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Happy New Year, Pat Down
Monday, December 31, 2012 at 05:44PM 
So I'm in Georgia at Erica's house to see 2012 bite the dust and 2013 emerge all spanking new.
Audrey's here too.
We three girls arrived on Saturday afternoon and so far we've watched more DVR'd episodes of Downton Abbey and Upstairs, Downstairs than any of us can count.
We went to church on Sunday. Twice.
We have also enjoyed homemade tortilla soup, cherry pie, gingerbread, and gallons of espresso prepared by Audrey in the three-cup stovetop Bialetti Moka Express I gave her for Christmas.
She serves the beverage fresh, hot, and naturally very strong, laced with half and half, in cups slightly larger than thimbles.
The diminutive stackable serving set was a gift from Stephanie, and so far, where Audrey goes, the pot and the cups go.
My daughter was surprised when I told her that the Louisiana branch of my family -- my mother's people -- drink regular-sized cup- and mug-fuls of coffee just that strong, throughout the day.
They know how to eat, too.
You may recall that in late October, TG and I traveled to Louisiana for the funeral of my uncle.
While there we stayed in the home of my mother's only cousin on her mother's side: my beloved Darlene, only child of my grandmother's only sibling.
(That makes Darlene my first cousin once removed. Just so you know.)
Darlene and her husband, Wayland, live out in the country in a house they built in the '90s. It's a mere stone's throw from the domicile my only surviving uncle -- you remember Dody; right? -- shares with his wife, Leslee.
Wayland gets up every morning at around six and starts cooking. Yes; you read that correctly.
Each day we were there he made breakfast for TG, me, and Darlene.
One day it was ham and biscuits with an assortment of Wayland's own homemade jams and jellies.
In the springtime he collects the fruit of the mayhaw trees on his land and makes a jelly that is like kicked-up apple, only better.
He makes a preserves of figs with raspberry jello that you'd have a hard time believing is not raspberry jam.
It's better. And the coffee provided to wash it down with is good stuff too y'all.
Everything is awe-inspiring in Wayland's kitchen. I told him he needs to have his own cooking show.
He said no he didn't, on account of it would cut into his hunting time and that would be wholly unacceptable.
On the last day we were there, TG drove us the dozen miles to Baton Rouge. You remember Lulu; right?
Then we visited the graves of my Mamaw, my Papaw, and, twenty feet away, Darlene's parents: my mother's Uncle Harold and Aunt Genevieve.
TG worked to bring up the turned-over vases and we put flowers, and I cried a few tears.
The last place we went was the campus of Louisiana State University because I wanted to see Mike the Tiger and his new four-million-dollar habitat in the shadow of Tiger Stadium.
Mike was busily touring his heavily-fenced territory and acted as though we and the other snap-happy spectators weren't even there.
Over by the stadium for more shots, I was convulsed with laughter at this sign:
The world is dying for lack of the well-placed compound word.
TG says he's going to call the athletic department at LSU and offer to check in with Pat Down, whose gender may be unspecified but to whom -- together with all other persons -- TG is apparently subject.
Still tickled, we went back to Darlene's house where Wayland had cooked us pork loin on the grill with all the trimmings, to include potatoes au gratin.
Pat Down? You missed a great dinner. I hope your subjects treat you well in 2013.
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That is all for 2012, my fine friends! Happy New Year!
