Sunday 3 Snaps

Ice Cream

“Mashti Malone is a gangster from the 1940s in a 3-piece suit with a toothpick in his mouth and a machine gun in one hand. His hat tilts over one eye when he walks into the ice cream place and orders butter pecan on a sugar cone please thank you hon. He lays the gun across two seats, the kind of chairs that have circular cane bottoms, and says, Stand back to the kids with bare legs waiting in line. He pats at the air with his hand, Stand back, he says again, and then under his breath, Christ. His fingernails are manicured and polished with a thin layer of clear. While the ice cream girl is scooping, he pulls out a wad of bills wrapped with 4 rubber bands and then he licks his thumb and squeezes off 7 singles. He likes to have ones because occasionally when he isn’t gunning people down or eating ice cream he goes to the clubs and makes it rain. The girl hands—”

“Mom you can’t say make it rain,” this from my middle child who knows everything and that is not an exaggeration.

“Why not?” I ask.

“No one said make it rain in the 1940s.”

“How do you know this?”

“What?” this is the youngest who usually stays out of this type of discussion because he is busy living life.

Middle: The Simpsons.

Youngest: What's from The Simpsons?

Middle: The explanation of the term make it rain.

Youngest: Oh yeah.

We get up to leave and walk into the street, door tinkling behind us.

Middle: And also Mashti Malone was a Persian entrepreneur and it’s not cool to imply he went to strip clubs.

Me: Okay okay, geez.

We walk back to the car. When I was little my grandfather used to take us to get ice cream in his huge maroon Cadillac and we would all sit in the back and keep our hands in our lap. That car was like a concrete barge and it would take 40 minutes just to park it. He didn’t take us to an ice cream parlor though, he would take us to Dairy Queen. He would say, “It’s not ice cream! It’s Soft Serve!” and then he’d beam like he had discovered the place himself.

We get to the car and everyone gets in and thunks their door closed. “My grandfather wouldn’t let us in his car with our ice cream. We had to stand in the parking lot and eat it. Then he would make us get a cup of water to pour over our hands before we could get back in. And if we weren’t done when he was, he’d take our cones and throw them in the trash.”

“Okay, Mom.”

I look to my kids who are checking their phones while they eat. Tik toks of people singing on the subway in Spain and videos of horses in the kitchen eating pb and j, storms and floods knocking down entire elementary schools. It’s a different time.

I finish my cone and start the car.

Etouffee

Last night Uncle Larry stopped by. He was on his way to have dinner with friends so he could only stay for a bit, he said. He was wearing a red shirt and red pants and a red hat with a gold pin in the center, three thin leather bracelets on one wrist and a gold watch on the other. We sat around the kitchen table and he made necklaces with the girls, selecting each charm carefully from the box: the Eiffel tower, a horse shoe, and coins. Gimme that butterfly, he said pointing, I like that one. He tells us about the reunion he came down for.  His fortieth, Chris says. Don’t tell everybody my age Chris, he says. He says they were going out to get Chinese food at the only good place in New Orleans. 

Where? the girls ask. 

Secret, he says, threading his charms on the string, not looking up.

He said usually he would cook something when they got together but not this time. 

The girls let out an awwww, disappointed.

I ask him what he likes to cook. 

I make gumbo, he says, and Etouffee. 

What is Etouffee? I ask. 

The needle scratches off the record. 

You never had Etouffee? 

I don’t think I have. 

This answer is not acceptable in New Orleans.

What time is it? He looks up at Chris and then they set off to the store for ingredients. Back in 30 minutes he gets to work, chopping celery, onions, peppers, making a roux and the rest while trying to find the right seasonings in the cabinet. Chris makes cornbread from Jiffy mix with cinnamon in a cast iron pan. We sit around a small kitchen table, some chairs sideways, and finally when it’s ready, we eat the Etouffee. It is mostly quiet except for forks hitting against the bowls. 

This is the best Etouffee I ever had, I say. 

All right, Uncle Larry says, Chris almost messed me up with the seasonings.

And then he has to go. 

Don’t tell your family I cooked it so fast, he says to Chris before heading out the door, right on time to get to the Chinese restaurant.

One Thing

I was at a stoplight the other day and I looked over and there was a little girl, probably around 4, walking down the street. It wasn’t so strange, her mother was a little ways behind her, but what I noticed was that she had her hands in her pockets. If you know kids, especially any under the age of say 6, you know that generally they do not walk down the street with their hands in their pockets. It takes some coordination. It takes some nonchalance. She looked like an Italian man walking down a Brooklyn street in the 1940s on his way to the cheese shop jingling change, self-sure, with a full agenda for the day. I loved her because she reminded me of what it’s like to decide to do one simple thing that, even if you’re just a tiny person, makes you large.

Dear Readers, Friends and Family,

In honor of my computer breaking down yesterday I am offering a special deal for the rest of this month of $30 for a year’s subscription. I had saved everything on a cloud not too long ago but that didn’t prevent my 30-minute panic/almost-heart attack before I realized. So it is reason to celebrate. To all the subscribers who recently renewed their subscripsh, thank you, I am so very grateful. Thank you for supporting my work and thank you for reading.

Giving Thanks to the Cloud Special Offer for October