Thank you, neighbor

We have this great neighbor. He’s the guy we call when we’re going out of town and need our car to be moved from the “Monday” side of the street to the “Tuesday” side (even though I’m convinced the streets never get cleaned, I don’t like to risk a ticket.) He’s the guy who feeds our fish and takes in our mail. When he goes away, we do the same. His name is Peter and he is a lawyer. I don’t know too much about him.

Last night I found out he is one hell of a cook.

“Ah, two of my favorite people,” he said, as we entered the building last night. It was a nice way to come home. It was even nicer when he offered up red beans and rice, a “Monday night tradition in New Orleans,” he said. Yes, his home was swept away in the massive tragedy several years ago, “but I’m so past that,” he recently told Gregg.

He delivered red beans cooked with sausage, turkey necks and sauce “that isn’t as hot as I normally make it.” He brought two containers of warm rice.

I took the lid off the beans and breathed in that firey mix. The smell said, “I’ve been cooking for a long time, simmering in turkey juices, heating up under hot sauce. Go ahead and pour me over that rice so it can soak up my goodness.”

All day I’ve been thinking about those beans. About what a nice, simple gesture it is to share a home made dish with neighbors. About how good it tasted and how nice it was to just come home and heat up a meal someone else had prepared for us.

About whether this Monday tradition is one that Peter practices every week…and if so, how I can finagle more beans next Monday…