Sunday Treat Days

My new ritual and thoughts on ever-present grief

I’ve been in New Orleans taking care of my mom, sleeping in my childhood bedroom. There’s no place like home. Sunday has been my favorite day of the week for a while now. When I’m in New York that means church, likely followed by brunch, then a Sunday fun day. In New Orleans in the fall sometimes that means (virtual) church and football, a different kind of Sunday fun day. In this *peaceful* era I’d say I’m in as I spend this extended time at home, my Sundays look a little different. As my mom heals, I’m not in a position to leave her at home for long periods of time unattended. It feels irresponsible, and honestly, the streets will always be there. (And I could be being a bit dramatic, but in the beginning, especially when I started writing this, she needed a lot more help than she does today.) I’ve found if there is something I want to do, the mornings are best for that. At that time we’re both easing into our days and if I get up at the crack of dawn, it’s less likely she’ll be ready to get up just yet. Shockingly enough, I haven’t gone stir crazy yet, but if I’m lying in bed and I see a ray of light shining on the dresser or the wall in front of me, I feel outside calling. 

Last week, I woke up wanting to get donuts from a place I’ve been going to in my neighborhood since I was a child. I could feel the flaky icing sticking to my lips and the warm dough between my teeth just thinking about them. But I had also recently read about a new bakery that had croissants that could allegedly rival the patisseries in Paris. (Or the flakiest one could get this far south.) Croissants won. I asked my mom about ten times if she’d be okay with me running out to get pastries and she said yes ad nauseam. I hadn’t left her side for six days straight. It would only be an hour or so and she insisted it was fine for me to go. I set her up with all her things, an ice pack, medicine, water, something to eat, and headed out. Like New York—and other cities I sometimes get to enjoy before the cars, noise, and people converge—New Orleans is blissful early in the day. 

It was a humid day and I was failing at trying to preserve my silk press in this heat so I went out with my hair pin curled. I set out on the open road, surprised at how refreshing it felt to drive through my neighborhood and down the highway with no interruptions. The roads, my mind, and the sky were all clear. Unfortunately, by the time I made it to Lagniappe Bakehouse, the croissants were gone. I waited in a line of about 30 people (odd for this city, really) for maybe 20 minutes to see what was left. I had a Grains of Paradise which now lives in my head rent free and is difficult to describe. It looks like a fancier morning bun, but kind of tastes like a light king cake, with touches of citrus and licorice. I ordered a latte too. While waiting in line I thought about how this little act of driving to this bakery brought me joy. I decided I’d make Sunday my treat days at that moment. I thought maybe the next week I’d get my donuts, and that would be my treat. My mom’s too. 

Sunday treats from Lagniappe Bakehouse

The next Sunday croissants won again. I woke up even earlier, got dressed, checked in with my mom and quadruple checked she was okay with me going, and hit the road. Everything was clear, again. I said silent prayers on my drive, as I listened to Madison Ryann Ward’s new album. The perfect soundtrack to a sunny Sunday morning, might I add. The first time I drove down Euterpe Street I missed the bakery because I didn’t see any hoopla on the street and I was distracted by a conversation with a friend. I circled back, easily found a parking spot out front, and was shocked to see the line was just about seven people versus the 30 the previous week. I could also see that the pastry case was fully stocked. A win is a win. I got a pastry and latte to enjoy there, and bought a few to bring home. My mom and I both raved about the pastries in Paris, so this week our sweet treats would transport us there before our realities kicked in. The owner asked how my Sunday was going and I responded, “It’s been peaceful and calm.” I don’t know the last time that was my response to someone. With less of a line outside than what I had experienced the week before, the owner seemed like she was breathing easier too. 

Lagniappe Bakehouse Round 2

This is my Sunday ritual, here and now. Sweet treats, good coffee, and hopefully, sunshine. I’m blessed to be able to be here at this moment and help my mom. I won’t write about this now, but just know there is so much to be learned about relinquishing control and the child becoming the parent. There’s beauty in it too. The first two weeks were a lot of inside time. I think in two weeks we/I left the house four times total. For a busy body like myself and someone who likes being on the go, it’s been an adjustment—a welcome one. Driving home with my precious cargo in tow, I was thinking about grief because I decided to join Blackstack’s Writer’s Circle where that would be the topic for the day. I signed up the day before because I felt like grief had found its way to the back of my heart since my mom’s procedure. Before I turned on my block, I sat at the stop sign to write down what came to my mind. I opened my notes app and typed “Grief comes in waves, some crashing harder than others.” Perhaps the song that was playing prompted it. 

My mom and I had a somber drive on the way to her surgery appointment. She was telling me how much she loved me, what she was leaving me, etc. It almost sent me into a tailspin but with many procedures that require anesthesia, you sign your life away, and as much as she prayed she’d wake up on the other side, she was intent on sharing these words with me as if they were her last. I shook the thought, prayed hard prayers (and asked my friends to do the same), and stayed with her until it was time for anesthesia. I kept myself busy as I waited for her to be done. I was finally able to breathe when the doctor called to tell me everything went well and she’d be in recovery soon. I exhaled deeply. And thanked God. Before I almost cried again, I had been thinking about this moment, and thinking about who I was going to text and call to tell that my mom was in recovery. I thought about how that list changed since her last surgery, and since her surgery before that. I mourned my uncles. I hated that I couldn’t text them for her and chronicle the process. I hated that I couldn’t call them for me—to hear their voices and attempt to answer the questions I knew they’d have. It made me sad even though I was happy she was okay. In this writer’s session, the guide talked about love being the comingling of grief and joy. I think hearing her say that perfectly describes where I was then, and where I am now two weeks later. These two wrestle in my life but I’ve accepted that grief and I walk hand in hand. I can be really happy and I can be really sad remembering who I’ve lost. And when I think about Hurricane Katrina and New Orleans itself, what I’ve lost. I think the key to this dance is making sure I continue to lead, not letting grief step on my toes.

Today’s excerpt is from a day in Violet’s life pre-Katrina at her high school. I hope through these excerpts you all continue to get a better idea of Vi’s personality. I think she’s a hoot lol. 

Devyn and Perry beat Violet to her locker. “Alright Vi, we see you!” Violet heard them before she saw them. As she got closer, she saw Devyn leaning against her locker. Perry stood next to her laughing. “Y’all are joked out,” said Violet. “Now move over so I can swap my stuff out,” Devyn moved as Violet reached for the lock and rotated the dial until the lock released. She hung her backpack and grabbed her purse. In it, she fished for her lip gloss for a quick pucker touch up before they marched downstairs. She’d check her hair in the window reflections on the way down. 

“So, what’s up? Y’all remembered we’re taking pictures today, right?” Devyn sighed. “No girl, we forgot,” Devyn said as she rolled her eyes. Devyn wasn’t as thick as Violet but she certainly had some meat on her bones, and the boys who raved about her would argue it was all in the right places. Devyn was a cheerleader too like Kira, but not as studious or serious for that matter. Being friends with her meant you’d always have a reason to laugh, until she went too far and the jokes weren’t funny to anyone but her. Perry was of Creole lineage. Her ringlets flowed down her back, past her elbows. She was a skinny thing, and that made her an easy flyer for the Evergreen Cheerleading team. Perry chimed in, “Violet swears we don’t remember nothing.” “Well, we were supposed to take the pictures last week but some of y’all decided to be in protest and not wear the right thing,” Violet said as she closed the locker, rolled her neck, and stared squarely at Devyn and Perry. Their eyes went wide. “Exactly,” she said to wrap up the thought. 

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Things I’ve been inspired by since my last note: 

Meet the Women Shaping New Orleans’s Culinary Scene—Plus, Where They Love to Drink and Dine - I came across this article through Lagniappe Bakehouse, which I’m clearly now obsessed with. In a different life (or maybe later in this one), I’d be a travel planner. I love discovering new places whether that’s a restaurant, boutique hotel, or in this instance, the best croissant in New Orleans. For any city I’ve spent time in, I have a list of recommendations and sharing them is one of the ways I show love. I learned more about NOLA’s culinary scene and now have a few new places I want to visit before going back to NYC. I love the focus on woman-owned businesses here too. There’s been a shift in my mental about what it looks like and means to be a business owner. I have lots of ideas, y’all. 

Purified Love by Madison Ryann Ward  - I shared a song featuring Madison Ryann Ward a few posts back, but I think she does “Christian Contemporary Music” (imagine me using air quotes) very well. She toes the line between R&B and Christian music. All in all, it’s easy listening and sis can actually sing.

I’m blanking on a third so I won’t force it. If you made it to the end, thanks for reading. Appreciate you being here. Until next time. <3