How Do Cajuns Celebrate Christmas?
Cajun Christmas traditions that mark the holidays always involve lots of laughter in the company of friends and family. Many holidays dinners include having seafood dishes like seafood gumbo and oyster dressing. Look for Cajun sausage and fried turkey--or signature Lousiana Turducken!
"What is a Turducken?" you ask (wondering if it's some type of Swamp Creature that crawled out of the Bayou).
Turducken is a true showstopping main course for Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. The term "turducken" is a combination of the words "turkey," "duck," and "chicken". Turducken combines the flavors of moist roast poultry and savory stuffing into one glorious dish. It is not difficult to make, but it is a little time-consuming,
When sliced, each piece of turducken contains portions of all three birds with stuffing in between the layers.
Cajuns love to cook, love their family, and... they love to party and celebrate life!
After you've consumed your holiday dinner and are sitting by the fireplace and relaxing, You might like to enjoy a new ebook to read.
Here's a little sample of Cajun life, "Gumbo Ya Ya" style:
"Marrying Off Murphy" Excerpt:
"You forgot about the rehearsal?" Tallulah said in an exasperated voice. "Murph, I reminded you. Twice."
"It'll be okay," Sylvie promised.
Tallulah glanced after her stepbrother. "I hope so," she said under her breath.
"Let's go over the program again," Sylvie coached Murphy behind the temporary rigged curtain inside the crowded restaurant.
"I smile, walk down the runway, take off my jacket, turn around, and then walk back to the podium."
"Smile," she instructed.
He complied, and Sylvie rolled her eyes. How could someone fail smiling? Murphy, try again."
Instead, he ignored her instructions and fiddled with his tie.
Pushing his fingers away, "Stop it. Listen to me," she snapped. "Pull yourself together!"
The frenzied sounds of bidding for the first bachelor filled the room. "Hear that? It's the emcee's job to pump up the bids. Just strut your stuff."
"Strut my stuff?" he yelped.
Sylvie seized him By the hand to keep him from bolting. "It's an auction, a bachelor bidding war, remember? The proceeds go to charity."
Tallulah parted the curtain and shoved Murphy onto the stage.
Fragrances and scents have the power to transport to a time and place long forgotten.
"Love Potion No. 9"
"Don't shake your finger at me, Simone Basso. I know what I'm doing," Persia Richmond said, holding a pipette to fill a crystal half-ounce atomizer with perfume. The top notes of peach blossoms and bergamot, and mid-notes of gardenia, honey, and tuberose tantalized. While the tuberose, being the most carnal of the floral notes, and the high-ticket natural essence for her fragrance compound, merged with peony and orange blossom to temper the intoxication properties. The base notes lingered, while a hint of something unnamed and mysterious beguiled and skimmed across the narrow processing room, saturating her senses.
The fragrance was News Orleans; culture at its most upscale moment and Mardi Gras at its naughtiest.
Success!
This was a signature fragrance.
Her signature fragrance.
This was her--
"I've done warned you and warned you about messing with love potions!" Simone leaned over Persia's shoulder to hiss the words into her ear. Her statement yanked Persia out of her state of bliss and sent her heart thundering.
"You worry too much, Simone." Settling down her atomizer, she rearranged her test tubes. "This is a perfume. Nothing more, nothing less."
"That be no French perfume you be selling."
"I've extracted essences from bayou plants before, and you didn't object."
"You be using flowers then. Not that root!"
Persia frowned. She'd extracted the essence using the enfleurage procedure--a time-honored perfuming method. "Simone the scent is pure--"
"That root be pre alright. It be pure trouble from a voodoo love-plant!"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Simone. There's no such thing as a voodoo love-plant."
"A Slice of Scandal"
"Hey, now, 'dis key lime pie's like de one I serve at my restaurant. Simple to make and good to eat! Key limes perk up de mouth and makes you Hoppy."
Producer/Director Julia Kincaid focused on her monitor and adjusted the mic of her headset. "Camera One, tighten that headshot," She watched as the camera feathered over the chef to capture the best angle. The camera should have loved franklin. His height was average, his black hair, short and curly and his skin took on a polished bronze color under the harsh camera lights, but the camera didn't like Franklin. There was something about his eyes: the dark agate, forbidding, and expressionless, and the grayish ring that clung to the end of the pupil that was difficult to erase.
"Okay. Now hold it, while Chef Franklinpullins the second pie from the refrigerator. Follow him back to the island. Good."
When the chef stood on his mark, Julia said, "Cue the music. Okay. Two, scan the audience. Back to Franklin. Focus on the pie..Camera One, close-up on the chef...Hold it."
The studio audience uttered a collective sigh when he lifted his fork to take a bite of the pie.
Julia watched as Franklin Grabbed his throat. "What's going on?" she shouted.
From her left, she heard J.D. groan. "He's spitting out the pie. Hell, there goes the show's ratings!"
Julia hopped down from the camera and took off at a full run.
Gone was the applause. People jumped to their feet. They screamed.
"J.D. call the paramedics...someone grab the AED kit off the wall!"
1-800-FORTUNE
The moon was full; huge in the sky, a brilliant iridescent orb that stared down at the earth. Enza allowed the energy to feather over her as she removed the silk cloth protecting her Tarot cards.
There are event-eight cards in the Tarot deck. Four suits of fourteen cards each. Swords, Cups, and Pentacles, and twenty-two cards called the major arcane--the big mysteries.
Enza's mother told her she would learn to associate the picture cards with people.
The Tarot was very clear in meaning.
Not for spells and chants ar you damned but for the abuse of your gifts.
Enza glanced out the window and into the moonlight washing across the cobblestone street outside of the French Quarter. The Roma, though, they traced their roots back to ancient Romania, never consider themself twenty-first-century gypsies. Her mother came from a stricter branch of the gypsies, rooted in the Bohemia hillsides of what is now called the Czech Republic. Her family displayed no read palms upon the shop doors or upon their carts. Nor did they dabble in the black arts. They followed the old ways...
🦃Happy Holidays and 🎅Merry Christmas, 🎄,
Connie
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