“What we need is a decent skeleton in our family closet,” Lucy Charles said to her mother. “It would make writing the family newsletter a lot more interesting.”
“Don’t go looking for trouble, sweetie. I’m sure the family likes recipes more than scandal,” Patrice Charles said absently, flicking over the pages of a loose-leaf binder that was her personal cookbook.
They were in the big old kitchen of the family home in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Lucy lived in Toronto now, but home would always be here, where she could watch the sea from her bedroom window and fresh lobster was a back yard barbecue, or a church dinner rather than a fancy meal in a restaurant.
“Okay, what have you got?”
“What about the Tortiere? Your aunt Florence sent it from Quebec.”
“I used that recipe year before last.” She stretched her neck which was sore from too many hours spent working on her laptop. “Maybe I’ll pick up a good recipe for Jambalaya when I’m in Louisiana.”
Lucy was a history lecturer at the University of Toronto. Currently, she was researching her own family’s background, which included the splitting up of her ancestors when the French Acadians had been expelled from Canada in the mid 1700s. She’d recently discovered, through damn fine research if she did say so herself, living relatives in Louisiana.
“I’m not sure you should go down there all alone, Lucy,” her mom said for the hundredth time. “You don’t even know these people. They could be a bunch of crazies living in the swamps.”
Her mother didn’t quite approve of Cajuns. According to Patrice, the way they’d dropped vowels and slurred a perfectly nice word like Acadian into Cajun – well, she suspected there’d been drinking involved. “And you, a professor.”
“I’m not a prof, mom. I’m a lecturer. Big difference.” The biggest being a permanent job and tenure. “That’s why I’m spending my summer break writing this book. Publish or perish. Besides, Beatrice LeBlanc, one of your long-lost cousins, sounds friendly and gracious on email.”
“Hmm. Internet friends. We all know where that can lead,” her mother said darkly.
Lucy went back to the notes she was making on her laptop. “But first I need to fit in family recipes and the fascinating exploits of Roland Charles Junior on the high school baseball team,” Lucy sighed. “Oh, well. I can write a nice article on the Louisiana branch of the family for the next issue.” She’d tried to interest her family in blogs and Facebook sites to make it easier for everyone to connect, but a surprising number of her older relatives didn’t own a computer, never mind a Facebook account. There were nearly twenty relatives who still had the newsletter mailed to them.
“You be careful, honey. And for goodness’ sake, book yourself a decent hotel. Don’t be putting up with strangers.”
“You’ve been watching too much True Blood. They’re family, not vampires. I can’t turn down their hospitality, it would feel rude. Don’t worry. If I don’t like staying with Beatrice, I’ll move to a hotel.”
“A mother always worries.” Patrice flipped to desserts. “What about dumplings boiled in Maple Syrup?”
Lucy blinked. “Why not?”
Her mother could not have been more mistaken Lucy thought a week later as the cab pulled up in front of a gracious old mansion in New Orleans’s garden district.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” she asked the cab driver.
“This the address you gave me.”
She felt disoriented, and from more than a few hours on a plane and a change from breezy Atlantic Canada to this hot, humid paradise.
“Thank you,” she said at last and got out of the cab, still staring at the home of her new found relatives.
Wrought iron, that wonderful curlicued twirling iron lace, fronted the mansion. Inside the gates was a walkway that ought to have been artistically crumbling but looked brand new winding through lush gardens. The
“Don’t go looking for trouble, sweetie. I’m sure the family likes recipes more than scandal,” Patrice Charles said absently, flicking over the pages of a loose-leaf binder that was her personal cookbook.
They were in the big old kitchen of the family home in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Lucy lived in Toronto now, but home would always be here, where she could watch the sea from her bedroom window and fresh lobster was a back yard barbecue, or a church dinner rather than a fancy meal in a restaurant.
“Okay, what have you got?”
“What about the Tortiere? Your aunt Florence sent it from Quebec.”
“I used that recipe year before last.” She stretched her neck which was sore from too many hours spent working on her laptop. “Maybe I’ll pick up a good recipe for Jambalaya when I’m in Louisiana.”
Lucy was a history lecturer at the University of Toronto. Currently, she was researching her own family’s background, which included the splitting up of her ancestors when the French Acadians had been expelled from Canada in the mid 1700s. She’d recently discovered, through damn fine research if she did say so herself, living relatives in Louisiana.
“I’m not sure you should go down there all alone, Lucy,” her mom said for the hundredth time. “You don’t even know these people. They could be a bunch of crazies living in the swamps.”
Her mother didn’t quite approve of Cajuns. According to Patrice, the way they’d dropped vowels and slurred a perfectly nice word like Acadian into Cajun – well, she suspected there’d been drinking involved. “And you, a professor.”
“I’m not a prof, mom. I’m a lecturer. Big difference.” The biggest being a permanent job and tenure. “That’s why I’m spending my summer break writing this book. Publish or perish. Besides, Beatrice LeBlanc, one of your long-lost cousins, sounds friendly and gracious on email.”
“Hmm. Internet friends. We all know where that can lead,” her mother said darkly.
Lucy went back to the notes she was making on her laptop. “But first I need to fit in family recipes and the fascinating exploits of Roland Charles Junior on the high school baseball team,” Lucy sighed. “Oh, well. I can write a nice article on the Louisiana branch of the family for the next issue.” She’d tried to interest her family in blogs and Facebook sites to make it easier for everyone to connect, but a surprising number of her older relatives didn’t own a computer, never mind a Facebook account. There were nearly twenty relatives who still had the newsletter mailed to them.
“You be careful, honey. And for goodness’ sake, book yourself a decent hotel. Don’t be putting up with strangers.”
“You’ve been watching too much True Blood. They’re family, not vampires. I can’t turn down their hospitality, it would feel rude. Don’t worry. If I don’t like staying with Beatrice, I’ll move to a hotel.”
“A mother always worries.” Patrice flipped to desserts. “What about dumplings boiled in Maple Syrup?”
Lucy blinked. “Why not?”
Her mother could not have been more mistaken Lucy thought a week later as the cab pulled up in front of a gracious old mansion in New Orleans’s garden district.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” she asked the cab driver.
“This the address you gave me.”
She felt disoriented, and from more than a few hours on a plane and a change from breezy Atlantic Canada to this hot, humid paradise.
“Thank you,” she said at last and got out of the cab, still staring at the home of her new found relatives.
Wrought iron, that wonderful curlicued twirling iron lace, fronted the mansion. Inside the gates was a walkway that ought to have been artistically crumbling but looked brand new winding through lush gardens. The
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