A Saintly Day

Well, I'm not sure where to begin. This weekend was so amazingly full and special, Celie surrounded by so many people who love her. Ever since she was born, there are a few things I’ve always said to her and one of them is: “Celie, you are so loved by so many people. There are people who haven’t even been born yet who will fall in love with you one day.” And this weekend I felt like she was finally able to see what I mean.

My entire family came in from Chicago and New York, and the McKays and Soniats all turned out en mass. Mamere, Aunt Muriel, Catherine and Ann...even Aunt Sally, who couldn’t be there but filled the room with gorgeous flowers made by a very talented Christine, which reminded us of her and everyone in Oak Grove throughout the day.

I knew immediately who my friend Elizabeth might have been speaking of when she wrote to me Monday morning, “Everyone was so gracious and warm. I met several beautiful older women who typified New Orleans charm and wit.”

She went on to say, as everyone did that day, that Pam’s griades and grits were to die for, as was the red velvet cake, the carrot cake, and the homemade chocolate chip cookies. I consciously had to repeat to myself: I will not run away with all of these and eat them without saving any for the others. I will not run away with all of these and eat them without saving any for the others. I did, however, (somewhat secretly), ask Colleen to remind me that I’d stashed one square of carrot cake and a cookie in a Tupperware among the flat pans in the cabinet above the oven. I’d once forgotten about a turkey in my stove only to find it 5 weeks later, blue and covered in moldy fuzz and didn’t want to inflict this same horror upon my in-laws; nor did I want such delicacies to go to waste. As Mike says about the beignet: you never leave a man behind.

That’s not to say there weren’t our share of snafus. Those out of town may not yet have heard of what I will heretofore refer to as The Flower Cookie Debacle. Suffice to say that I am still currently embroiled in a hot yet appropriately polite stand-off with ‘Maurice’s French Bakery on Hessman off Veteran’s Boulevard in Metairie behind the Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse,’ which is how the gal described their location when I asked for directions. There remains a large ziplock bag of blue-ish cookies in the McKay’s kitchen: some spotty, others grey, and all with blobby drops of white icing in various curves--not at all like the bouquet of violet flowers I'd envisioned with delicate cursive ‘C’s in the center. Now who ever heard of a dessert making it this long with Mike and I around? No, these are the kind of treats that someone will eat if there’s nothing left in the house, but you’d never choose them with anything like Mamere’s fabulous Rum Cake nearby. But as my mom said, and has always said in various ways in similar situations: “if that’s the biggest thing that goes wrong for you, you’d better be happy.” Yes, it was a truly fantastic weekend with so many of Celie’s closest friends in attendance.

And that’s the best part about being in New Orleans. I’ve always wished that I could create the ideal city that all of my favorite friends would want to move to, especially now, when the thought of having such a place seems increasingly cozy. Our best friends live so far away: San Francisco and the Bay Area, the midwest, New York (upstate and city), D.C., even Berlin...not to mention the places within Louisiana alone. So far, New Orleans is the closest thing to it because I can’t think of another place where so many people can gather so easily.

The other, highlight, of course, was Miss Celie. In her gold slippers, special linens and jewelry, she was the truly the belle of the ball. A silver pin with her name on it from Mamere, a gold pin with a heart and the Virgin Mary from me, an Irish lace bib given to her by Kay, and a gold bracelet that we thought was mine, but turned out to be Jenny’s when we discovered her name engraved on the rim...she was decked out in her baby bling.

Dressing her was the first of a few teary moments—the other being each time I heard Father Finn say her full name, Cecelia Violet. Somehow it sounded all the more miraculous, hearing him say it with such mystery and meaning attached. But there she was in the Soniat Christening gown, which one would have thought was brand new but for its luxuriously soft texture, that quality and feel only well-loved heirloom linens have.

Once at the church we waited as Father Finn prepared for the ceremony, which began to the sound of Celie fervently sucking on Mike’s thumb. It was beautiful service in which Father Finn called upon each of our saints: St. Cecelia, St. Michael, and St. Elizabeth of Seton, although I must admit I'm not sure who she is. He also wished for Celie Mike’s “dancing eyes” and my “gentleness.” This made me happy, as I have often looked at the roundness of Celie’s thighs and wondered what else I can give her along the way.

The after-party at Marie’s and Jim’s was fabulous, with great food and even better conversation. Celie and Clara finally had a chance to catch up and compare notes, while Austin, Molly, and Maddie continued their work doing twirls and webbing people.

As expected, Aunt Laurie provided Celie with lots of lovin’, but unlike last visit, she had some serious competition this time around. “Where’s the baby?” she’d ask, a look of sheer determination on her face, while across the room, Steve sized up how to best steal Celie from Aunt Jenny’s arms. Meanwhile, a cool Aunt Colleen simply sat back in her rocker and watched. “I just let them hash it out,” she said. “Babies all come to me when they’re three. I’m a monkey.”

I was happy that my parents each got some Celie-time, too, seeing as Chicago’s so far away. A nature-lover, Celie strolled Grandma through the garden only to later fall asleep on Grandpa’s lap during the game. Apparently, she’s not so into "Our Boys in Black and Gold" this season, though she did inspire many a “Who Dat” with her shoes.

For me personally, the most triumphant moment of the day came when Mrs. Ann Fitzmorris pulled me aside to comment on my first-ever shrimp mold. An intimidating task it was: not only to make my seafood debut with such a discerning crowd, but doing so at such an auspicious event and with such a tried classic. So, you can imagine how my heart swelled with pride when, holding my arm, she whispered what Mike later told me is the ultimate New Orleans’ compliment: “It’s perfectly seasoned.”

Because believe me, I had my doubts the night before. Not only had I never handled gelatin, I worried that the shrimp I’d bought might somehow not be quite right, seeing as there was something just a little off about the packaging. “What kind of a messed up state of Louisiana’s that?” Mike asked not a little stunned that the entire southern tip of the state had been chopped off. “Are those Chinese?” Too far along to quit, I continued in the hope that this tiny bunch of pale orange bits captured from the Gulf had more flavor than whoever packed them had drawing skills.

All in all, it was a glorious day. We ended the night by opening the many special gifts that Celie received as she fell fast asleep, cozy and warm. And as she sits beside me now using the big wooden beads of her new practice Rosary to rub her gums, I can’t help but think how lucky we are. If there’s such a thing as heaven on earth, part of it was found on Sunday—good friends, great food, Saints win, and Celie’s soul all wrapped into one. Can I get an Amen!