JOE BREAUX AND TABASCO

Genesis 18:13   Then the Lord said to Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh and say, 'Will I really have a child, now that I am old?'  Is anything too hard for the Lord?'"

 He was lying in a wicker basket neatly padded with old dishtowels that smelled as if they had been washed in sunshine.  His deep-set eyes and sad expression stared blankly at the sky.  He did not cry.  Sarah and Abe, an older couple, were on their way home from Mass that Saturday evening.  It was their anniversary, and they were lonely.  Sarah was crying.  Laughter had left them since their only child died at six-months years ago this day.

“Stop Abe,” she said suddenly through her tears, “there was a basket back there and it looked like something was in it.”

  “It's probably just another puppy,” he replied as he pulled off the road and backed up a few yards.  They helped each other as they walked to the basket.

Their hearts skipped a beat when they looked inside.  “Look, mother,” said the old man, “we won't be lonely again.  The Lord has answered our prayer.”

“But Cher, he don't belong to us,” she said.  “Surely, he belongs to someone else. They must be looking for him.”

 

 “We can't leave him here, it's not safe,” said the old man.

 

  “Yea, you right.”

 

  She placed the basket between them on the well-worn front seat of the old Ford truck.  They drove home in silence afraid to express their thoughts for fear of breaking the spell.

The next day they searched the newspapers for any reports of a lost one.  There were none.  The couple turned on the TV and radio but there were no announcements.  They had already become attached to the little fella and decided to not call the police unless they heard something.  Three weeks passed with no word.  They decided to keep the baby for he had stolen their hearts.  The couple had not even given him a name for fear they would lose him but now that the decision had been finalized, they felt it was time.  They named him Joe. Joe Breaux, sort of a Cajun version of John Doe.

 

Sarah and Abe laughed at their good fortune.  The Lord had blessed them, an older couple with a baby.  The two of them agonized over how to explain his sudden appearance.  They rationalized that this wasn't any different than the other times when strays wandered into their lives for them to nurture.  Both their cats and their dog were gifted this way.  It was decided. No one would be able to care for this dear child like they would.  They would love this child as their own and raise him properly, teaching him to value the importance of a good education and the love of family.

Joe is now 25 years old and aware of his being adopted and the circumstances as to his arrival.  Yes, he wonders why he was abandoned and why no one ever came back for him, but he also knows that this elderly couple, now in their early 90's, loves him dearly.  They sometimes joke that he floated down the bayou on the back of an alligator with an egret holding his basket and placing him on the bank in front of their home, their gift from God.

Joe has a master’s degree from Nichols State University, majoring in music, lives next door to his parents and plays for the Lafayette Symphony.  He has not found the girl of his dreams yet, but there are prospects.  Joe relaxes by serenading the swamp with his music until morning breaks, the colors washing the sky with an artist' palette that only God can create.  Then Joe rests, his faithful dog, Tabasco, beside him.

The picture is Joe on a street corner on Bourbon Street in New Orleans during Mardi Gras.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

It appeared to be that type of day – hot and humid.  The air was heavy making it hard to breathe.  The sky hung over the earth like a damp washcloth.  Occasionally the sun would peer through clouds to dry things out, but it only made matters worse.                                                                                                  

And daddy said, "Let there be boiled peanuts."                                                                                      

 Didn't I say the humidity was unbearable?  And I was dying for a cool bath.  Who wants to share their bathwater with peanuts freshly harvested?  Not me.   Our family was suffering the last several days   from not bathing, but the animals in the barn lot were in a worst predicament.  Their water troughs were full of soaking peanuts too.  Daddy said, “The animals will drink the water anyway.  It’ll be fine.”

Now, you see, my father is from the Mississippi Delta and grew up as a sharecropper's son with little or no money so when he decided to do something, he did it in a huge way.  Nothing can be half done with Cecil Blair.  It was whole hog or die until he found something else to conquer.

This year it was peanuts, boiled peanuts to be exact, since boiled peanuts had been his favorite since he was young...so naturally it stood to reason that we (meaning family) would share his enthusiasm for growing peanuts and boiling them.  We were okay about the planting, but the harvesting of them was hard labor on us.  Daddy didn’t have the machinery to harvest so we had to do so by hand.  It was back breaking, sweating, cruelty to children, hard labor. 

And there was evening and morning, the first day:  

We didn't dare ask to have some of them parched or roasted...no that was not his plan...we had to boil them...all of them.  And not just boiled any old way but boiled according to his mama's recipe:

 Soak peanuts in water 12-24 hours. Drain and rinse. Place 6 quarts water, 2 ham hocks, ¼ C kosher salt, ¼ C cayenne, ¼ C paprika, ¼ C minced garlic, ¼ C coarse black pepper, 2 T onion salt, 2 T oregano, and 2 T thyme to a boil.  Reduce heat and simmer for 3 hours. Remove ham hocks.  Let cool then chill for 8 hours.  Skim the fat.  Add peanuts, then add ½ to 2/3 C salt and bring to a boil.  Cover, reduce heat and cook 6 hours until tender.  Let stand one hour before serving.

Of course, this meant using both bathtubs and sinks, as well as 15 washtubs that we gathered, including a water trough or two just to soak his field of peanuts. This also included all the burners on mama’s stove, plus, all the pots and pans from the kitchen as well as borrowed ones from neighbors.  Did you look at that recipe?  Did you see the hours needed to make one batch?                        

We made dozens of batches.   Dozens of batches! 

 And there was evening and morning, a second day:  

When the sun was trying to etch it way through the washcloth of clouds and beat its good morning upon the cold tin roof, we were exhausted.  I would have loved being able to sit and quietly commune with the morning but the noise from the kitchen let me know daddy was still at work. 

And there was evening and morning, a fifth day: 

The peanuts seemed to be multiplying.  The dirt was beginning to crust on our skin, and we desperately needed a bath.  We stank.  Thank goodness this was summer because I'm sure we would have had to drop out of school because of our odor.  I wanted to bathe with the garden hose, but daddy was using it to fill washtubs.  He was possessed as he rushed between the washtubs and the stove.   There he was with his overalls, straw hat, white beard, and tobacco juice streaming down his chin.  There was mama bustling about as if she had lost her senses.  Her eyes were bulging, and she had a faraway look on her face trying, desperately, to bring a stop to this madness as she rushed about the house talking nonsense. 

And there was evening and morning, a sixth day:  

Daddy saw all that he had made, and it was good.  The jars were filled.  The bathtubs were empty.  Empty but dirty.  The animals rejoiced at the fresh water.   The peanuts were blessed and ready to be shared, except no one in the family wanted any.  Not sure daddy gave much away either.  Our laundry room was packed with jars and jars of boiled peanuts.  We kept a path to the back door so we could escape.

By the end of the seventh day, daddy rested.

And we bathed....and bathed...ran hysterically through the hoses...and bathed...spent hours in showers.  And it was good.  Particularly good.  Our water bill was enormous, but daddy had his precious boiled peanuts to enjoy to his little hearts content.  Alone.

I guess you can’t take the country out of the boy.  Bless his heart.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.