle. I couldn’t help but smile at how much he was enjoying himself with such a simple treat. He drizzled a bit on top of his steaming hot steak, set the bottle aside, and cut off a long, thin slice. Watching him pop the first bite into his mouth was fascinating. His eyes drifted closed as he chewed, and a look of pure bliss settled onto his face. Everything about his reaction was over the top.
Nothing in the world of hot sauce could be this good. I picked up the bottle and read over the label. The branding was top shelf, and the glass bottle had some weight to it. I was way more intrigued by this man’s special sauce than I should have been. When I glanced up, he was looking at me.
I raised my eyebrows at him. “Love Spell Cajun Flavor Voodoo Sauce by Bayou Magic Foods. What is this?”
“Only the world’s greatest Cajun inspired hot sauces. Give it a try,” he encouraged as he sliced off another bite of steak.
I brought the bottle near my nose to smell it and could not believe the aroma. The spicy scent was unlike anything I’d ever smelled before. It suddenly became apparent that I’d led an extremely sheltered life when it came to spices. I immediately drizzled a few drops onto my steak.
“Cher, I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist Voodoo Sauce. No one can,” Mason teased me.
I chuckled. “I hope this stuff tastes as good as it smells.”
He waited expectantly for me to take a bite. When I did, a shock of flavor exploded in my mouth. The big deal he was making suddenly made a lot more sense. “Oh my God. I can taste so many other flavors, not just chili.
He nodded, clearly pleased with my enthusiasm.
I proceeded to cover my steak in a thin layer of the sauce. “What’s with the voodoo spin on the merchandising?”
“It’s because the company is located in Baton Rouge, where Creole spices are popular. New Orleans is what most people think of when they hear the word voodoo and Louisiana, but it’s found in other cities too. When I was boy, my mémère used to talk about how Voodoo was real and her favorite deity was Papa Legba, the god of the crossroads.”
I swallowed the bite in my mouth and nodded, immediately fascinated by the conversation. “I thought that was Baron Samedi?” I vaguely remembered watching some movie that had a voodoo subplot.
He grinned, clearly enjoying the conversation as much as I was. “He’s more Haitian, though there’s some crossover. There are different names for different aspects of the deity—Baron Samedi, Papa Legba and his counterpart Kalfu, who’s pictured on the bottle, are all linked to the crossroads whether literal or metaphorical. But a lot of the true meaning of voodoo is known only to the believers, and the stuff about making deals or summoning demons at crossroads comes more from European folklore.”
“Like selling your soul.”
“Exactly, that came from people trying to put a Christian slant on what is essentially a traditional African belief system. Papa Legba is a little different. Mémère always described him as the one who controlled the spiritual crossroads that everyone has to navigate when they have important ethical decisions to make in life.”
“So he’s not a demon?”
“No, but I can understand how people might think that—there’s a lot of misinformation. He removes obstacles and opens roads. He was considered the intermediary between man and the other spirits due to his gift for communication, but he was also a trickster which meant that he could be unpredictable.”
This man was so sweet and genuine. I loved talking to him. “He must have possessed demon-like qualities at least.”
He shrugged one big shoulder and swallowed the bite in his mouth before responding. “You’re looking at this more from a Christian viewpoint, forget about angels and demons, good and evil, dark and light. It’s all about balance. Mémère was Creole. Her family grew up around Baton Rouge and were African, Cuban and Native as well as European. She used to tell me how Papa Legba, like many of the deities from the old religion, survived because he lived in our collective memories. The spices on our foods were offerings to the loa or spirits, meant to lure them to our celebrations. That’s why delicious food was such an important part of our get-togethers.”
When I gazed at him, trying to imagine it all in my mind’s eye, he started to look a bit self-conscious.
“I might not have explained that exactly right because, to be honest, cher, I wasn’t the most attentive kid.”
I rushed to reassure him. “No. You did an amazing job. I promise. I’d love to hear more about your family traditions sometime.”
Something in his eyes shifted, making him appear momentarily vulnerable. When he continued, emotion crept into his voice. It made me worry that I was encouraging him to share too much. “My parents weren’t interested in any of her stories. No one was, except me. I remember many a time that mémère’s wrinkled hands cupped my face and she said, ‘Remember my words, child. Don’t ever forget them or me.’”
Something about that last bit hit me right in the feels because it reminded me so strongly of my own superstitious grandmother. She used to warn me about sitting at the corner of a table, not pouring wine backhanded, and reminded me to always lay bread loaves right side up on the table. I could even remember all her reasons for those superstitions. I also remembered how badly she suffered before she passed. I was fourteen, and losing her tore my heart out. This man brought up such emotional memories with his sharing. I teared up and felt my bottom lip quiver a little.
“That’s the sweetest story I’ve ever heard,” I choked out. “Thank you so much for sharing that with me. Let your mémère know that you didn’t forget and passed along one of her stories tonight.” I reached out and covered his hand with my own, giving him a little squeeze. “I won’t forget it either.”
