I once wrote a story about my Aunt Mary Daire's kitchen in Ville Platte. The little story was fondly received; many of you connected to that part of our French heritage; you were there at her table in her kitchen having rice and gravy for lunch and hot coffee afterwards. This morning, before the day began, I put the kettle on. The pilot light clicked that old familiar sound and I put the kettle over a low fire. I am the only one who
drinks coffee now that the kids are gone so I have resorted to an instant organic that my daughter in law, Lorena, supplies me with from HEB. I like it very much and it’s easy, I only drink a cup anyway. But this morning, while waiting, I was remembering those Viille Platte kitchens from my childhood. Coffee was brewed and served to company. All the ladies had a coffee tray, I still have one of my mamae’s. My mamae and my aunts would go to each of their guest carrying the tray, and “presenting” the selection to each while saying something in French. There was cream and sugar bowls and cups, not mugs, sitting on saucers filled with freshly made coffee. I watched this for my entire childhood and never thought much of it until now, until this morning in my predawn kitchen heating water for my cup of instant. Once again, I realized it’s those little things, those little memories that, at the time, seemed so incidental that end up being the ones that keep us warmest. It’s those beautiful souls from our past that moved along in their ordinary lives doing ordinary things with so much care and warmth. We were watching all along and while we remember little, we remember the feeling.
For then, there was no social media to show the world, it was just our world, our intimate world where all these things were done because of love, instead of “likes'.