Thankgivin' in Da Bayou

I grew up in a small town in Southeast Texas called Bridge City. Like most teenagers, I went to parties and would sneak out of my friends’ houses with them. One night when I was 17, I met a guy named Colin. Our friends tried to get us to talk but I wasn’t really interested.

Fast forward to a year later, I randomly remembered him and looked him up on MySpace. I sent him a message saying I thought he was cute and asked if he wanted to meet up. Our first date was so fun. He had roses waiting for me at a park, we got locked in by the security guard, and we had to scale an enormous fence to get out.

On our second date, he asked me to move in. I, being a millennial who makes very questionable choices, said yes. So, I was living with this guy I barely knew. We were on fire though. We had the same taste in music, many of the same friends, similar political and religious beliefs, and I was in love. We spent every second together, and on my birthday in October he asked me to meet his family.

When I say I moved in with him, I feel I should clarify. I moved from Bridge City, Texas to Kinder, Louisiana. We hopped a state border together. His family was from Louisiana. I noticed things were a lot different there than even just forty-five minutes away from where I had come from. Everything went from country Texan to Cajun.

The first thing I noticed was the music. Everyone listened to zydeco music. It was upbeat yet bluesy, and I thought the words were mostly scat until I learned Cajun French was its own entire language! There were some foods that I had seen a lot of growing up in Texas like gumbo, boudin, jambalaya, and boiled crawfish. Of course, everything was much spicier in Louisiana. Also, Colin pretended the “n” in boudin didn’t exist. It certainly did, and in Texas we annunciated it. It was weird hearing someone say “boo-dah” about it.

There were quite a few things we said differently. The days of the week were “dees” to Cajuns and all of the local last names were pronounced far more Cajun than we did in Texas. Hebert was “ay-bear” in Louisiana and Derouin was “dehr-o-win.” In Texas we said “He-bert” and “duh-ruin.”

They also had many foods I had never heard of. Etoufee, maque choux, tasso, red gravy and sausage, and just about every animal that could be cleaned for meat. The only thing was, I was a vegetarian. I tried my best to eat what I could and not complain because I wanted to make a good impression around new friends and coworkers in this new environment.

I was thrilled to meet his family. They did huge Thanksgivings and Christmases, and it was like a dream. My family was ridiculously small, consisting of just the people I grew up with in the same house. Everyone else was scattered throughout Texas and Canada and nobody was particularly close for reasons unknown. Colin’s family was remarkably close knit. It was like something out of a Hallmark movie!

I walked into one of his family members’ homes on Thanksgiving and met his aunts and cousins. They all gave me huge hugs, and they were so inviting. I remember their accents being beautiful and unique. I have a very slight Texas accent but theirs were thick and pretty, but I found them easy to understand. After taking a quick sweep of the table and selecting some cheese and crackers, Colin wanted me to meet his great aunt. He had warned me she had a stroke a few years back and she could only say three words but didn’t have time to tell me which words they were. I walked up and introduced myself, to which she responded sweetly, “Yes!” Off to a good start! Then I explained I was Colin’s girlfriend and that it was great to meet her. “Well, yes!” I felt like it was a good talk, although I was curious what the third word was.

Then I got to meet his uncle. He was a nice-looking man with a friendly face and a happy demeaner. He walked up to me, shook my hand, and said, “Weh nicea meeya sha.” “Pardon?” I asked, still smiling. “Isah nicea meeya yeah,” he replied. I silently nodded. “Wesho glah you gahcome baht’dee yeah,” he continued. I stood smiling as we kept this conversation for at least ten minutes. The man was intelligent and was speaking English, but I couldn’t catch more than two or three words consecutively.

His aunt then announced they had finished cooking and she offered to make me a plate. I was terrified of them not liking me (because they were the nicest people ever and I loved them) so I said okay without asking for a vegetarian dish. She went to the giant chest of food that had been cooked in the double boiler, grabbed what I assumed was crawfish, and came back to serve me a plate. In front of me I found no crawfish. Instead, I found the backside of a double boiled frog. From somewhere in the living room, I heard an old lady say, “Well, shit!”

It’s insane how much of a difference such a short distance makes. Today I understand Colin’s uncle one hundred percent and don’t even notice the accent. His great aunt and grandmother have passed since then, and I feel fortunate for having met them. I am no longer a vegetarian and living here has taught me that you try everything once and you don’t ask what it is until after you’ve eaten it. Oh, and I learned a phrase used often in Louisiana: “Laissez les bon temps rouler.” Let the good times roll!