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Ville Platte

I remember these houses from a long time ago, from visits with my mother. They were wooden and off the ground. Coffee was made in drip pots and served in matching cups on trays and French was spoken. There was no background noise, just a language I didn’t understand and stillness. A pot of white rice was on the stove and the floors were hardwood or linoleum. These were times when a treasured recipe was written on a scrap of notebook paper and kept in a cluttered kitchen drawer, when there were party lines and “The Stories” were on at noon. Sometimes, in the kitchen, there was a bare lightbulb that had to be twisted to come on but there was a fresh tablecloth and a tiny spoon to stir your coffee. The food was whole… baked sweet potatoes, fresh chicken in a stew, just caught fish in a couvillion, sweet tea in colorful aluminum glasses with dents and ice cubes from the ice tray and, perhaps some Steens syrup and French bread. It all seems so surreal now when I try to grab those moments of so long ago, magical moments with my mother in her hometown. I wish I had more recollection; I wish I still had her. xo

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