olbigjim

A Piedmont Porchlight Story

Now, marriage is a wonderful institution, provided both parties understand that one of them is going to be wrong considerably more often than the other.

The difficulty, of course, is determining which one is which.

In the Rhinehart household, this question had been settled almost immediately.

Ruby was right.

Dink was welcome to hold an opposing opinion, provided he did it quietly and it didn’t interfere with supper.

Now, I don’t want you thinking Ruby Roundtree Rhinehart was an unreasonable woman. Far from it. She was perfectly willing to consider another person’s point of view, examine the available evidence, and then explain in considerable detail why that person was mistaken.

Forty-two years inspecting quilts at Lawtex had given her an extraordinary eye for defects.

And forty-six years running a bar on Bourbon Street had given Dink an equally extraordinary ability to overlook them.

It was a combination that had made their marriage both entertaining and occasionally hazardous.

Particularly when Dink decided to cook.

The trouble began on a Wednesday morning when Ruby discovered her husband standing in the kitchen, examining the contents of her spice cabinet.

He was wearing his reading glasses, a New Orleans Saints apron, and an expression of deep professional concern.

“Ruby, honey?”

She looked up from the newspaper.

“What?”

“Where’s your cayenne pepper?”

“Behind the cinnamon.”

He opened the cabinet.

Moved several containers.

Then turned toward her.

“That’s paprika.”

“Then look behind the paprika.”

He searched again.

“Ruby, this cayenne’s older than some of the people I served drinks to in New Orleans.”

“Well, it ain’t been causing no trouble, so I reckon it’s still good.”

Dink examined the little tin.

“Expiration date says 2014.”

Ruby folded her newspaper.

“Dink, that pepper’s been sitting there minding its own business for twelve years. Don’t you go disturbing it.”

He sighed.

“Honey, you can’t make proper Cajun food with spices old enough to vote.”

“I’ve been cooking for seventy years without anybody filing a complaint.”

“That’s because you ain’t been cooking Cajun.”

“And I’ve survived beautifully.”

Dink placed the tin on the counter.

“Ruby, I’ve been thinking.”

She closed her eyes.

“Lord, here we go.”

“I want to make you a proper Louisiana supper.”

Ruby opened one eye.

“What kind of supper?”

“Gumbo.”

She considered this.

“That’s soup, ain’t it?”

Dink looked wounded.

“Soup?”

“Well, it comes in a bowl.”

“Ruby, gumbo is an art.”

“So’s wallpapering, but I don’t want none of that in my supper either.”

He ignored her.

“I’m talking about a proper dark roux, the holy trinity, andouille sausage, chicken, shrimp, crawfish…”

Ruby raised her hand.

“Hold it.”

“What?”

“What’s the holy trinity got to do with supper?”

“Onions, bell peppers, and celery.”

She stared at him.

“Dink Rhinehart, I’ve attended church my entire life, and that’s the first time I’ve ever heard the Holy Ghost referred to as celery.”

He laughed.

She didn’t.

“Are you fixing to cook or start a new religion?”

“Both, if the gumbo turns out right.”

Ruby returned to her newspaper.

“Well, don’t baptize anything in my kitchen sink.”

By ten o’clock, Dink had returned from the grocery store with enough provisions to feed the whole National Guard battalion over on Third Avenue.

He carried in onions, celery, bell peppers, garlic, chicken, sausage, shrimp, rice, flour, oil, and several containers of spices Ruby had never heard of and didn’t particularly trust.

Then he made a second trip to the Cadillac.

And returned carrying a large white cooler.

Ruby eyed it.

“What’s in that?”

“Crawfish.”

“Frozen?”

“Nope.”

“Cooked?”

“Nope.”

Ruby lowered her glasses.

“Dink.”

“Yes, honey?”

“Are them things alive?”

He grinned.

“Fresh as can be.”

She stared at the cooler.

Then at her husband.

Then back at the cooler.

“Delbert Rhinehart, you have brought live creatures into my kitchen without consulting me?”

“They’re crawfish, Ruby.”

“I don’t care if they’re the Twelve Apostles. They ain’t staying.”

Dink set the cooler beside the sink.

“Honey, you can’t make authentic Louisiana food without fresh ingredients.”

“I’ve made chicken and dumplings for fifty years without bringing a live chicken into the house.”

“That’s different.”

“Explain how.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then said, “Well, it just is.”

Ruby folded her arms.

“That’s the same argument you used when you bought that ridiculous hat in Gadsden.”

“It’s a Panama hat.”

“It’s a forty-dollar sunburn with a brim.”

“It cost considerably more than forty dollars.”

“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

Dink decided not to pursue the matter.

Now, there’s something you ought to know about Napoleon.

Napoleon was Ruby’s cat.

A large, opinionated orange tomcat with the disposition of a disgruntled tax collector and the personal hygiene standards of a visiting dignitary.

He’d belonged to Ruby long before Dink came home from New Orleans.

And he considered Dink’s arrival an unfortunate administrative error.

Napoleon tolerated the man because Ruby seemed to be fond of him.

But he had never entirely accepted the arrangement.

Dink was permitted to sleep in the house.

He was permitted to sit on certain furniture.

He was even permitted to feed Napoleon, although the cat generally inspected the offering with an expression suggesting that the cook ought to be arrested.

But Dink was not permitted to forget who owned the place.

That morning, Napoleon sat on the kitchen windowsill watching the preparations.

His tail moved slowly.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Dink glanced at him.

“Don’t you start.”

Napoleon blinked.

Ruby looked up.

“Don’t talk ugly to that cat.”

“I didn’t say anything ugly.”

“You used a tone.”

“He was looking at me.”

“He’s got eyes, Dink.”

“He’s plotting something.”

“He’s a cat.”

“That don’t mean he ain’t plotting.”

Napoleon yawned.

It was the sort of yawn a Roman emperor might have given before ordering somebody thrown to the lions.

Dink began with the roux.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with Louisiana cooking, a roux is a mixture of flour and fat cooked until it reaches the proper color.

In ordinary cooking, this might be a pleasant shade of gold.

In Cajun cooking, it can become so dark that a person unfamiliar with the process might reasonably conclude the cook has set fire to something.

Dink poured oil into Ruby’s largest cast-iron pot.

Added flour.

And began stirring.

Ruby watched from the kitchen table.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“Roux.”

“Looks like wallpaper paste.”

“Just wait.”

He stirred.

And stirred.

And then he stirred some more.

After ten minutes, Ruby looked up.

“How long you gonna do that?”

“Until it’s ready.”

“When’ll that be?”

“When it’s dark enough.”

“Well, turn the light off. Maybe that’ll help.”

Dink kept stirring.

The mixture gradually changed color.

Pale yellow.

Golden brown.

Copper.

Then a deep, rich brown.

Ruby leaned forward.

“Dink?”

“Yes?”

“You’re burning it.”

“No, honey. That’s what it’s supposed to do.”

“It’s turning black.”

“Not black. Dark brown.”

“There’s smoke.”

“That’s steam.”

“Steam don’t generally smell like a tire fire.”

Dink looked down.

The roux had indeed become darker than he’d intended.

He stirred faster.

Ruby stood.

“Dink.”

“It’s fine.”

“Dink.”

“Just a minute.”

“DINK!”

He lifted the spoon.

A thin ribbon of dark roux dripped into the pot.

Ruby examined it.

Then looked at her husband.

“That looks like something they scraped off the bottom of the Titanic.”

Dink sighed.

He turned off the burner.

And started over.

The second roux was considerably more successful.

Dink added the onions, peppers, and celery.

A wonderful aroma filled the kitchen.

Ruby sniffed appreciatively.

“Well, now.”

Dink smiled.

“Smells good, don’t it?”

“Reckon it does.”

“See?”

“Don’t get cocky. We ain’t eat it yet.”

He added garlic.

Then sausage.

Then chicken.

The kitchen began smelling like something a body might actually want to eat.

Ruby wandered over.

Looked into the pot.

Stirred it once.

Dink immediately objected.

“Ruby, honey, I’ve got this.”

“I’m checking.”

“Checking what?”

“Making sure it ain’t defective.”

“It’s gumbo, not a quilt.”

“Everything’s got seams somewhere.”

He laughed.

She reached for the salt.

Dink caught her hand.

“Not yet.”

She frowned.

“What?”

“We season it later.”

“Why?”

“Because the flavors have to develop.”

Ruby looked at him.

“Dink, I’ve had two children ask me why the sky is blue, three preachers explain the Book of Revelation, and a washing machine salesman tell me why I needed fourteen different cycles. Not one of ’em talked as much foolishness as you have over this pot of soup.”

“Gumbo.”

“Whatever.”

At noon, the first crawfish escaped.

Now, I want to be perfectly fair about this.

Dink had not intended to release a crawfish into Ruby’s kitchen.

He’d opened the cooler to inspect its contents, and ensure the ice packs were still doing their job. Suddenly, one particularly ambitious specimen climbed right up onto the edge of the cooler.

Dink was reaching for the lid when the little creature made its move.

It dropped onto the floor.

Landed with a faint clatter.

And began walking sideways toward the refrigerator.

Dink stared.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Napoleon, who had been dozing beneath the kitchen table, opened one eye.

Then both.

His ears came forward.

His tail stopped moving.

And the cat rose slowly to his feet.

Ruby looked up from her crossword puzzle.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Dink.”

“Just a little accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Well…”

The crawfish emerged from behind a chair leg.

Ruby saw it.

For a moment, she didn’t move.

Then she stood.

Very slowly.

“Dink Rhinehart.”

“Yes, honey?”

“Why is there a lobster walking across my kitchen floor?”

“It’s a crawfish.”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s the governor of Louisiana. Get it out of here!”

Napoleon chose that moment to attack.

He sprang forward.

The crawfish raised both claws.

Napoleon stopped so abruptly that his back feet nearly passed his front ones.

The two creatures regarded each other.

Napoleon extended one paw.

The crawfish snapped.

Napoleon jumped backward.

Ruby screamed.

Dink laughed.

Which was a mistake.

“DON’T YOU STAND THERE LAUGHING, DELBERT RHINEHART!”

He grabbed a dish towel.

The crawfish retreated beneath the refrigerator.

Napoleon followed.

Ruby climbed onto a kitchen chair.

And Dink found himself kneeling on the floor, trying to persuade a small crustacean to abandon its newly acquired real estate.

“Come on, little fella.”

Ruby stared down at him.

“Are you talking to it?”

“Trying to coax him out.”

“Well, tell him his rent’s overdue!”

Dink reached beneath the refrigerator.

Something snapped.

He yelped.

Ruby shrieked.

Napoleon hissed.

And from beneath the refrigerator came a sound that suggested a tiny pair of castanets being played by somebody with malicious intentions.

Dink withdrew his hand.

The crawfish was attached to his finger.

Ruby stared.

Then began laughing.

Not a polite little chuckle.

Not a ladylike giggle.

She laughed until she had to sit down.

Dink held up his hand.

“Ruby, this ain’t funny!”

She tried to speak.

Couldn’t.

Tried again.

“Dink…”

“What?”

“Looks like…”

She collapsed into laughter again.

“Looks like your supper’s got hold of you!”

Eventually, the crawfish was returned to the cooler.

Napoleon was given a stern lecture.

Ruby was helped down from the chair.

And Dink resumed cooking with a small adhesive bandage wrapped around his finger. He had cooked what he needed and left the remaining crawfish in the cooler, intending to deal with them after supper.

For the next hour, things went reasonably well.

The gumbo simmered.

The rice cooked.

Dink prepared a little salad.

Ruby set the table.

And Napoleon sat beside the refrigerator, staring beneath it with the determined expression of a cat who believed the enemy might have left reinforcements behind.

At five o’clock, Curtis Pope arrived.

Dink had invited him to supper.

Curtis came carrying a pecan pie.

He stepped into the kitchen.

Sniffed.

And smiled.

“Lordamercy. What’s cooking?”

“Gumbo,” Dink announced proudly.

Curtis looked into the pot.

“What’s in it?”

“Chicken, sausage, shrimp, crawfish…”

Curtis raised a hand.

“Hold on.”

Dink stopped.

“You said crawfish?”

“Yes, sir.”

Curtis looked at Ruby.

She looked back.

“Don’t ask me,” she said. “I tried to stop him.”

Curtis considered the pot.

“Well, I reckon I’ve eaten worse.”

Dink frowned.

“Like what?”

Curtis smiled.

“Your mama’s meatloaf, for one.”

Dink pointed the spoon at him.

“Now, that was just uncalled for.”

“She made a meatloaf once that bent a fork.”

Ruby laughed.

Curtis continued.

“Your daddy used a slice to prop open the shed door.”

Dink shook his head.

“You’re both heathens.”

“Probably,” Curtis agreed. “But we’re heathens with functioning digestive systems.”

Supper was served at six.

Dink carried the pot to the table.

Ruby brought the rice.

Curtis sat down.

Napoleon positioned himself beneath Ruby’s chair, where he could monitor proceedings without appearing overly interested.

Dink ladled gumbo into three bowls.

He sat.

Looked at his wife.

Then at Curtis.

“Well, go on.”

Ruby picked up her spoon.

Examined the contents.

Sniffed.

Then tasted.

Dink watched her anxiously.

She chewed.

Swallowed.

Set down her spoon.

For several seconds, she said nothing.

Dink leaned forward.

“Well?”

Ruby looked at him.

Then took another spoonful.

And another.

Curtis tasted his.

His eyebrows rose.

“Well, I’ll be switched.”

Dink smiled.

“Good?”

Curtis nodded.

“Damn good.”

Dink turned toward Ruby.

She continued eating.

“Ruby?”

She looked up.

“What?”

“How is it?”

She considered the question.

Then said, “Well, it ain’t terrible.”

Dink grinned.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said about my cooking all day.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He laughed.

She took another spoonful.

Then another.

Finally, she looked at him.

“Dink?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Pass me that rice.”

He smiled.

And passed it.

Now, I wish I could tell you that supper proceeded without further incident.

But Napoleon had other plans.

The cat had spent the entire afternoon considering the humiliation he’d suffered at the claws of a creature approximately one-tenth his size.

He’d been threatened.

Embarrassed.

And, worst of all, laughed at.

Napoleon wasn’t one for forgiving easily.

While the humans were enjoying supper, he climbed onto the kitchen counter.

Moved carefully toward the cooler.

And began investigating.

The lid had not been properly secured.

Napoleon pushed it with one paw.

It shifted.

He pushed again.

The lid opened.

Inside, several crawfish stirred.

Napoleon leaned forward.

Sniffed.

One crawfish raised a claw.

Napoleon slapped it.

The crawfish retaliated.

Napoleon jumped.

The cooler rocked.

And then, with a tremendous crash, the entire thing toppled from the counter.

Ruby looked toward the kitchen.

“What was that?”

Dink froze.

Curtis lowered his spoon.

From the kitchen came a peculiar scraping sound.

Then another.

Then the unmistakable clatter of something moving across the linoleum.

Ruby stood.

“Dink.”

He closed his eyes.

“Yes, honey?”

“Tell me that ain’t what I think it is.”

He said nothing.

She walked toward the kitchen.

Stopped in the doorway.

And stared.

Crawfish were everywhere.

On the floor.

Beneath the table.

Beside the stove.

One had somehow made it into Napoleon’s water dish.

Another was heading determinedly toward the hallway.

Napoleon stood atop the refrigerator, looking down upon the chaos he’d created with an expression of complete satisfaction.

Ruby turned.

Very slowly.

“Dink Rhinehart.”

He looked at Curtis.

Curtis looked at him.

Neither spoke.

Ruby pointed toward the kitchen.

“Your supper is escaping.”

Curtis made a strangled sound.

Dink looked at him.

“Don’t.”

Curtis tried to control himself.

Failed.

And began laughing so hard that he slid halfway out of his chair.

Ruby folded her arms.

“Dink, if one of them little red bugs gets under my refrigerator, you and it are both moving back to Louisiana.”

Dink sighed.

Then stood.

“Yes, honey.”

“And take that cat with you!”

Napoleon blinked.

Dink looked up at him.

“Now you’ve done it.”

Napoleon yawned.

It took forty-five minutes to recover the crawfish.

Curtis helped.

Ruby supervised.

Dink crawled beneath the table.

At one point, Curtis found himself holding a broom in one hand and a colander in the other while Ruby shouted directions from the doorway.

“Behind the flour canister!”

“I see him!”

“No, the other one!”

“There’s another one?”

“Lord, Curtis, there’s fortyleven of ’em!”

Dink emerged from beneath the table holding two crawfish and a dust bunny the size of a small terrier.

Ruby looked at the dust bunny.

Then at her husband.

“Don’t you say a word. Not. One. Word.”

He didn’t.

Finally, the last crawfish was returned to the cooler.

The lid was secured with a heavy cast-iron skillet.

Napoleon was removed from the refrigerator.

And Curtis returned to the dining room, where he finished his gumbo while occasionally breaking into helpless laughter.

Later that evening, after Curtis had gone home and the kitchen had been restored to something resembling civilization, Ruby and Dink sat together on the porch.

The November air was cool.

A few leaves drifted across the yard.

Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.

Dink sat in his chair with a cup of coffee.

Ruby sat beside him.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Ruby said, “Dink?”

“Yes, honey?”

“That gumbo was good.”

He turned toward her.

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

He smiled.

“Well, thank you.”

She looked out toward the street.

“Real good, actually.”

Dink’s smile widened.

“Reckon you’d like me to make it again sometime?”

Ruby considered that.

“Maybe.”

“Next week?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He laughed.

She reached for his hand.

And for a few minutes, they sat quietly.

Then Dink said, “You know, Ruby, in New Orleans we have a saying.”

She sighed.

“Of course you do.”

“Laissez les bons temps rouler.”

She looked at him.

“What’s that mean?”

“Let the good times roll.”

Ruby considered this.

Then smiled.

“Well, honey, around here we have a saying, too.”

“What’s that?”

She squeezed his hand.

“Don’t bring live seafood into my damn house.”

Dink laughed.

Ruby laughed.

And inside, Napoleon sat in front of the refrigerator, staring at the narrow space beneath it.

Waiting.

Because somewhere under that refrigerator, something had moved.

Just once.

A faint little scraping sound.

Then silence.

Napoleon’s ears came forward.

His tail began to twitch.

And from beneath the refrigerator came a tiny, unmistakable…

Click.

Now, I don’t know whether Dink ever made gumbo again.

I don’t know whether Ruby eventually developed an appreciation for crawfish.

And I certainly don’t know what happened to that last little fellow beneath the refrigerator.

But I do know this.

Marriage ain’t always candlelight dinners, romantic music, and declarations of everlasting devotion.

Sometimes it’s a burned roux.

Sometimes it’s a cat with a personal grievance.

And sometimes it’s a seventy-year-old woman standing on a kitchen chair while her husband tries to negotiate with a crustacean.

But if you can laugh together when supper escapes across the kitchen floor, I reckon you’ve got something worth holding onto.

Dink Rhinehart spent forty-six years learning how to make a proper Louisiana gumbo.

Ruby Roundtree spent forty-two years learning how to recognize a defective seam.

And together, they discovered something neither one had ever quite understood.

A good marriage ain’t about getting everything right.

It’s about finding somebody you don’t mind being wrong with.

And as for Napoleon?

Well, that cat spent the next three nights sleeping on top of the refrigerator.

Nobody knew why.

Except Napoleon.

And possibly one very determined crawfish.