Pralines

The oppressive heat of the city weighed me down like the burdens of a preacher trying to save 10,000 lost souls. Rank odors filled each pore until I was cocooned in an invisible and putrid dumpster without escape. July in the French Quarter was acid hot and even the sky burned clouds of amber and black as if the city itself couldn’t contain the waves of embers and lazily offered them to the sky for relief.

We entered the cooking school and felt the cool air conditioning on sweat laden skin and smelled the same aromas that both slave and free man experienced over the generations. Sausage and seasonings assaulted the senses and invited the travelers to rest. The school was housed in an ancient building that time had not completely changed and we awaited the tastes that only come from using real butter, cream, milk and lard.

The chef, slipping into the dialect of the past, prepared her gumbo and Creole. I envisioned spirits rising with the dead encircling us with voodoo embraces until we were drugged and lifeless. Suddenly, the sweet smell of caramelizing sugar, pecans, butter and vanilla awoke my senses. The chef listened to the pot declaring the mixture ready and began rapidly spooning the praline mixture onto shiny aluminum foil. We were transfixed with anticipation watching the gooey mixture transform into pralines.

We were served. We took a collective bite. It was a moment when writers were without words, musicians couldn’t play tunes and artists stared at blank canvases. In that moment, time stood as still as the air. Troubles melted with the praline on my tongue and the heat of New Orleans magically slipped away with the haints.