Sharing

The phone trilled, cutting through my fifth episode of “Duck Dynasty” like a screeching fishwife.

On the third ring I grudgingly picked it up.

I mean, it’s 2013. Why do we even have this??

“Hello? It’s Mrs. Alma. I’ve got some satsumas for y’all. I’m coming over.” Click.

Five minutes later, my petite, sweater-clad neighbor rang the doorbell. She held a hefty Wal-Mart bag of the sweet orange citruses.

“I can’t stay,” she said as she pressed the bag into my hands. “We had so many and I just thought you’d want some.”

With surprising speed, the octogenarian darted back to her home down the cul-de-sac.

The only thing sweeter than these satsumas is Mrs. Alma.

From the much-anticipated fig preserves Mrs. Debbie provides every summer to the wine and beer that accompany the Fontenot’s Friday evening porch gatherings, food and drink flow freely in my 16-house neighborhood.

Sharing food isn’t out of the ordinary.

When plaque paused Mrs. Helen’s heart, her neighbors quickly picked up the beat. Her home flooded with casseroles and cakes. Her husband didn’t go hungry.

There’s something special about giving food to one another. It ties us together, representing thanks, concern or well wishes. It shows how much we care.

In Louisiana, the kitchen is the heart of life; sharing food is equivalent of sharing love.

Coffee Time

The humid chill seeps through my sweatshirt as my friend mindlessly twirls an empty coffee cup side to side and debates the importance of graduating in four years. She misses the pointed look from a wandering barista. I guess he doesn’t feel our $3.98 pumpkin spice lattes justify a 3-hour campout.

I disagree.

Looking around, I notice the faces haven’t changed from my 11 a.m. arrival. The blonde teenager furrows her brow as she switches from yellow to lime green highlighters. A man in wrinkled plaid and jeans drags on another cigarette, earning a glare from his middle-aged neighbor leafing though the Wall Street Journal.

There’s something about coffeehouses that begs for marathon study sessions or drawn-out reunions. Maybe the fumes keep customers on an Energizer Bunny high, speaking, moving and sipping at heart-palpitation speed. Or it could be the free Wi-Fi.

Fueled by comforting scents of vanilla, hazelnut and mocha, coffee shop conversations dip into uncharted territories. They form the foundation of first dates and mend bridges of lapsed friendships.

Over the whirl of the coffee grinder, my friend feels safe enough to share fears of the future. Between sips, we reminisce about old memories and discuss the six months we have been apart. In the coffee shop, time stops.

Dia de los Muertos

While miniature American versions of superheroes, pirates and princesses head home to sleep off sugar-induced comas, Latin Americans south of the border flood into graveyards with candles, skeletons and mariachis.

Instead of the spooks and frights of Halloween, millions throughout Latin America celebrate the Day of the Dead on Nov. 1 and 2, a commemoration of friends and family members who have died.

“It’s not a morbid celebration at all,” history professor Stephen Andes said as he described celebrating the Day of the Dead in Sonora, Mexico. “At its core, it’s a celebration for family to get together to make a link with loved ones – even after they’re gone.”

During the two-day holiday, families visit the graves of deceased loved ones to clean the tombstones and decorate the sites with bright flowers and candles.

Celebrants work throughout the night.

Food contributes to a carnival-like atmosphere.

“There’s food vendors selling tamales and traditional candies like calaveras, or skulls made out of sugar,” Andes said.

Sugar skull candies range in intricacy.

Celebrants decorate the tombs and homemade altars with items that represent the deceased, Spanish professor and Costa Rican-native Lidia Byrd said.

“If they liked fruit, there’s fruit,” she said laughing. “If they liked tortillas, there are tortillas. If they liked mariachi, there are mariachis playing near the grave.”

Families also make pan de muerto, or bread of the dead, to eat at the gravesites, Byrd described. The sweet bread is flavored with anise seeds and decorated with sugar and bread pieces shaped like bones, which symbolize the dead.

Pan de muerto is traditionally served with coffee or hot chocolate.

The Day of the Dead’s emphasis on life is after death is a result of Mexican indigenous religions rather than a traditional part of Roman Catholicism.

“For us, when someone dies it is a continuation of the life,” Byrd said.

In an effort to obtain more Catholic converts, Spanish conquerors in the 1600s combined the Aztec celebration of the dead with the religious holidays of All Saint’s Day, Nov. 1, and All Soul’s day, Nov. 2.

The result, Andes said, is a holiday that is uniquely Latin American.

“I think you can see the Day of the Dead celebrates a lot more whimsical, lighthearted intimacy with death,” Andes said, contrasting the holiday to the American tradition of Halloween.

“Halloween is a completely different holiday. It’s all about being scary. They might be around the same time, but that’s not what Day of the Dead is about.”