Love on a Plate

My life had taken a drastic turn. I double parked my slightly tinted Blue Volkswagen Passat on the curb as I arrived at 2520 Felicity Street. The air conditioning in my car was hardly capable of keeping me cool as the temperature outside flirted with the mid 90s. This was only spring and I knew that it would be a long, hot summer here in New Orleans.

The dark tinted windows of my sedan and the perspiration that drenched my face were the perfect guise for the tears that flowed mightier than the Mississippi River from my eyes. With a huge hole in my heart and an appetite to match, I turned down the music and turned off the engine.

I had just opened an email at my office that read: "I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE! I CAN'T BE YOUR PICTURE OF PERFECTION. I WON'T BE COMING HOME."

My wife had sent me a Dear John letter. Similar to the letters sent to soldiers whose wives and girlfriends figured that they could no longer endure lonely nights while their husbands and boyfriends were off fighting for the country, my wife had decided that the public life of being married to a pastor was no longer appealing.

She had found love with a local socialite named Roddy White, and no longer wanted anything to do with this religious figure she called her husband. Her nose was now wide open for her new affair. She claimed she was addicted to his love as he took her to heights she'd never before experienced. The worst part is that I'd introduced the pair to each other at a friend's campaign party. My pastoral ambitions had destroyed my marriage, and perhaps my destroyed marriage would ruin any future hopes of ascending in the religious community. Who would ever care to follow a divorced bishop?

I attempted to gather myself. I slid on my dark shades and stepped out of my car with a broken heart and a shattered ego. Children rode by on their bikes as elders assembled on the front porches of their shotgun homes gathering the latest Big Easy gossip.

I wondered if they had heard. Did they know? Were they informed that their cleancut spiritual leader, while fighting to uplift their community, had lost the fight for love within his own home and was on a downward spiral emotionally? How could they? It had only been a few moments since I'd stormed out of my office without saying a word to my assistant or some of the parishoners who were hoping to meet with me.

Suddenly, just as I had suspected, all of the eyes on the block seemed to be set upon me and my tan colored suit. A few of the older neighbors waved their hands in my direction and gestured a polite "hello."

"Hey there, Pastor!" Shouted one of the women sitting in an old wooden chair with her hair tied in a colorful scarf that seemed to match her bright personality.

"Ya heard dat his wife left him, huh?" Whispered an older man in a plaid shirt to another white haired gentleman standing next to his bicycle just across the street.

"Yea dat's a shame fo' Gawd. I jus' hope he don't crack up, 'cause we sholl do need him 'round here to fight for us. Ain't no preacher ever been respected befo' like he is by the young folk. Even the thugs look up to him. I dunno what we'd do wit' out him," responded the white haired elder in his deep New Orleans accent as the others sitting on the porch nodded in agreement.

I froze. Was this town so small that news could spread more rapidly than Covid? How could they know that my wife had just emailed me saying she wouldn't be returning home? Even worse, how would they view me? Would I appear weaker? These people needed me to be perfect. They had high hopes in me. They were depending on me.

Embarrassed. I closed the door of my car, pretending not to notice the gentleman across the street, and made a bee line for the front door of Heard Dat Kitchen. I was starving. My stomach was as empty as my soul and perhaps a plate from locally reknown Chef Jeff would be the cure for my broken heart, and for some odd reason whenever I felt anxious or depressed, I'd eat to calm my nerves.

As I walked inside, local patrons stood around wearing masks awaiting their opportunity to order their taste of southern gourmet served through the protective glass window. Although some were not familiar with the fancy names of the dishes, they knew the food was delicious! I recall one patron asking, "Does blackened mean burnt a lil' bit?"

When it was my turn to order, I approached the window where I was greeted by a gentle smile and very warm presence. It was Chef Jeff's daughter Ms. Tia. She was a slender young woman with a caramel tone, charming personality, and eyes that seemed to smile.

"Whatcha gonna be havin', Love?" She asked as she smiled behind her fleur de lis imprinted face mask.

"A new life," I murmured while glancing the menu.

"Lawd! A new life? Well, we can't help ya with dat. Only da' Lawd can give you dat," she laughed as she spoke with a unique southern drawl. "but we can help you enjoy da one you've right now!"

"How so?" I questioned.

"Well, you look down. So, it looks like you need some of our delicious Skeesh Wings to brighten up your day," she answered.

Ms. Tia walked to the back and returned a few moments later with a sample of the Skeesh Wings, which were made with Chef Jeff's house made and handcrafted pepper jelly. She reached them through the turnstyle and I tasted them. Within an instant, the taste of those pieces of chicken touched not only my tastebuds, but they awoke my soul.

"We spice 'em up with some heat from a variety of hot sauces," she said.

My eyes glazed over.

She smiled. I was in ecstacy. I glanced the menu once again. As I devoured these wings dipped in delectable sweet and spicy sauce, I proceeded to order the accompanying flavorsome CrawDat Fries, which were well seasoned fries covered in crawfish swimming in a mouthwatering creamy sauce.

As the cuisine began engaging my taste buds, slowly my broken heart had been mended. This food was everybit of heavenly. So much so that I failed to notice anyone else's presence. I'm sure that everyone nearby was bewildered by the fact that this holy man had been consumed in gluttony as I engulfed my main entree which was a meal named The Superdome. I could no longer squabble in the emotions that had just overwhelmed me about my failed marriage. I'd discovered a new love. I'd become obsessed with this food and the hands that prepared it.

I felt a soft hand touch my shoulder and asked, "Can I sit with you, Pastor." Suddenly, I knew all of my troubles were over. True love had been served on a plate.