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??

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.

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.

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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.

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