Country Comfort

After my husband died, the one thing I craved most was stability.  In the chaos of the preceding months and then his death and its aftermath, I was overwhelmed by all the changes in my life that had endlessly come at me.  I felt like if I could just get a routine going, if I could get some stability back, I'd feel like my old self again.  I'd feel better.  I’d feel normal. I was just getting my bearings when my mother's death sent my emotional compass spinning out of control again.

In the months since, I'd gotten into a routine, for the most part.  Ironically enough, though, the stability that it brought didn't make me feel better.   It didn't made me feel worse, either; it just made me feel...numb.  I didn't even realize what had happened until about six weeks ago. Numbness may beat pain on the emotional scale, but it can't hold a candle to happiness, no matter how fleeting that happiness is. The road to happiness isn't paved with routine.  Not for me, anyway. That's when I decided I needed to step outside my comfort zone.  I would go back to Mansura for the Cochon de Lait Festival, and I would recruit as many people to come with me as I could.  I was also determined to check on my step-father, Donald, since I figured he’d be having a hard time on his first Mother’s Day without my mom.  Mother’s Day was as important to her as Bunny’s birthday was to him. 

Louisiana excels over the rest of the U.S. in one area: food.  You just can’t find better food anywhere.  There are lots of food festivals in south Louisiana, and my hometown is the Cochon de Lait Capital of the World. Since the early 1960s, Mansura holds a festival celebrating the roasted suckling pig, usually on Mother’s Day weekend.  At some point, the festival became so popular that it got out of hand, and for several years the town didn't hold one. Some of my best childhood memories are from Cochon de Lait  Festivals of yore.  All my relatives would come up from New Orleans, and we'd pile into my grandfather's truck and head for town to watch the parade. 

 My grandfather's family was definitely the most colorful of all the branches of my family tree. My grandfather was the only one of his siblings to live in The Country: everyone else fled to New Orleans at the first chance.  There, they married and raised families.  While they'd come up for occasional visits, none of them retired to The Country.  Once the festival went on hiatus, the Chatelains would still have their own pig roasts, and we'd still have a good time, but they didn’t carry quite the same excitement as the festival. 

Growing up, we country folks were closest to our Uncle Jake's family. Uncle Jake was the youngest surviving sibling of my grandfather’s, and he loved to visit the country, so we saw him and his sons at least every six weeks.  His older sons were closer to my dad’s age, but the younger ones, Glenn and Norman, were closer to ours: Glenn was three years older than I, and Norman and Julie were exactly the same age.   Norman was a high-energy daredevil, and Glenn was more laid back, but mischievous nonetheless.  We always had fun when they visited, particularly because they caused our grandfather a great deal of consternation.  For example, one time, they exploded his mailbox with some of their never-ending supply of firecrackers. 

When I was about 15, Glenn started bringing his girlfriend, Bonnie, to The Country with him.  Bonnie was my age, from a big Italian family, and was enthralled with The Country.  She would eat anything set before her (which was a pretty big deal, considering some of the things Cajuns eat) and was down-to-earth, which was very important to Country folks. 

Glenn and Bonnie eventually married, but as time wore on and we moved away from Louisiana, we rarely saw them.  The last time I did, their elder daughter, Melissa, was 8 or 9 and Little Alyssa was a toddler.  Sadly, that would also be the last time I would ever see Glenn—he died as I was graduating from law school in Atlanta.

Fast-forward to 2010, which was the last time I’d gone to the Cochon de Lait Festival.  My class reunion was that weekend, as well, and I was determined to go, despite having recently undergone spinal fusion on my neck.  The brace I had to wear made it impossible for me to drive, so my cousin Vicki, who had recently moved back to New Orleans from Florida, agreed to be my chauffeur.  Since she’d enjoyed the festival so much, she was one of my first potential recruits for this visit.  She had plans for the weekend, but she’d join me in New Orleans.

I’d long ago asked JoCo and the kids to come along, but their schedules, too, didn’t allow them to.  Then I sent an e-mail the cousins I’d befriended on Facebook, asking them to meet me for dinner in the French Quarter on Thursday night.  Alyssa was the first to accept.  I’ve kept up with Bonnie (who isn’t on Facebook) mostly through Alyssa.

At dinner, Bonnie asked what my plans were for the rest of the weekend.  When I told her about the Cochon de Lait (the natives never add the “Festival” part to the title) plans, she seemed to brighten up.  I asked her to come with me.  She was hesitant at first, but her daughters encouraged her to go, since she never did anything spontaneous like that.  As the evening wore on, she became fully committed to the idea, and we started looking forward to our Thelma and Louise-type adventure, without the cliff at the end, of course.

As we headed up to The Country Friday afternoon, she told me, with some amusement, that as of that morning, the girls were still expecting her to back out of the trip.  I was proud of her for stepping outside her comfort zone, and happy to have her company.

Our first stop was my stepfather’s house.  The house where I grew up isn’t actually in the town of Mansura—it’s on the outskirts, in a fairly heavily wooded area: Petite Cote Road, or “the ‘tite Cote” to the natives.  In other words, it’s not a place you pass through—it’s a place you have to go to.

When we asked Donald what he’d been up to, he mentioned that he’d been fishing a few times, and mentioned the neighbors who frequently dropped by to visit.  We talked with him for a while, and then I asked him to come to the Cochon de Lait with us on Saturday.

“Aw, no.  I’m too old for that,” he demurred.  We worked on him for a while, and finally got him to agree to come to the parade.  Like Bonnie’s girls, I had my doubts that he would actually show up.

We met him there the next morning, and had a good time watching the parade and catching beads and trinkets.  We toured the arts and crafts booths and played a few shooting games—Donald is a hunter, so he did pretty well for a first-timer.  Despite his initial hesitation, he was having a good time.

We had lunch—huge, heaping plates of roasted pig and jambalaya that none of us could finish.  It was delicious!  After noon, the first of the contests—the hog calling event—started.  Donald stayed on, enjoying the competitions and chatting with people he knew from town.   He knows a lot of people, because they kept finding him to chat him up.  He had stepped outside his comfort zone and was enjoying himself; he was smiling again, laughing again, and I was happy to see him in his element.

The Ladies’ Beer Drinking Competition was slated to start at 1:30pm.  When I’d gone with Vicki, I’d begged her to enter, because I was sure she’d win.  She wouldn’t do it, despite my best efforts.  About 30 minutes before the contest, my phone made the noise it makes when I get a text message.  AAAGGG!  I hate that noise, because I hate texting!  I looked at my phone, expecting a message from Joey, and was surprised to see it was from Vicki.

“I want you to enter and win the beer drinking contest!  You got to represent! LMAO!”  I laughed as I remembered making that same argument to her when we were there—ya got to represent!  I told Donald and Bonnie about it.

“You should enter!” Donald said.  Bonnie readily agreed with him.

“But I don’t drink beer,” I answered.  I don’t drink much of anything, really—a glass of wine here or there.  When I do drink beer, it’s Guinness or another dark brew.  The drinks I’d had Thursday night were the first I’d had in a long time.

“It don’t matter.  I’ll tell you what—I’ll put up your entry fee!” Donald responded, whipping out the $5.00 necessary to enter.  Donald knows that: 1) I normally don’t drink; 2) I’ll seldom refuse a dare; 3) I don’t like to waste money; and 4) I’m so competitive that, even if it’s something I’ve never done before, I’m in it to win it.

Under the circumstances, I accepted the challenge.  I would step outside my own comfort zone and enter the beer drinking contest.  Breaking my own no-texting rule, I sent Vicki a response.

I’m registered, girl!

“Do me proud and take some pics!” Ha!  The competitors actually practice for this event—my chances were slim.  Still, I took my place on the stage when my name was called.

In all, there were 12 women seated at the table.  The crowd swelled before us as the MC explained the rules.  We would each get two cans of beer, which were set before us.  Our hands had to stay flat on the table, on either side of the cans, until we started.  We had to open the first one, drink it as quickly as we could, then turn the empty can upside-down on the table before we opened the second.  When we’d emptied the second, we had to turn it over upside-down on the table and then stand up.  The first woman to drink two beers and stand up, without being disqualified, would be the winner.  Few things would get you disqualified—spitting up or leaving too big a ring of beer on the table are the only ones I remember.

As the MC read the rules a second time, I tuned him out to psych myself up.  You don’t drink beer, but you drink a lot of water and coffee, and you can slam those down when you try. Waiters can barely keep your tea glass full, you drink so fast.  You can do it!  Represent!  Then the MC gave the countdown:

“1…2…GO!”  Where was 3?!?  We all popped our cans open and started drinking.  I wasn’t looking at anyone else—I was just focusing on slamming the beer down.  Despite it being the coldest beer on the planet, I finished the first one without difficulty.  Bonnie told me later that I finished way before anyone else—before that, she wasn’t sure I’d have a chance.  The crowd was roaring. 

I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, but I turned over my first can and started the second.  I stopped midway through as brain-freeze started to seize me, but I took a deep breath and chugged the rest down.  I turned over my second can, stood up, and looked around to see how badly I’d done.  No one else was standing!  A few seconds later, a 20-something stood up, and a few seconds later, the woman on my immediate left stood.  Several more followed, as the judges inspected our cans.  One of them tapped me on the back.

“First.”  First!!  I couldn’t believe it!  The three of us got our medals and were introduced to the crowd.

“From Tampa, Florida,” the MC said after my name.

“Tell him whaa you really from!” Bonnie called out.  If you’ve never heard a real New Orleans accent, it’s a lot like a New York accent, and very distinctive in a Cajun-accented crowd.

“I grew up in the ‘tite Cote,” I said, which incited some cheering.

I was really excited (and a bit tipsy) over my victory.  For the rest of the day, people congratulated me, asked me my secret, and wanted to know how I’d practiced.  Naturally, I had to text Vicki again.

I won that shit, behotch!

“And you’re texting back beotch!  I miss ya and I wish I was there.” 

But I think Donald was more delighted than anyone else.  He told me that once I’d gone on stage, he told Bonnie, “Watch she wins,” in a “wouldn’t it be ironic” tone.  Joey didn’t believe I’d won when I called him, so Donald took the phone to confirm my story.  Donald joked to Bonnie and me that we’d have a lot of company next year—her girls and JoCo, at least.  Vicki has since said she plans to compete for the title.  I told her they’ll probably need a whole table just for the family members looking to challenge me.

Donald stayed on through the rest of the afternoon and had a great time, proving that he isn't too old for the Cochon de Lait.  Bonnie and I headed south the next morning, both having enjoyed our adventure.  It just goes to show that when you step outside your comfort zone, you can surprise even yourself.  You might even win a medal.