The Cajun Doctor
Page 35
1/2 cup chopped onion
1/2 cup chopped green pepper
2 cloves minced garlic
2 cups cooked, boneless chicken (see below)
1/2-3/4 cooked shrimp
1/2-3/4 cup andouille sausage (see below)
1 1/2–2 cups okra (sliced, crosswise)
1/2 cup bacon fat (or oil) plus two tsp.
1/2 cup flour
2 tsp. Cajun seasoning (or more, to taste)
Dash of tabasco (or more to taste)
Salt and pepper, to taste
2–4 cups of cooked white rice
DIRECTIONS:
Using the flour and 1/2 cup of fat, start making a dark chocolate colored roux, a staple of much Cajun cooking. It can take up to 45 minutes to get the rue just right. A roux must be stirred and watched constantly so it doesn’t burn. This can be set aside when done.
In the meantime, use the excess two tbsp. of grease to brown the boneless chicken breasts which have been cut into large chunks and the sausage, and to sauté the celery, onion, and green pepper (called the Holy Trinity of Cajun cooking). Toss in the garlic as well. After the chicken and sausage have been drained of fat, cut the sausage diagonally into 1/2–3/4 inch slices.
Put this entire mixture into a large pot filled with the water and tomatoes. Add the okra, which has also been sliced diagonally. Season with salt, pepper, Cajun seasoning, and tabasco. Bring it to a boil, then reduce the heat and slowly stir in the roux, if it is ready. Now, simmer, covered, for at least two hours. Add the shrimp near the end (the last half hour). Otherwise, it can get rubbery.
Turn on some rowdy Cajun music, pour several glasses of sweet tea and serve the gumbo over white rice with some good bread. Serves six to eight people, and it’s even better warmed up the next day, if you have any left. (Enjoy!)
NOTE:
Like all cooking, the measurements are subject to individual tastes. Add more, or less, shrimp, chicken, and sausage, if you prefer. Same goes for okra, which is not a huge favorite of many people, but it is quite palatable in this Cajun “stew.”
Many recipes call for filé (sassafrass) to be added near the end as an additional thickener, but it can be tricky and go slimy if not handled properly. Also, it’s not readily available in some markets.
If the bacon fat strikes you as odd, it’s an old-fashioned practice to always save the excess fat when frying bacon. It can be used as a better substitute for oil or butter in many recipes.
An Excerpt from Cajun Crazy
Keep reading for a sneak peek at Sandra Hill’s next sizzling Cajun romance
CAJUN CRAZY
Coming December 2017
Chapter One
Between the cheats . . .
Simone LeDeux replayed the voicemail from her mother, Adelaide Daigle, for the second time as she stood at the kitchen counter of her Chicago apartment, eating a cheese sandwich on toast with a glass of cold sweet tea. She always kept homemade sweet tea in her fridge, like the good Cajun girl she no longer was. As for food, whatever!
It was midnight, and Simone had just ended her shift as a detective with the Chicago P.D. After her grueling night . . . images of a pre-teen girl overdosing came to mind . . . her mother’s voice was soothing to her bruised senses. Hard to believe after the years of strife between the two of them, most of it ignited by Simone, who’d given “difficult child” new meaning.
She had to smile at the length of the message. Her mother had no concept of electronic devices. There had been a few times when her long messages . . . as much as five minutes . . . had caused her mailbox to shut down.
Simone also smiled at the familiarity of her mother’s deep southern accent. She’d lost most of hers, except for an occasional lapse into a Cajunism, such as, “Holy Crawfish!” Or the traditional, “Mon Dieu!”
However, even as she welcomed her mother’s call, she felt a shiver of alarm at the synchronicity of her words. The timing was, at the least, a coincidence. Was God, or the powers that be, conspiring to draw her back to the bayou . . . her worst nightmare? Or was it just Cajun mothers who had this instinct for sensing when their daughters were in need of help, even if only a hug?
“Hi, honey:
I haven’t heard from ya since las’ week. Did ya kick that no-good Jack Daltry out on his cheatin’ be-hind, lak I tol’ ya to?”
“Yes, Mama, Jack is history,” Simone replied out loud to her cat, Scarlett, who was enjoying the remnants of the unpalatable sandwich. Talking to her cat was nothing new, but this time, it was an indication of her exhaustion and, yes, disgust, at once again being duped by a man she trusted. Honest to goodness! One year and thirteen days wasted!
“Heavens ta horseradish, girl, how ya manage ta attract so many losers is beyond me, and all of them from Loo-zee-anna? Even when ya move ta Chee-cah-go, ya gotta latch onto a slow-drawlin’, southern man.”
She couldn’t argue with that. There was something about a man who could say “darlin’” in a husky, slow croon that could make any girl melt. Especially her, with her southern roots. Face it, she was a magnet for a Louisiana man, even if he’d lived in Chicago for almost fifteen years, as Jack Daltry had. “World class architect, low class loser,” she muttered.
Scarlett stretched with disinterest, expressing her boredom, as only a cat could, pretty much saying, “Man problems again! Yada, yada, yada. You oughta be fixed, like me.” The cat went off to sleep on Simone’s bed, which was forbidden. The cat had heard her man complaints before. Lots of times!
“Are ya Cajun crazy, or sumpin’? I remember the first time I called ya Cajun crazy. It was when ya were fourteen years old and ya fell head-over-hiney in love with that pimple-faced hell-raiser Mike Comeaux, jist ’cause he had that devilish Cajun grin . . . and a pirogue with a motor.
I talked ta Tante Lulu yes’ti’day an’ she said some wimmen jist got bayou mud in their eyes when it comes ta a Cajun man who’s hotter’n a goat’s behind in a pepper patch, ’specially when they’re in the middle of a stretch of hormone hot-cha-chas. I tol’ her ya were smarter’n that, bein’ a po-lice detective an’ all, but mebbe she’s right.
Me? I got a thing fer men with a mustache, as ya know. But thass another story. Ha, ha, ha!”
Yep, a billy goat’s butt. She’d have to remember that one when the hot-cha-cha hormones hit her next time. Which would be NEVER AGAIN.
Her mother was right, though. You’d think Simone would have learned her lesson by now. She’d been married and divorced three times (well, one of them was an annulment after one week, don’t ask!), and she’d been jilted, robbed, humiliated, punked, and seduced by more men than one woman should have in her twenty-nine-and-a-half years. With a college degree and eight years in police work, she should have more sense.
“Anyways, I went ta the bone doctah t’day, and he said I gotta lose thirty pounds and I gotta have two new knees, lessen I wanna spend my las’ years in a wheelchair.”
What? This sounded serious.
“I ain’t that old yet! I’m only fifty. I would lak ta have them new knees, though. But, nope, cain’t do it, not ’cause I cain’t lose the weight, please God, but the doctah sez I gotta have someone at home with me fer three months of out-patient rehab after I’m released from the hospital. My insurance won’t cover no three months in a rehab hospital. Oh, well.
I’m gonna buy the ‘Skinny Girls’ exercise video t’morrow or sign up fer the ‘Prayers Fer Pounds’ program at Our Lady of the Bayou Church.”
Uh-oh! Was her mother pitching a guilt trip her way? Come home and help her, live with her once again in the Pearly Gates Heavenly Trailer Park on Bayou Black, best known as The Gates? Me and Mom as roomies? Horror of horrors!
Wait . . . wasn’t it a timely coincidence that this all came up just when she’d ended another relationship?
But, no, even her mother wasn’t devious enough to do that. The situation must be dire. Last time she’d been home, her mother had walked with a decided limp, and could only go short
distances before sitting down, due to the bad knees and her excess weight. All of which hampered her duties, even back then, as a longtime waitress at Crawfish Daddy’s restaurant.
And thirty pounds was a gross underestimation, in her opinion. Her mother had been plump as long as Simone could remember, but she hid it well, being so tall and big-boned. Like all the women in her family, including Simone, darn it, who were always fighting diets, and the genetic big butt bane. Thank the exercise gods for jogging and daily rounds of tush crunches!
“Thass ’bout all that’s new here. I hear the pingin’ noise. I think it mean it’s time fer me ta shut up. Why doan ya get a bigger mailbox?
Call me, sweetie, and doan be cryin’ no more tears over that Jack Daltry. I’ll be prayin’ fer ya. Kiss, kiss!”
Simone yawned widely. She would call her mother in the morning.
As for Jack Daltry, Chicago architect, but born and bred in Baton Rouge . . . Simone was done crying. In fact, from the moment she’d discovered his secret life, she’d been more embarrassed than hurt. Okay, she’d been hurt too. Badly. She’d been dumb enough to think Jack was “the one.” Which was ridiculous for a twenty-nine-and-a-half-year-old woman. When would girls stop looking for “the one,” and settle for the “not so bad”?
All Simone could do now was repeat an old joke that had become her motto, or should be. George Strait might wail about “All My Exes Come from Texas,” but Simone would modify that to, “All My Losers Come from Loo-zee-anna.”
She was thinking about having it tattooed on her butt, which was big enough.
From the mouths of babes . . .
Adam Lanier was driving his daughter Mary Sue, or “Maisie,” to her kindergarten class at Our Lady of the Bayou School. Wending his Harley through the early morning traffic, with Maisie riding pillion behind him, he barely noticed the people who gave them double takes, not so much because of their mode of transportation, but him in a business suit with biker boots, and his little Mini-me with her arms wrapped around him, wearing a tee-shirt and skinny jeans tucked into her own tiny boots. (Yes, they made skinny jeans for five-year-olds! And teeny tiny bustiers for tykes who were a decade or so away from having any bust to speak of. But that was another story.)
After dropping off the kid, he would go to his Houma office, LeDeux & Lanier, Esquire, where he’d recently formed a partnership with Lucien LeDeux, the half-brother of his cousin Rusty Lanier’s wife, Charmaine. A convoluted kinship by marriage that would have the average person crossing their eyes with confusion, but was typical of the bayou network of families.
He and Maisie had moved from New Orleans to Bayou Black six months ago, and it was the best decision Adam had ever made. At least, he hoped so. He’d made a name for himself in the Crescent City DA’s office as a sometimes outrageous, almost always winning, prosecutor. The news media had loved him, and he played the image for his own purposes.
This was his first venture into private practice and a switch from indicting to defending. But it was a good match, working with Luc, who had an equal or more outrageous reputation for courtroom antics . . . uh, skills. Luc wasn’t known as the “Swamp Solicitor” for nothing. Maybe Adam would become known as the Bayou Barrister. Or something.
Bottom line: the law was a game he’d learned to play, well. Didn’t matter if it was in the city or in a Cajun courtroom.
Stopping for a red light with the cycle idling, he glanced over his shoulder and inquired with supposed casualness, “So, Maisie Daisy, ya settlin’ in okay?”
“Oh, Daddy, stop worryin’,” she advised in her too-old-for-her-five-years voice. “I’m fine. ’Specially since PawPaw came ta live with us. He makes better pancakes than you.”
He laughed. His father made everything better than he did. Adam was one of the best lawyers in the state, hands down. And the best single parent he could be. But a cook, Adam was not. Nor a housekeeper. And reliable babysitters to hold down the fort while he worked were hard to find. Thus, his finally throwing in the towel and asking his widowed father, Jules Lanier, to move here from northern Louisiana.
Who would have imagined that a self-proclaimed legal (and personal, truth to tell) hell-raiser like himself, at the ripe old age of thirty-five, would be back to living with his father, who’d raised him pretty much alone after Adam’s mother died in a car accident when he’d been only seven years old? But then, who would have imagined that Adam’s wife Hannah would die of a brain tumor, diagnosed too late for treatment? She been only twenty-eight. That had been two years ago, and like the old cliché said, life went on.
“Thank you for taking off the ballerina tutu,” he said. His dainty daughter, with her mass of black corkscrew curls, liked to pick her own attire, and if left to her own devices, it would have involved girly frills and ruffles, sometimes inappropriate-for-her-age choices. Like the tutu that showed her Snow White panties when she bent over.
He would be glad next year when Maisie moved into first grade where school uniforms were required. He didn’t doubt for one minute that Maisie would find a way to glam up the staid plaid skirts and white blouses.
“Ya didn’t give me any choice, Daddy,” she pointed out, “but don’t worry. I’m still wearin’ my sparkle shirt.”
She was, indeed, wearing a tiny red tee shirt that proclaimed in silver letters, “I’m Hot. Live With It.” A gift from his brother Dave who was an Army captain serving in Afghanistan.
“Besides, you tol’ me you would pick me up on the Harley after school if I changed. That way PawPaw kin get a haircut and a mustache trim soz he kin go ta the casino t’night with Tante Lulu and Addie Daigle.”
The imp loved riding pillion on his classic motorcycle, and his father loved to gamble. The nickle slots or Poor Man Craps (a low minimum dice game). He guessed there were worse things than a bikeress-in-training and a senior citizen with a lust for the Big Payoff.
“Do you think Tante Lulu and Addie Daigle are PawPaw’s girlfriends? Kin a man have more than one girlfriend? What’s hanky panky? Thass what PawPaw said this mornin’ . . . he has ta get his hanky panky on before his hanky gets rusted out. He was talkin’ ta Uncle Dave. How can a hanky get rusty? Is your hanky rusty, Daddy?”
What could Adam say to that?
The light changed, thank God, and he went forward.
About the Author
SANDRA HILL is a graduate of Penn State and worked for more than ten years as a features writer and education editor for publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Writing about serious issues taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side of even the darkest stories.
Please visit her on the web at www.sandrahill.net.
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By Sandra Hill
Deadly Angels Series
Good Vampires Go to Heaven
The Angel Wore Fangs
Even Vampires Get the Blues
Vampire in Paradise
Christmas in Transylvania
Kiss of Wrath
Kiss of Temptation
Kiss of Surrender
Kiss of Pride
Viking Series I
The Pirate Bride
The Norse King’s Daughter
The Viking Takes a Knight
Viking in Love
A Tale of Two Vikings
My Fair Viking (formerly The Viking’s Captive)
The Blue Viking
The Bewitched Viking
The Tarnished Lady
The Outlaw Viking
The Reluctant Viking
Cajun Series
The Cajun Doctor
The Love Potion (Book One)
Viking Series II
Hot & Heavy
Wet & Wild
The Very Virile Viking
Truly, Madly Viking
The Last Viking
Creole-Time Travel Series
Sweeter Savage Love
Frankly, My Dear…
Others
Love Me Tender
Desperado
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Cajun Crazy copyright © 2017 by Sandra Hill.
the cajun doctor. Copyright © 2017 by Sandra Hill. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
Digital Edition JUNE 2017 ISBN: 978–0–06256634–8
Print Edition ISBN: 978–0–06256636–2
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