Page 18 of Lulu’s Recipe for Cajun Sass

“I s’pose so,” Louise said, though she had been thinking of using her daughter as a buffer between herself and the too-tempting Doctor Boudreaux, assuming he came this afternoon as planned for her swamp foraging trip.

She wasn’t exactly sure why she’d agreed to have him accompany her, especially when she knew what he was interested in. And it wasn’t swamp plants. Ever since she’d tarted herself up with Cajun Sass after Justin’s last visit, men had been giving her a second, third, even fourth look. It happened at the farmers’ market. It happened while delivering medicines to her customers, even ninety-year-old Rufus Benoit, who’d pinched her behind and said, “Ah couldn’t help mahself.” It even happened in the toilet paper aisle at the A & P. Worst of all was church where she’d noticed two of the ushers staring at her and whispering lasciviously.

The thing is, Cajun Sass was about more than physical appearance. In fact, that was the least important aspect. There were many times, like now, when Louise missed her mother and grandmother whose wisdom would have helped her so much. In a way, they’d leaned in from beyond the grave and helped her anyhow. Proof was that Louise had found all the information she needed on the subject, not in the always-reliable herb diaries but in some old letters exchanged between her mother and one of her sisters during World War I. Yes, the first big war, not the second one. Mixed in among all the news and gossip, there were paragraphs here and there about Cajun Sass.

Aunt Cecile had been complaining about life on a cold, cold army base up north where Uncle Victor had been grumpy and not paying any attention to her anymore…in the bedroom. Was it the chilly Yankee atmosphere that had cooled his ardor? Or something else?

Cici, you allus was the fool where Vic was concerned. Jist ’cause yer up in Yankee land doan mean you gotta lose yer Cajun Sass. And you know what that means. Style, Attitude, Smarts, Stubbornness.

Mon Dieu! I fergot about the Cajun Sass. Style, didja say? Best I buy mahself one of them see-through nighties. Do you still have that Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog?

Her mother had reacted with: Pff! Clothes is only a small part of the Cajun Sass recipe. Yer smart as a hooty owl, Cici, and stubborn as a cross-eyed mule. But remember what gran’mère usta say. It’s all about the attitude. Walk with yer shoulders back and yer bosoms forward. Toss yer hair over yer shoulders. Smile even if yer fightin’ the blue devils. Be proud, no matter if yer walkin’ barefoot down the street or sittin’ on yer threadbare davenport. Doan matter if yer poor as a church mouse or plain as a bucket. Pretend ya doan care what anyone thinks. An’ they’ll think, ooh la la, guar-an-teed.

Louise smiled. She could almost hear her mother’s words of wisdom with their deep southern accents.

Back to her telephone conversation, Louise told Marie, “I’ll bring Adèle over later this morning, if that’s all right with you.”

“Much obliged. Do ya have any of that tea fer cramps? I’m about ta get my monthly, and my belly is painin’ me somethin’ awful.”

“Sure.” Louise made a chamomile-peppermint mix that eased the cramps better than any drugstore medicine she’d ever tried. It was one of her most popular products. “I also got something new fer the bloat.”

Once she had Adèle settled at the kitchen table with her usual breakfast of coush-coush—fried cornmeal mush with raisins, milk, and cane syrup—along with her Silly Friends coloring book and crayons, Louise went in to dress for the day. Reverting back to her Cajun Sass thoughts before the phone had rung, Louise decided that she wasn’t going to make any special effort to attract Justin. It would appear too obvious. Bib overalls, like she’d had on before, tucked into calf-high rubber boots, worn over a long-sleeved undershirt, all to protect as much skin as possible from the swamp elements and animals, including the sun and insects, the pudding-like mud, and snakes, thorny bushes, and aggressive gators during mating season. She did take extra care with her hair, though, pulling it off her face into a high ponytail, but leaving some curly strands to frame her face. And she did add a belt, which really hadn’t been necessary, though it made her waist appear unusually small.

That little smudge of tinted anti-chapping balm on her lips made her mouth look luscious, but that was an unintended side effect. It wasn’t because she was trying to appeal to Justin. Okay, maybe she did want to show him what he was missing, but that was only a small part of her reasoning. At least, that’s what she told herself.

When Justin arrived around noon, Louise was laying out supplies on the kitchen table. At his knock on the back door, she called out, “Come in, come in. The door, she’s open.” After entering the cottage’s living room, he unapologetically began checking everything out …the pictures on an end table, an open children’s picture book on an overstuffed easy chair, a toy box overflowing with dolls and games. Her mother’s basket of yarns. A stack of records atop an RCA console phonograph.

Like her, he was dressed appropriately for the bayou, wearing khaki pants and leather boots, a long-sleeved, faded blue button-down shirt open over a white undershirt, and the same straw hat as before. He’d obviously shaved that morning, showing off a deep tan, the result of his summer in the South, she surmised. No doubt he was pale as a Yankee when back in the North.

“Bonjour, Louise,” he said, coming forward and leaning down to kiss her cheek.

In that brief second of closeness, she got a whiff of the slightly medicinal carbolic acid in the Lifebuoy soap he must have bathed in, softened by the delicious tones of his Aqua Velva aftershave. Neither were overpowering. Rather pleasant.

Suddenly, she felt like a breathless virginal girl of sixteen, instead of an experienced almost-twenty-six. And she did not like it. At all! The skittering of her senses put her at a disadvantage, she decided, as if this were a contest of some sort.

“Bonjour Justin. Ça va?” she greeted him, forcing a casualness to her voice. She forced herself to not step back from his closeness.

“Ça va très bien,” he replied, “especially since I’m here.”

She arched her brows at him.

“I’m looking forward to our day together...” he paused and added, “…foraging.” His attention was caught then by the items she’d laid out on her Formica and chrome table, a pretty oval style with a red top matching the seats of the red vinyl seats and backs of the the four chrome chairs. The dinette set had been a proud purchase of hers two years ago when she’d gotten a belated life-insurance check from the government on her fiancé Phillipe. “Wow,” he commented. “You are really organized.”

His eyes took in the large canvas carry bag she’d made with special pockets for certain things, like the packets for plants and seeds, small jars and bottles, a pen and gummed labels, a hand spade, secateurs and a sharp knife, her homemade bug repellant, a machete, and a pistol. But then, he said, “Whoa! What are these for?” He was pointing to the last two items.

“The machete is needed for those places where the weeds are high. You never know when some snakes might be lurking about. Same is true of the pistol. I’m too small to wrestle an alligator.”

He didn’t laugh at her weak attempt at humor. “Do you know how to use a weapon?”

She nodded. “I do. It belonged to my brother Frank, and he taught me when I was scarcely a teenager.”

“Have you ever had to use it?”

She gave him a look which pretty much said, “Are you kidding me?” Then she laughed. “It also comes in handy to ward off randy men who come a-callin’ with naughty intentions.”

“Point taken,” he said with a grin. “I recall you telling me before that all Cajun men have a twinkle in their eyes…a naughty twinkle.”

“I said that?”