cajun country

A friend took a few of us on a road trip to Donaldsonville last week.

Population about 6000. Former state capitol (for three years). Home to the first black mayor (Pierre Caliste Landry) and not a few rootsy musicians.

We visited an old schoolhouse (not realizing, duh, we needed to make a reservation for the full tour of the River Road African American museum), and learned about the Sears Roebuck/Julius Rosenwald /Booker T. Washington partnership that led to the construction of schools.

Out back of the school was a well-tended garden. A little girl, eight or nine, rode up on her bike and hopped off to give us the skinny on the garden, pointing out pepper plants, watermelon vines, and where the chickens used to live. Her name was Dallas, or Shalay, and she had three siblings or two, depending on which version of her fanciful tales you believed. We left her at the corner, worried she’d wander off with out-of-town strangers, and she called after us with a twinkle, I have one more surprise for you. That garden? It’s mine!

We lunched at the Grapevine; I dined on crispy fried green tomatoes, mashed potatoes, and tart, cheese-cakey lemon icebox pie.

After a hot, sweaty walk by the river and a stop at an immaculately sorted grocery store for water, we headed home, with one pitstop for roadside peaches and creole tomatoes, and nostalgic candy at Cajun Village.