Cajun Quotes

Nick froze instantly. "You don't mock my mother. You don't speak of her in anything but the most reverent of tones. I don't care if you are Death, I will open a can of Cajun whup-ass all over you, boy.

Don't you have class today? (Kyrian) Boy, I'm a backwoods Cajun, I ain't never got no class, cher. (Nick) (He cleared his throat and dropped the thick Cajun accent.) And no, today's registration. I've got to figure out what I'm taking next semester. (Nick) I have a few things I need you to do today. (Kyrian) And that is different from any other day how? (Nick) Sarcasm, thy name is Nick Gautier. (Kyrian)

When you meet someone so different from yourself, in a good way, you don't even have to kiss to have fireworks go off. It's like fireworks in your heart all the time. I always wondered, do opposites really attract? Now I know for sure they do. I'd grown up going to the library as often as most people go to the grocery store. Jackson didn't need to read about exciting people or places. He went out and found them, or created excitement himself if there wasn't any to be found. The things I like are pretty simple. Burning CDs around themes, like Songs to Get You Groove On and Tunes to Fix a Broken Heart; watching movies; baking cookies; and swimming. It's like I was a salad with a light vinaigrette, and Jackson was a platter of seafood Cajun pasta. Alone, we were good. Together, we were fantastic.

There was French kissing, and then there was Cajun French kissing. Spicier, harder, wilder.

A broken heart isn't so much the loss of the person as it is the loss of your dreams with that person.

Never underestimate a backwoods Cajun in a fight, old man.

Everyone knows ladies love Cajuns. It's in our blood and our language is the language of romance." "Your language is the language of bullshit. You're just a couple of good ole boys with pretty faces. Women just ought to know better.

This is Popkenchurch. Popkenchurch is when you buy fried chicken and Cajun rice from Popeyes, biscuits from KFC, and fried okra and corn on the cob from Church’s.

Its like i was a garden salad with a light vinaigrette and Jackson was a platter of seafood Cajun pasta. Alone we were good. Together we were fantastic.

I’m going to make the wildly unfounded assumption that Satara’s dead by your hand and not Tory’s. Now, stay with me on this, Cajun. My father slit my throat and murdered my wife because he thought I’d betrayed him by getting married. Before that, he loved me more than his life and I was his last surviving child. His second in command. Now what do you think he’s going to do to you once he sees her body? I can assure you, it won’t be a fun-filled trip to Chuck E. Cheese. (Urian)

The old man had been tanned by the light of too many beer signs, and it just goes to show that you can’t live on three packs of Chesterfields and a fifth of bourbon a day without starting to drift far too fuckin’ wide in the turns.

Cajun stomp?" "You heard me, swamper. And keep your hands to yourself.

When you love someone that much and that person is away from you, sometimes it literally feels like you can't breathe, as if your body is aching for air. And then that person walks into the room, and all that ache inside of you, all that longing, dissolves and you feel yourself breathe again. But it's as if he takes the same breath with you. You're both one.

To cement my point, Dire Straits came on and after Perry proclaimed her sudden (and surprising) love for the band, the douchefucker stood up and asked her to dance like he was a Cajun Rhett Butler.

That's man's way. To prove something. Day in, day out he must prove he is a man. Poor Fool.

The sky blue blue, Mr. Wiggins.

You’ve got to be kidding me. I thought you were the most powerful of beings. Even the gods fear you. (Stryker) We all have predators. The entire universe exists in a system of checks and balances. I just met my zero balance. (War) Are you honestly telling me that the most powerful creature on this planet is a pathetic Cajun guttersnipe who offed himself because one of my men killed his mommy? (Stryker)

Times like this were special. Memory builders. When something extraordinary happened to a person the kind of things remembered forever after it didn't have to be a life-changing event like a graduation or marriage or birth of a child. It more often was the small things. The sheer joy of summer sunlight on a fragrant flower. The giggle of a toddler. The brush of a lover's fingertips. And the person marks the moment with the flashing insight thinking... This is special. I should remember this

You don’t mock my mother. You don’t speak of her in anything but the most reverent of tones. I don’t care if you are Death, I will open a can of Cajun whup-ass all over you, boy.” – Nick “Normally, I’d be hanging you the can opener and daring you to go for it. Be glad I owe a debt that precludes me from killing you right now. But don’t push it. While you have a predetermined death, your own free will decisions can override that. Put that in the bank and think about it before you try to make a withdrawal.” – Death

She grinned as she started across the carpet toward the bathroom... "I have been dreaming about that shower." "This is going to be the dirtiest shower you've ever had." "It better freaking be," she tossed over her shoulder.

Most hunters can take care of themselves.” “So can most vampires of my strength,” he said with the confidence that made him so attractive. “That doesn’t mean I would not be delighted if you showed a care for this Cajun’s hide.

Holy crap, Caleb! You're my uncle." Nick "No!" Caleb "It's worse. He's the half-brother of your great-grandfather." Kody "You're not helping." Caleb "No, but I'm entertaining myself at your adorable expense." Kody "Yeah, y'all are missing the important fact. To a Cajun, that makes him my uncle." Nick "Great. I always wanted to be a monkey's uncle. Nice to know I finally succeeded." Caleb

What is a turducken? An exclusive culinary creation available by special order from some little Cajun town down south. Entirely deboned, a turducken consists of a turkey, stuffed with duck, stuffed with a chicken, like an edible Russian nesting doll. Some were stuffed with alligator, crap, shrimp; my favorite was the traditional cornbread variety.

Colored or not, we all pick the white man's cotton.

Kennedy Landry wasn't really the patiently-wait-on-hold type of woman. Kennedy Landry was, however, the type of woman that made a man want to take what tiny semblance of control he could find and grab onto it like it was a lifeboat in the midst of a hurricane.

Obsessive compulsive" Nikolaus mumble in amusement. "I would rather eat a grenade than make a line with two different colors!" Remy responded in a pained voice as he pointed at the pad of paper. Thiago snickered as he continued to torment the Cajun with his blue pen. Speaking of grenades, though... Brandt had a timing device around here somewhere. What had he done with it?

There’s a hell of a lot you haven’t shared.” “Oh, I’m sorry. Be sure to send out invites to the pot-meets-kettle show you’ll be throwing.” “I’m sensing sarcasm. I think being in Cajun country’s given me some of your voodoo.

Well, honey," Ellie said. "Every single person who's important to me started out as a stranger. Figure I might as well start off nice with new people. There's always time to think they're assholes later.

I’m sorry are only words unless you know what you’re apologizing for.

The little doll's got teeth, Cajun

You doan go diggin' for gold in an outhouse.

Menyara's Creole accent was as thick as his mother's jar of refrigerated roux, and Nick loved the sound of it. He wasn't quite as pleased with his own. No matter how hard he tried to hide his accent, it always came out in certain words like "praline", "etouffee", "pecan", and any time he lost his temper. You could easily tell how mad he was by how Cajun he sounded. And if he started spewing all Cajun words, duck.

In Louisiana, one of the first stages of grief is eating your weight in Popeyes fried chicken. The second stage is doing the same with boudin. People have been known to swap the order. Or to do both at the same time.

Oh, honey, this town is full of guys I've dated and broken up with and run into at the gas station and bar on a regular basis. Just because you've seen each other naked is no reason that you can't talk about the weather while standing in the grocery store line.

A real Cajun never leaves home, never.

Only you can decide who you are and what you want to accomplish in this world. Only you can conquer your demons and move forward in the direction you wish to go.

Pork and chicken grease, the aromatics of choice for the Cajun.

I want you to always do everything you're capable of.

Sometimes we're born into situations, he'd said. We have to decide if we're gonna be a part of it or if we're gonna put an end to it.

Bennett sucked breath in through his nose. "You're a cruel and wonderful woman." "I'm comfortable with that assessment," [Kennedy] told him.

Yeah, thanks, Gina,” Clarissa chimes in. “Now they’ll all think I’m a ho.” “If the shoe fits, lace that bitch up.

My wish for you is this: always remember who you are and always remember you have great value. Never let anyone make you feel less important than you are.

How ’bout you take this Cajun injector here,” I say, gripping the steel rod in his shorts, “and give me a shot of protein instead.

To a Cajun, this is our Paris. It’s a city of dreams. City of ghosts.

Mercy was his ice breaker, his Jolly Cajun Giant, who could get away with saying whatever he damned wanted because no one wanted to climb up on a stepladder and stop him.

Two Boots makes weird Cajun-flavored pizzas. Not for me and my sensitive digestive system.

Most of these displaced Acadians traveled south to the vicinity of New Orleans and would later be known as Cajuns.

I think being in Cajun country’s given me some of your voodoo.” “You are an idiot,” Tom informed him. Prophet stared at the duct tape around his wrists. “I have no argument against that at the moment.

I realized that if you never do anything new, you never learn anything. And learning things changes you. Even if those things aren't what you intended to learn. You're never the same after an adventure, Kennedy." She tapped a finger over her heart. "In here you change. And in here you change," she said, tapping her temple that time. "I had to learn some things--make some mistakes--on my own. I thought." She gave a soft laugh."The thing is, once you have Leo Landry in your life, you're never really on your own again.

Mirepoix. She thought the word to herself, rolling it around in her mind. Mirepoix, mirepoix, mirepoix. Cajun "Holy Trinity"- onions, celery, and carrots, diced fine, heated to savory sweet, and left to bring magic to whatever dish they were added into. No doubt about it, this was going to be great. Almost holy. With a little bread and red wine- body and blood of Christ- she might make up for years of not going to mass. Either way, they'd go great with the meal.

If it was an emergency, you would have hung up and called back. Over and over again. Leaving progressively more and more threatening messages about what you were going to do to me when you did finally get a hold of me,” he told her, signing off on the bottom of the letter he’d just finished and moving it to the side. “I would never do that,” she said. “No?” When she did finally send him reports it was always in folders that were named things like I’m Not Your Fucking Secretary and If You Ask Me to Get You Coffee It Will Definitely Have Turtle Shit In It. “If I really needed your attention, I’d start texting. Photos. Naked photos.” His entire body reacted to that. He cleared his throat. “I would definitely—.” “Of my grandfather.” Bennett paused. Then groaned. He knew her grandfather. Leo Landry was a great guy. Funny, down-to-earth, honest, loyal. And someone that Bennett absolutely did not ever want to see naked. Ever. “You’re an evil woman.” “Remember that.

Abandoned residential homes are common in the area—often the casualties of severe damage from hurricanes—but what I find fascinating is the mettle of the Cajuns we encountered and befriended. They may lose their roof and be forced to abandon their home, but it is a near surety that they will remain in the same area, raising a family. There is great cultural pride in these resourceful people, and it is evidenced by the tenacity of those who face the power of Gulf hurricanes every year, and yet remain.

There's an entirely new world opening up for you right now. A dangerous and occasionally sickening and cruel world, but a world filled with Cajun bounty hunters and lively conversation about peanut butter.” “You do make it sound so glamorous, what with the peanut butter and all.

Walter asked me to marry him again,” she said finally. Gertie gave me a knowing look. Bingo. She’d called that one correctly. “I’ll bake him a chocolate cake,” Gertie said. “It’s his favorite. Might take some of the sting out of the rejection.” Ida Belle looked over at us. “I didn’t say no.

Maybe I shouldn’t roll over and let her have him so easily. I recalled how possessive I’d been about Brandon. I thought of what Mel would say: “Stop being a puss and take your toy back. What are you—minced meat?” Selena asked him, “Will you say back there again?” He complied. With his accent, it sounded like a rumbly bag dare. “Cajun is sooo hawt, J.D.

We've gotten through a lot of shit already, Tommy. A lot. Maybe more than we're supposed to. Maybe we've reached our limit." "Still trying to protect me." "Always." "I'm going to chance it. Figure the universe already put us through hell.I think we're meant to come out the other side together." Prophet rolled his eyes. "Romantic fucking voodoo Cajun shit.

She’s not in love,” Spence answers in a mocking tone. “The girl done went and got dickstruck.

My favorite quote in my first book is: "We will always make mistakes, turn left when we should have gone right, but Love (God) waits patiently for us at all the wrong turns.

my heart breaks into a million tiny pieces for this man, who lost the love of his life.

Pushed times make a monkey chew pepper.~ Creole proverb. (challenging times inspire unique actions)

Ladies glisten, men perspire, horses sweat. -Early Nun Quote, The Old Ursuline Convent (1727) New Orleans, LA

Colored or not, we all work for the white man's cotton...

Some nasty old fart and his weird wife died, but the airboat swamp tour was awesome.” She

Laissez le bon temp rouler. Let the good times roll.

puta

Mrs. Elaine crosses herself, mumbling a string of curses beneath her breath. The sign of the cross and a string of profanities… that about sums this woman up perfectly, God love her.

Now, now, ladies, you two know the rules.” Finn rose, holding up his hands like a referee. “No fights outside of a Jell-O ring.” I twirled my be-clawed fingers in front of her face, and eventually she backed off. “So tell me what his story is.” Finn jerked his chin in Jackson’s direction. “He’s not one of us?” After a final threatening look at Selena, I said, “I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him do anything superhuman.” Selena flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Because you haven’t experienced him in the right situation, honey.” Her tone dripped with innuendo. Was this the proof that I’d been waiting for? Or another lie? Maybe they had gotten together—at least on the night we’d stayed at her place. And possibly more often. Though I did believe Jackson was interested in me again, I didn’t know how I could get past them. Between gritted teeth, I said, “Then tell us what card he is, Selena.” She sighed. “My Jack of Hearts.” Claws aching, I snapped, “Wrong—deck—hooker.” Finn groaned. “This can’t be happening! So you’re both digging that Cajun dude? Both of you? Come on, pussycats, that’s just not right! Spread the wealth.

Kennedy snorted at that..."Sorry. I just...I don't spend a lot of time with people who let rules get in the way of doing the right thing." She grimaced. Maybe she shouldn't be admitting that.

«I’ve never been to a funeral until today. I see dazzling arrangements of red, yellow, and purple flowers with long, green stems. I see a stained-glass window with a white dove, a yellow sun, a blue sky. I see a gold cross, standing tall, shiny, brilliant. And I see black. Black dresses. Black pants. Black shoes. Black bibles. Black is my favorite color. Jackson asked me about it one time. “Ava, why don’t you like pink? Or yellow? Or blue?” ”I love black,” I said. ”It suits me.” ”I suit you,” he said. I’m not so sure I love black anymore. And then, beyond the flowers, beneath the stained-glass window, beside the cross, I see the white casket. I see red, burning love disappear forever. As we pull away, my eyes stay glued to the casket. It’s proof that sometimes life does not go on. I look around. If tears could bring him back, there’d be enough to bring him back a hundred times. That’s not what I’m thinking. I’m thinking, I hate good-byes. It’s like I was a garden salad with a light vinaigrette, and Jackson was a platter of seafood Cajun pasta. Alone, we were good. Together, we were fantastic. Memories might keep him alive. But they might kill me.»

Down here, in our Cajun Magic Kingdom, I’m the Statue of Liberty. La Liberté éclairant le monde. But uptown, where the mold and the mildew still reign supreme, I go by Tiffany Proulx, which sounds like Peru, only without the pesky e inside. Most people call me Tiff, as in a fight, albeit a very small one. More like a squabble. A misunderstanding that’s bound to sort itself out. Just give it a little time is all.

Jackson asked, “Where’d the water come from in your house?” “A pipe.” Then he explained to Jackson, “Water travels in pipes.” Jackson pushed up from his spot against the wall, clearly reaching his limit of patience. “You hit your head or something, boy?” “Jackson, please.” Another scowl from the Cajun. Then he muttered to Selena, “He’s slower than Christmas.” “Christmas,” Matthew began grandly, “is . . . slow.

Days after the elections of 2016, asha sent me a link to a talk by astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson. We have to have hope, she says to me across 3,000 miles, she in Brooklyn, me in Los Angeles. We listen together as Dr. deGrasse Tyson explains that the very atoms and molecules in our bodies are traceable to the crucibles in the centers of stars that once upon a time exploded into gas clouds. And those gas clouds formed other stars and those stars possessed the divine-right mix of properties needed to create not only planets, including our own, but also people, including us, me and her. He is saying that not only are we in the universe, but that the universe is in us. He is saying that we, human beings, are literally made out of stardust. And I know when I hear Dr. deGrasse Tyson say this that he is telling the truth because I have seen it since I was a child, the magic, the stardust we are, in the lives of the people I come from. I watched it in the labor of my mother, a Jehovah's Witness and a woman who worked two and sometimes three jobs at a time, keeping other people's children, working the reception desks at gyms, telemarketing, doing anything and everything for 16 hours a day the whole of my childhood in the Van Nuys barrio where we lived. My mother, cocoa brown and smooth, disowned by her family for the children she had as a very young and unmarried woman. My mother, never giving up despite never making a living wage. I saw it in the thin, brown face of my father, a boy out of Cajun country, a wounded healer, whose addictions were borne of a world that did not love him and told him so not once but constantly. My father, who always came back, who never stopped trying to be a version of himself there were no mirrors for. And I knew it because I am the thirteenth-generation progeny of a people who survived the hulls of slave ships, survived the chains, the whips, the months laying in their own shit and piss. The human beings legislated as not human beings who watched their names, their languages, their Goddesses and Gods, the arc of their dances and beats of their songs, the majesty of their dreams, their very families snatched up and stolen, disassembled and discarded, and despite this built language and honored God and created movement and upheld love. What could they be but stardust, these people who refused to die, who refused to accept the idea that their lives did not matter, that their children's lives did not matter?

Most of the POWs were taken before they could cut loose form their harness. Among then was Pvt. Paul Bouchereau, a Louisiana Cajun. He was being taken to a German command post where other POWs were being harshly interrogated. The German captain, speaking English, was demanding to know how many Americans had jumped into the area. “Millions and millions of us.” One GI replied. The angry captain asked Bouchereau the same question. With his strong Cajun accent, Bouchereau answered, “Jus’ me!

—Las personas engañan y mienten. Cuanto más hay, más planean tomar y más a menudo lo intentan. El mundo es un lugar feo, y la gente, al parecer, en su mayoría piensa que es mejor y más fácil tomar de los demás que ganárselos ellos mismos. (Kyrian) —Entonces, ¿por qué luchas para protegernos? (Nick) —Porque cada vez que pienso que no vale la pena, que la gente merece la miseria de sus vidas, me encuentro con alguien que me hace replantear eso. (Kyrian) —¿Como quién? (Nick) —Un sabihondo Cajun que besa el suelo por el que su madre camina. Uno que estaba dispuesto a dar su vida para proteger a dos extraños de sus mejores amigos, a pesar de que necesitaba el dinero para comer. Una mujer que está dispuesta a rebajarse a sí misma para alimentar a su hijo. Otra que enfrentó a un cártel de drogas con el fin de proteger a su familia y su pequeño pueblo. Esa clase de amor me recuerda al humano que una vez fui. Las personas como tú, tu madre, y Rosa se merecen a alguien que cuide sus espaldas. (Kyrian)

You know," she confided, "your recipe for Cajun Chicken Pasta? On page twenty-eight?" She nodded toward the book I'd just signed for her. "Yes?" "Totally works with skim milk instead of heavy cream." She nodded proudly. "Not that I tried the cream version. I'm sure in a blind taste test that's the one I'd prefer, but skim works!" I imagined the dish, using milk in the pan with the chicken fond, sun-dried tomatoes, oregano, and blackening spice, and could see where the milk would reduce into a nice thick sauce.

H—his hand is all up under there, and he’s poking his ball sack, so I’m all, ‘What the hell are you doing, Kyle?’ and he lifts his head, serious as shit, and says, ‘Remember when I told you I losed my marbles? I musta swallowed two of ’em, cuz I found ’em. They’re in my nuts!’ 

The resulting amalgam - an exotic mixture of European, Caribbean, African, and American elements - made Louisiana into perhaps the most seething ethnic melting pot that the nineteenth century world could produce. This cultural gumbo would serve as breeding ground for many of the great hybrid musics of modern times; not just jazz, but also cajun, zydeco, blues, and other new styles flourished as a result of this laissez-faire environment. In this warm, moist atmosphere, sharp delineations between cultures gradually softened and ultimately disappeared.

Don’t you know that you can’t ever keep walking down a path a black cat crossed?” “Yes, it’s a weird old Cajun thing.” Ashlyn talked right over her mother. “No one is freaked by it anymore except my mother.” “Well, your grandmother didn’t believe it. She laughed and sashayed right through that cat’s path and she got hit by a car,” Karen said, her voice filled with pure righteousness. “Pawpaw hit her with a car because he caught her cheating on him with their dry cleaner,” Ashlyn shot back. “Yes, but maybe she would have gotten away with it if she hadn’t crossed that path,” Karen argued.

There's something special about plating a dish for the first time. Making something in real life match what was in your mind's eye. I see one of those long, rectangular platters with three separate compartments. The colors are almost exactly what I was envisioning. The darkness of the sesame crust and the ponzu in the first one, contrasted with the bright green cucumber beneath and the bright red sauce on top. The cauliflower-thyme puree in the middle dish, perfectly off-white and flecked with green, the orange Cajun exterior, the drizzle of lemon oil over all of it. And the taco. The perfect spice of the aioli, the cilantro smelling like home.

The analogy that has helped me most is this: in Hurricane Katrina, hundreds of boat-owners rescued people—single moms, toddlers, grandfathers—stranded in attics, on roofs, in flooded housing projects, hospitals, and school buildings. None of them said, I can’t rescue everyone, therefore it’s futile; therefore my efforts are flawed and worthless, though that’s often what people say about more abstract issues in which, nevertheless, lives, places, cultures, species, rights are at stake. They went out there in fishing boats and rowboats and pirogues and all kinds of small craft, some driving from as far as Texas and eluding the authorities to get in, others refugees themselves working within the city. There was bumper-to-bumper boat-trailer traffic—the celebrated Cajun Navy—going toward the city the day after the levees broke. None of those people said, I can’t rescue them all. All of them said, I can rescue someone, and that’s work so meaningful and important I will risk my life and defy the authorities to do it. And they did. Of course, working for systemic change also matters—the kind of change that might prevent calamities by addressing the climate or the infrastructure or the environmental and economic injustice that put some people in harm’s way in New Orleans in the first place.

The spicy tingle that prickles at the nose is from the alkaloid piperine that's present in abundance in black pepper! Together with the pyrazine that develops when paprika powder is heated, the two aromas meld together and form the strong base of the dish's overall scent! The primary herbs used to ameliorate the gamy smell of the bear meat is thyme! The strong, herby scent of thymol- the active component of thyme- beautifully erases any stink the meat had! Then, uh... there's the cayenne and the oregano... and... uh... The oregano, and... "Aaaah! I can't! I just can't! Anytime I try to think, my mind just screams that it wants more!" Exquisite! Every last wisp of the bear meat's scent has been transformed into a powerfully savory flavor! The delicate complexity of the fragrance and the deep layers of the umami flavor... there is no denying it. "This dish... surpasses Soma Yukihira's." "I rubbed the bear meat with salt, my Cajun spice blend and other spices. I made sure to wrap it in a nice, thick coat of batter when I fried it up too. Plus, when I marinated it before battering it, I used plenty of juniper berries in the marinade. I ground them in a spice grinder first to really bring out their scent. Waves of juicy flavor so rich and refined that they even have a hint of sweetness to them should gush out of the bear meat with every bite.

We had little money but didn’t think of ourselves as poor. Our vision, if I can call it that, was not materialistic. If we had a concept about ourselves, it was egalitarian, although we would not have known what that word meant. We spoke French entirely. There was a bond between Cajuns and people of color. Cajuns didn’t travel, because they believed they lived in the best place on earth. But somehow the worst in us, or outside of us, asserted itself and prevailed and replaced everything that was good in our lives. We traded away our language, our customs, our stands of cypress, our sugarcane acreage, our identity, and our pride. Outsiders ridiculed us and thought us stupid; teachers forbade our children to speak French on the school grounds. Our barrier islands were dredged to extinction. Our coastline was cut with eight thousand miles of industrial channels, destroying the root systems of the sawgrass and the swamps. The bottom of the state continues to wash away in the flume of the Mississippi at a rate of sixteen square miles a year. Much of this we did to ourselves in the same way that a drunk like me will destroy a gift, one that is irreplaceable and extended by a divine hand. Our roadsides are littered with trash, our rain ditches layered with it, our waterways dumping grounds for automobile tires and couches and building material. While we trivialize the implications of our drive-through daiquiri windows and the seediness of our politicians and recite our self-congratulatory mantra, laissez les bons temps rouler, the southern rim of the state hovers on the edge of oblivion, a diminishing, heartbreaking strip of green lace that eventually will be available only in photographs.

Hey I saw that you’re also friends with (mutual friend). I’m pretty sure I met you at a party one time. I can’t remember which one but your face looks ridiculously familiar, and I think we talked about My Little Pony or something. How do you know (mutual friend)?

Cook to make yourself and your family happy, because that’s really what it is all about.

He and his mama run swamp tours back in the bayou.” Roo flicked ashes into the trampled weeds. “Tourists really like that kind of thing, don’t ask me why. He works construction jobs, too. Mows lawns, cuts trees, takes fishermen out in his boat. Stuff like that.” “Quite a résumé.” “And not bad to look at either.” Roo arched an eyebrow. “Or haven’t you noticed?” “I don’t even know him.” “You don’t have to know him to notice.” Miranda hedged. “Well…sure. I guess he’s kind of cute.” “Cute? Kind of? I’d say that’s the understatement of the century.” “Does he have a girlfriend or something?” As Roo flicked her an inquisitive glance, she added quickly, “He keeps calling me Cher.” Clearly amused, Roo shook her head. “It’s not a name, it’s a…” She thought a minute. “It’s like a nickname…like what you call somebody when you like them. Like ‘hey, love’ or ‘hey, honey’ or ‘hey, darlin’. It’s sort of a Cajun thing.” Miranda felt like a total fool. No wonder Etienne had gotten that look on his face when she’d corrected him about her name. “His dad’s side is Cajun,” Roo explained. “That’s where Etienne gets that great accent.” Miranda’s curiosity was now bordering on fascination. She knew very little about Cajuns--only the few facts Aunt Teeta had given her. Something about the original Acadians being expelled from Novia Scotia in the eighteenth century, and how they’d finally ended up settling all over south Louisiana. And how they’d come to be so well known for their hardy French pioneer stock, tight family bonds, strong faith, and the best food this side of heaven. “Before?” Roo went on. “When he walked by? He was talking to you in French. Well…Cajun French, actually.” “He was?” Miranda wanted to let it go, but the temptation was just too great. “What’d he say?” “He said, ‘Let’s get to know each other.’” A hot flush crept up Miranda’s cheeks. It was the last thing she’d expected to hear, and she was totally flustered. Maybe Roo was making it up, just poking fun at her--after all, she didn’t quite know what to make of Roo. “Oh,” was the only response Miranda could think of.

Before?” Roo went on. “When he walked by? He was talking to you in French. Well…Cajun French, actually.” “He was?” Miranda wanted to let it go, but the temptation was just too great. “What’d he say?” “He said, ‘Let’s get to know each other.

Every man who loves his country prefers its liberty to all other considerations, well knowing that life without liberty is a misery and they are mere slaves.

yet upon the denial of such right to publish the truth, the next step may make them slaves; for what else does slavery do but oppress men by preventing the liberty of complaining, or if they do, by destroying their lives and lands.

Gentlemen of the Jury, the truth is an absolute defense to any claim of defamation.

God and the laws of our country have given us the absolute right to expose and oppose corrupt arbitrary power by speaking and writing truth. And truth is our liberty and our escape from slavery.

This was the first known case in France where the truth was a successful defense to a public official’s claim of defamation.

His long black tresses, pulled back and tied neatly in the style of the day with a matching silk ribbon, were marked by a distinctive natural white shock running from crown to ends.

The classic recipes are goat, lamb, vegetable, and/or chicken biriyani. But when I was in New Orleans, at this restaurant, they served Louisiana barbecue shrimp, which was simply delicious. When I asked the waiter what was in the shrimp sauce, he rattled off a number of spices (rosemary, thyme, basil, oregano, et cetera) and so, I went with memory. I marinated the raw prawns in mashed garlic, rosemary, basil, oregano, thyme, sage, paprika, black pepper, white pepper, cayenne, and onion powder, along with a dash of Worcestershire sauce. I decided to cook the rice in the pressure cooker, added crushed cloves, cardamom, and cinnamon, and a bay leaf for a minute or so. Then I added some onions and fried until the onions became golden brown. Then went in the rice, and enough water, and I closed the pressure cooker. The rice was ready in ten minutes. In a separate pan, I sautéed the marinated prawns in butter, along with extra chopped garlic and the marinade, and added them to the cooked rice. I garnished it with chopped fresh coriander and voilà, Cajun prawn biriyani. I served it with some regular cucumber raita. Mama had been so sure that Daddy would hate prawns but I saw him clean out each one on his plate and even get a second helping. Sometimes we forget why we don't like some things and then when we try them again, we realize that we had been wrong.

Shrimp and Grits The combination of creamy grits with slightly spicy, tomatoey shrimp is a classic coastal dish in the South. It’s comforting and hearty, but in an elegant serving bowl it can also be a perfect meal to serve at a dinner party. FOR THE GRITS 11/2 cup grits (not quick-cooking—I like stone-ground) 1 teaspoon salt 4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) butter FOR THE SHRIMP 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 tablespoon butter 1 medium onion, chopped 1 small green pepper, chopped 3 cloves garlic, minced 1 (14 oz.) can diced tomatoes with liquid 1 teaspoon Cajun seasoning (I like Tony Chachere’s Creole Seasoning) 2 tablespoons tomato paste 2 pounds medium-large raw shrimp, peeled 1/2 cup water 2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

TO MAKE THE GRITS In a medium saucepan, bring 3 cups of water to a boil over high heat and stir in the grits and salt. Bring back to a boil, stirring occasionally, then reduce the heat to low, stir in the butter, and simmer for about 15 minutes. The grits will absorb all the water, so you will need to stir them occasionally, and you can add more water if they become too thick. The grits are easy to keep warm on very low heat, just adding water when needed, but you must stir them every now and then to keep them from sticking to the bottom or clumping. TO MAKE THE SHRIMP In a large skillet or sauté pan, combine the olive oil and butter over medium-high heat until the butter is melted. Add the onion and green pepper and sauté until they begin to soften, about 4 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for 1 more minute. Stir in the tomatoes and their liquid, the Cajun seasoning, and the tomato paste. Cook for 2 to 3 minutes and add the shrimp, stirring for about 2 minutes, until the shrimp turn pink. Add the water and

also had a special affinity for Cajun country in Louisiana because the same people, the Acadians, who live in New Brunswick, also live there. That was it for me and America, more or less. What

While Dixieland men may have struggled with a language inferiority complex, the opposite is true of Southern women. We’ve always known our accent is an asset, a special trait that makes us stand out from our Northern peers in all the best ways. For one thing, men can’t resist it. Our slow, musical speech drips with charm, and with the implied delights of a long, slow afternoon sipping home-brewed tea on the back porch. In educated circles, Southern speech is considered aristocratic, and for good reason: it is far closer linguistically to the Queen’s English than any other American accent. Scottish, Irish, and rural English formed the basis of our language years ago, and the accent has held strong ever since. In the poor hill country there haven’t been many other linguistic influences, and in Charleston you’d be hard pressed to tell a British tourist from a native. In the Delta of Mississippi and Louisiana, the mixture of French, West Indian, and Southern formed two dialects--Cajun and Creole--that in some places are far more like French than English.

Come git all your cajun spices out of my kitchen. I told ya I don't like Cajun, I like creole. Those spices burn my intestins.' Tearin me up with your bird injectors and foul fish. I don't need your kindness. not when you're cheatin on my daughter.

Oh, I'm more than a useless little doll, Cajun. I'm a damaged one. And If you knew what went on inside my mind, you'd make the sign of the cross and run the other way.

our cruise director just happened to be recruiting eight men to compete in a lip sync battle.