Lulu’s Recipe for Cajun Sass

by Hill Sandra

  Lulu’s Recipe for Cajun Sass

  Sandra Hill

  Sandra Hill Books

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Reader Letter

  Tante Lulu’s Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake

  Excerpt from When Lulu was Hot

  Excerpt from Bayou Angel

  About the Author

  Also by Sandra Hill

  Copyright © 2020 by Sandra Hill

  ISBN: 978-1-950349-21-0

  Publisher: Parker Hayden Media

  Imprint: Sandra Hill Books

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Art credits:

  Cover Design: LB Hayden

  Woman: YAYimages/DepositPhotos

  Prologue

  On the road again…

  Louise Rivard was cruising along the Louisiana bayou road in Lillian, her vintage lavender Chevy Impala convertible. Lillian was the name she gave to all her cars. Traded one in, got another, different make, usually a used jalopy in the early days, but still the same name.

  But then, in the midst of her reverie, she heard the police siren behind her. Even with two cushions under her butt to compensate for her diminutive (okay, short, darn it!) height, she was barely able to see in the rearview mirror. When she recognized the cop in pursuit, she let loose with her version of a curse, “Oh, for the love of Jude! Not again!”

  St. Jude, her favorite saint, was the patron of hopeless causes. Not that she was feeling particularly hopeless today, seeing as how she was dressed to the nines, lookin’ good, if she did say so herself, and off to that new restaurant, The Mudbug, to have lunch with her niece…well, her niece a couple of times removed or somethin’ like that. Mary Lou Lanier, Charmaine’s girl, a pre-veterinary student at Tulane, had begged her to meet today. The fact that she insisted on driving from their family ranch up north on a weekday when there were a bunch of mares about to give birth told Louise that it must be something important.

  Hard to believe that Mary Lou is a young woman now! My, how time flies by! Or that Charmaine has a baby boy, a toddler, after a twenty-year break since Mary Lou was born! I remember when Charmaine was gettin’ married (and divorced) so many times her weddin’ cakes scarce had time to go stale, especially to the same man, Raoul Lanier, or Rusty, the sexiest cowboy this side of the Mason-Dixon line. Of course, Charmaine allus did match him in sexiness. She takes after me. Like the time me and Charmaine entered a belly dancin’ contest, and Rusty…never mind. Louise’s mind wandered a lot these days. She had to concentrate extra hard to keep her focus.

  Glancing at the St. Jude bobblehead on her dashboard, she noted that the little statue wasn’t even doing the hula. How fast could I have been goin’?

  She pulled over into the parking lot of Boudreaux’s General Store where a sign announced a special on jumbo bags of pork rinds, along with good deals on bait worms, okra, alligator meat, rods and reels, rotten chicken used for catching crawfish, and Tastykakes. She’d have to stop on her way back. The dumb animals who tried to ravage her vegetable garden…possums, raccoons, and the like…had a passion for those crunchy snacks, which she sprinkled around her fenced vegetable patch. She figured if she fed them the piggy treats, they would leave her tomatoes and sweet peas alone. It had worked so far. As for the okra, she had an overflow crop in her garden that she couldn’t give away, and any bayou lady worth her salt made her own cakes, thank you very much, Mister Tasty.

  She put on her best glare as the copper got out of his vehicle—a dark sedan, unmarked except for the bubble light on top—and strolled up to the driver’s side of her car. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he was a policeman, all right. John LeDeux. A detective who’d transferred last year from the force in Lafayette to Houma. He was her great-nephew, or some such connection; sometimes, Louise forgot the fibs she’d been telling for decades and got her family tree mixed up.

  Several faces were pressed up against the window of the store, trying to get a look-see at what she was doing. The nosy posies! Louise still had a snap in her garters, which attracted the menfolk of a certain age and wimmen who wanted to see what she was up to these days, but then, maybe they were ogling her nephew who’d be the first to say he was hotter than asphalt outside a strip club on a summer day. And, yes, the rascal had been a stripper at one time…one very short time, bless his rascally heart. He wore a pure white button-down shirt, open at the neck, blue jeans, a navy sport coat, and dark sunglasses. Didn’t matter that there was a bit of gray at the edges of his overlong dark hair, now that he’d hit forty. Hot was hot when it came to Cajun men.

  “Tee-John!” That was the name the rascal had been given when he was a little tyke, Small John, before he’d grown into his six-foot frame of male handsomeness. She loved the boy to pieces. “What did I do now? I know I wasn’t speedin’.”

  He leaned against the side of the car, let his sunglasses slip halfway down his nose, and peered down at her. “Can I see your license and registration, ma’am?”

  “Pff! I’ll give you ma’am! You know darn well I don’t have ’em. Where’d you hide them this time anyhow?”

  He shook his head as if she were clueless. “You were driving too slow. Buford Doucet called the station to say you had traffic backed up a mile on the bayou road.”

  “That Buford has some nerve complainin’ about me. You oughta check out the old fart when he’s drivin’ that smelly farm truck of his. And he won’t let anyone pass him, either.”

  “It’s a no-passing zone.”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Try smellin’ cow shit fer a half hour and see if you don’t try to go around.”

  “Tante Lulu! Such language!” Tee-John exclaimed with a grin. Tante was the Cajun word for aunt, which was what everyone called her, even those who weren’t blood kin. “Where you off to anyhow?” He gave her appearance a sweeping glance, taking in her neon-blue net driving scarf anchoring down a Farrah Fawcett wig, her heavier-than-usual blonde-toned make-up, thanks to the free samples from Charmaine’s beauty salons, and a pale pink tank top with silver sequins spelling out “Sizzling Senior” over hot pink capri pants.

  She thought he murmured “Lordy, Lordy!”

  “I’m meetin’ Mary Lou at The Mudbug.” She glanced at the St. Jude watch on her wrist. “And I’m late.”

  “Well, auntie, shove your little behind over. Looks like I’ll be drivin’ you into town.”

  “Why? I kin drive myself,” she complained, but she didn’t really mind. Sometimes she didn’t see the road signs too good. Used to be she could read those old Burma Shave signs from far away. Now…well, they were too faded, even the reproduction ones some local know-it-alls had deemed relics of historical importance. Leastways, that was her excuse for squintin’ now and then.

  “Maybe I just like your company,” he said. He adjusted the sunglasses back over his eyes as he opened the driver’s door, tossed the cushions into the back, and pushed the seat as far back as it would go.

&nbs
p; “How you gonna get back to yer cop car?”

  “I’ll walk over to Luc’s office and shoot the bull for an hour or two, till you’re done with lunch. Then, I’ll drive you home.”

  Luc was Lucien LeDeux, his brother and Louise’s oldest “nephew.” Best known in these parts as the Shark Solicitor because of his talents in the courtroom. If you shot your wife’s lover, or were over limit on your possum trappin’, or were caught moonin’ the mayor, Luc was the lawyer you wanted.

  “Doan you have to be workin’?”

  “I’m off duty today.”

  “Ain’t it against police rules to be chasin’ people with a siren when yer off duty?”

  He gave her a look that pretty much asked when he had been one to follow the rules.

  He had a point there.

  Just then, while Tee-John was making an exaggerated show of turning her car around in the parking lot—it didn’t have power steering—old man Boudreaux came out of the store with a broom and proceeded to sweep the sidewalk, which was already clean. Another nosy posy! He waved at her, and she waved back.

  “Holy crawfish! Don’t tell me, that’s another one of your beaux from days gone by. Leon Boudreaux is ninety if he’s a day, and he’s lookin’ at you like you’re the cream in his café au lait.”

  She smacked him on the arm. “No, I never dated Leon, but I did almost marry his brother Justin before he went up north to do his doctoring.”

  “Really? I saw his obit in the Times-Picayune last week. A big-time brain surgeon in Chicago, I think it said. Never married.”

  When he glanced her way, she imagined that his eyebrows, behind the dark glasses, were raised in question.

  She just shrugged.

  “Almost married? Holy sac-au-lait! How many marriage proposals have you had, auntie?”

  “Seventeen,” she answered, without hesitation. “Seventeen serious ones. I doan count all those phony baloney ones where the dumb clucks thought they could get the key to my bedroom with a wink and a pinch.”

  Tee-John blinked at her. It was always a pleasure to Louise when she could shock her wild nephew.

  But then he exclaimed, “Seventeen!”

  “What? Why are you so surprised? I’ve lived a long life.”

  “That’s for sure,” he muttered under his breath, then asked, “When was your last proposal?”

  “Two weeks ago. Leroy Hamm begged me to marry him, but he’s lookin’ fer someone to spring him out of the Happy Hours Nursing Home.”

  Tee-John shook his head, not sure if she was joshing him or not. “I always figured it was your famous dead fiancé that turned you into a spinster, but now I’m wonderin’. This Justin Boudreaux…is he the reason why you never married? Or maybe one of those other seventeen men?”

  “None of yer beeswax,” she said.

  If he only knew!

  * * *

  When you need advice, go to the opinion goddess…

  Mary Lou had just been seated in The Mudbug, the new Houma restaurant located on the ground floor of a restored Victorian mansion, hardly having time to check out her surroundings, when her great-aunt arrived. She watched with amusement as the old lady walked across the dining area, wobbling on high-heeled, wedge sandals toward their booth. Her colors shouted va-va-voom.

  The small half-circle banquette Mary Lou had chosen was in an alcove at the far side, following the curve of a corner window that overlooked a back courtyard with a fountain and outdoor seating, not yet open to the public. Practically every table or booth the old lady passed had someone calling out for her to stop and chat, usually accompanied by a hug. Many of them, especially the older ones, had used her services as a traiteur, or folk healer, over the years.

  Or maybe people just wanted to get a closer look at Tante Lulu’s outrageous get-up of the day. You never knew what color her hair would be, what kind of make-up she would be experimenting with this week (can anyone say twenty shades of Maybelline eye shadow?), or whether her clothing came from Frederick’s of the Bayou or the children’s section of Wal-Mart—to fit her tiny frame, which seemed to be shrinking by the year, if not the day, bless her heart.

  Today she was in blonde mode, a cross between Pamela Anderson and Betty White. Ironically, as over-the-top as her appearance might be to the young crowd, more than one old guy gave her great-aunt a second, and third look, sometimes even a wink.

  Kudos to her!

  To tell the truth, Mary Lou’s very own mother Charmaine was a younger…well, fortyish…clone of Tante Lulu. Charmaine had once self-proclaimed herself in a magazine article, to Mary Lou’s pre-teen humiliation, as a “bimbo with a brain.” Which was an apt description. Charmaine LeDeux Lanier didn’t open a dozen beauty salons and spas on her outrageous looks alone.

  Therefore, kudos to her mother, too!

  Unfortunately, the apple fell far from my tree, Mary Lou thought, looking down at her faded skinny jeans and sleeveless white blouse. Mary Lou had to think for a moment to recall whether she’d put on any make-up at all this morning, or not. She often forgot as she went about her chores on the ranch, taking care of the horses, or even on the Tulane campus when she rushed to her pre-vet classes.

  Yes, she decided, she had put on a little mascara and lip gloss, but her long, chestnut hair was pulled off her face into a simple ponytail. Nothing bimbo or outrageous about her at all. In fact…boring!

  She winced at the significance of that last word and felt tears well in her eyes. That’s exactly how Derek, her longtime boyfriend, had described her…boring…when he’d broken up with her last week.

  Immediately, Mary Lou stiffened and willed herself to smile, not wanting to alarm her aunt. She needed to ease into the reason why she’d requested this meeting with the lady known as the Ann Landers of the Bayou.

  Standing, she gave Tante Lulu a warm hug and showed her with a motion of her hand that she’d had the waiter place a cushion on the opposite bench seat to compensate for her reduced height. In fact, Mary Lou, who was five-foot-nine, had to lean down to kiss Tante Lulu’s cheek. You’d wonder how there could be such a disparity in height among two women in the same family…her mother was tall, too…but then Tante Lulu wasn’t really their blood kin, though she considered herself aunt to all the LeDeux. It was complicated.

  “Thank you for coming, auntie,” she whispered against her powdered cheek.

  “Are you kidding?” Tante Lulu said. “I woulda driven all the way up to the Triple L if you’d asked me. Any time, sweetie.”

  “Oh, no! I would never ask you to drive that far. Besides, the ranch is a madhouse today with preparations for tomorrow’s big birthday bash. You are coming, aren’t you?” Her aunt had to be wondering why Mary Lou couldn’t have waited until tomorrow to discuss whatever she had to discuss, but Mary Lou wanted privacy for what she had to say, and there would be little of that at home.

  “I wouldn’t miss it. I’m comin’ with Luc and his family in that new SUV of his. Gotta have room fer my Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake. Oh, I know there will be other cakes…in fact, five birthday cakes, but—”

  “—it’s not a party without your Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake,” Mary Lou finished for her, with a smile.

  “Yep. I’m hopin’ my cake will sweeten up those mommies who’re still a little bit mad at me.”

  “A little bit” was an exaggeration. More like a lot. But then, Tante Lulu was always pissing off one person or another as she breezed through life like a mini bayou bulldozer. To say she had no filter when expressing an opinion would be a gross understatement. On the other hand, the people she pleased, those who loved and admired her, well, they far outweighed the others. She was a gem…flawed, garish to some eyes, but a treasure just the same.

  If only I could…never mind. That can wait.

  As to the family’s current gripe…tomorrow’s party marked the one-year birthdays for five boy babies, all born on the same day, to LeDeux family members: Timothy, or Timmy, to Mary Lou’s mother and father, Charmaine LeDeux
and Raoul Lanier; Christopher, or Chris, to Uncle Luc and Aunt Sylvie LeDeux; Rafael, or Rafe, to Uncle Remy and Aunt Rachel; Sebastian, or Seb, to Uncle René and Aunt Val; And Gabriel, or Gabe, to Uncle John and Aunt Celine. The ladies, and the men, too, for that matter, all blamed Tante Lulu for their late-in-life pregnancies, something to do with a casually tossed out wish by Tante Lulu to St. Jude that there would be more babies in the family. Or maybe it had just been a sigh. Her aunt’s connection to the saint was known to be powerful. For a long time after the mass pregnancy announcement, women throughout the bayou steered clear of her aunt for fear she would look at them in a certain way.

  Actually, there would be seven birthday cakes, to include Uncle Dan and Aunt Samantha’s twin boys who’d been born two months earlier than the others. They were named David and Andrew, called the DNA twins because of their initials. A bit of Cajun or medical humor there, considering that Uncle Dan was a doctor.

  With all the extended family and friends, at least a hundred people were expected to attend. Her daddy had started the coals for his humongous barbecue pit this morning. A half steer would cook slowly for at least twenty-four hours, with the promise of fork-tender steaks and ribs for the party. The sides would be brought by all the attendees.

  Even her celebrity cousin Andy LeDeux, best known by the nickname “Candy Andy,” a hotshot New Orleans Saints football player, planned to stop by. Some of the cowboys on the ranch would have to do double duty as security around the periphery of the ranch to keep away the fans. Same went for the news media who’d gotten a whiff of Andy’s possible trade to a Yankee team. God forbid! The South would rise again if that happened.