author: Nicole J. LeBoeuf

Happy Mardi Gras! We had friends over to help us eat up red beans & rice, andouille sausage, cornbread, and ... oh, I'd say about half the King Cake that Mom sent. (John got the baby.)

Mom always sends me at least one King Cake from Haydel's bakery every Mardi Gras. Not only is this because I'm a homesick New Orleanian and she knows it, but also because Haydel's in particular puts a little collectable porcelain figurine in the package. This year's figurine is a "Beignet Waiter." You can tell because of the paper hat.

MORNING CALLS

Here: Praise for the man in the paper cap
and the matched streams of milk and coffee:
hot, hot, piping hot
and swirling before my spoon
even touches it.

Here: An ode to the hour, that the night has a case of
the two-aye-ems
and I've no place else to go:
just here, amongst the mirrors,
amongst the cups of coffee
swirling with milk.

The world hasn't woken up yet
I haven't woken up yet
I'm dreaming these mirrors, the mirrors are dreams,
I'm dreaming this cup of coffee,
the milk, your paper hat.

I must have been sleepwalking
I'm awake now

I used to bike to the Morning Call, which is the Metairie version of the Cafe Du Monde. It's about a mile and a half from my parents' house. Last time I biked there at two AM during a visit home, and it was closed. I ended up at the donut place at West Esplanade and Causeway instead. The people there told me its hours have been erratic since Katrina. (They also insisted that I looked like I was related to this other woman who just happened to show up and vouch for the fact that I was not actually her sister. It was surreal.)

Anyway. I want my Morning Call back. Dammit.

I'll check again in April when John and I come visit for the French Quarter Fest.