In the Family

The harsh, metallic clash of pots and pans crashing together shatters the night’s stillness, the clamor ringing out into the gloom.

I spin toward the racket, to see Cousin Henry lying on the ground, the large sack of cooking implements I volunteered him to carry spilled open beside him. I scowl, bending over to catch my saucepan before it can roll away.

“Henry,” I say, sighing out his name in frustration and disappointment. “Can you not do this one, simple thing?”

“Sorry, Jed,” he mutters, pushing himself back to his feet with a grunt of effort. Cousin Henry is a bit on the large side, definitely a member of our family more concerned with the consumption of food than its preparation. “It’s dark out here. Hard to see where you’re putting your feet.”

“Yes, well, it is the middle of the night,” I agree. “And this cemetery is abominably illuminated; I’ll have to bring that up with the management. For now, I’ll ask you to please try to not drop my expensive cookware, thank you.”

“Right.” Henry hefts the sack once again, breathing heavily. “Don’t see what the point of all this sneaking around is. I mean, the security guard let us in. It’s not like we’re grave robbing.” He pauses, licks his lips and shifts his feet. “We’re not grave robbing, are we?”

“Of course not,” I say, as if I’m soothing a frightened child. “We simply seek to reacquire something mistakenly consigned to Grandfather Francois’ crypt with him. Something that must be kept in the family, not left moldering with a corpse. No one could perceive that as robbery.”

“Yeah. Right.” If Cousin Henry is reassured by my words or my soft, honeyed drawl, he does a fine job of concealing it.

“Even so,” I say, proceeding deeper into the cemetery, “we should try to be as unobtrusive as possible. Regardless of the nobility of our task tonight, the good people of New Orleans might look at it askance.”

“Right.”

Merciful silence descends. Around us, the Gates of Heaven Cemetery expands, a necropolis of tombstones, grave markers, mausoleums, and crypts. The single flashlight I carry casts a dim glow, and I keep the beam trained on the ground at our feet, so that it barely reveals the nearest statues and monuments.

This cemetery is no longer in common use, having been a repository for mortal remains for well over three centuries. Some of the oldest and most distinguished families in the city have sizable plots here, with the wealthier buried in magnificent mausoleums, and even the mildly well-to-do having attractive crypts designed for their eternal slumber. My own line is well represented, with generations of cooks, chefs, and restaurateurs buried in this place. For these and other reasons, good Grandfather Francios was laid to rest here not a week ago, interred with all the appropriate ceremony in the family crypt.

I would have no issue with that, had he not taken a certain something with him to his grave.

“Are we there yet?” Henry says, gasping now under the weight of his burden. “This sack isn’t getting any lighter.”

“We’re close,” I say.

“I hope so. Why’d you bring all this stuff, anyway? Shouldn’t we have shovels or something?”

I sigh once more. “Henry, Grandfather was buried in a crypt, not in some freshly dug hole in the ground. We don’t need tools to access the tomb; I have the key with me.” I’ll not go into the details of how I acquired the key, since by rights it belongs in the possession of the eldest surviving member of the family. Great Aunt Esme may be upset should she discover its absence, and if she connects the disappearance to my recent visit, she may never drink another cup of coffee I prepare for her.

Henry goes quiet, but only for a moment. “Are we there yet?”

A familiar structure looms from the dark. “Why, yes, I believe we are.”

My light shines upon the white marble of the large crypt, reflecting dully off the weathered stone. Ivy climbs the walls in tangled nets, and spots of lichen give it a mottled, scabrous aspect. I cluck softly to myself in disapproval; this should be better maintained.

I make for the heavy door set into the façade, where the lock yields to the large key I wield, and the portal swings open. Deeper darkness lies within, and a most peculiar odor rises to greet us, redolent of rotted wood, stone dust, and the smell of things long dead. I breathe it in with satisfaction, before hurrying forward in my eagerness, proceeding down a narrow path between walls pocked with deep niches, upon which rest a spectacular array of varied coffins. Many of them are so old that they’ve disintegrated, leaving a jumble of wood, cotton lining, and human remains.

Henry hesitates in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re sure we’re not gonna get in trouble for this?”

“Not if we’re swift and silent,” I murmur distractedly, playing my light over the niches, searching for the correct one.

It’s not hard to find Grandfather Francois. Not only is his the most recent addition, but his coffin is quite distinctive, fashioned of ebon wood with gold embellishments. He was a man of means after all, and far from miserly with his wealth. No, it was only in the most important matters that he exercised a covetousness that bordered on the mean-spirited.

I turn to Cousin Henry, grinning in anticipation. “Here he is. Now, hand me the sack.”

I take the bag from Henry’s outstretched hands, pull it open, and begin removing its contents. Pots and pans are neatly stacked to one side, on a clean cloth I spread over the crypt’s filthy stone floor. Various spoons and measuring implements are laid out in a neat row, followed by containers of ingredients, from small jars of spices and seasonings to coolers containing meats and vegetables. Finally, I pull out a small camp stove, hook up a propane tank to it, and light it with a flourish.

As I sort out the foodstuffs, Henry looks on in confusion.

“So, we’re cooking a meal?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, intent on my work as I add olive oil to the largest pot, sprinkle in an equal measure of flour, and place it on a rack over the open flame.

“Um, why?”

I spare him a glance and a quick grin. “It’s all part of the magic, Henry. All part of the magic.”

He purses his lips. “Right. Magic.” He watches as I heat the roux, stirring constantly, cooking it to a rich, nutty color. It releases an amazing fragrance into the mixture of stone and rot pervading the tomb. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Not at this point,” I say. As I may have mentioned, Cousin Hnery’s strengths lie at the far end of the food spectrum from cooking. “Please, have patience. You do still have an important role to play in our endeavor.”

Henry stops talking, looking mollified. I continue the preparation of the dish, deftly slicing onion, celery, and green peppers into the pot, making the hot roux sizzle and spit. Once the vegetables have softened, I start cutting up the meats, adding andouille sausage, chicken, and crayfish. Finally, I pour in a healthy measure of stock, just enough to float the contents of the pot. I give it all a stir, then set on the lid and leave it to simmer. The heavenly aroma permeates the crypt now.

I look up to meet Henry’s inquisitive stare. “Gumbo,” I say, stating the painfully obvious, just in case. Cousin Henry isn’t the sharpest knife in the block, after all.

“Yeah, I got that,” he says. “But why did you make a pot of gumbo in the family crypt? How is that gonna help us get what we came here for?”

“Come now, Henry,” I say. “You know that good food has a special kind of power. If we’re going to convince Grandfather Francois to part with what he possesses, we must use the correct method of coercion.”

Henry glances at the pot. “But gumbo?”

“Not just any gumbo. Our family’s world-famous, secret recipe for gumbo.” I frown. “Or, at least, as much as I know how to make it. You see, that’s what we’re here for: the true, original family recipe.”

Henry blinks. “What?”

“Indeed. The family recipe for our gumbo—specifically, the roux which forms its base—is a closely guarded secret. It’s made us a success in the business. That recipe has been passed down, by word of mouth only, for generations.” My frown turns into a scowl. “Until now, that is. You must have noticed the hard times we’ve fallen upon, Henry.”

He grunts in agreement. “Tell me about it. It’s all anyone in the family will talk about, how the restaurant is tanking, how much we’re spending to keep it afloat. Everybody’s worried sick over it.”

I nod. “Just so. And the reason for that is simple: Grandfather Francois declined to pass on the secret. He was always quite covetous of it, felt that none of his many descendants were worthy. So, he took it to his grave.” My baleful gaze turns to rest on his ornate coffin. “And so here it remains.”

Henry looks at the coffin. “Then, uh, why don’t we just, you know, open it up and take it?”

I roll my eyes. “Because, as I just implied, the recipe was never committed to writing. It isn’t scrawled on some slip of paper, tucked into the lining of his pants or between the layers of his shoe sole. No, dear Grandfather held the secret in his sadly deteriorating mind, right until the end. Now we have to get it back.”

Henry glances back at me. “Uh, how?”

I smile. “Just you watch, cousin.”

With that, I remove the last implement from the sack: a prybar. Working quickly, I open the lid of Grandfather Francois’ coffin, exposing his remains to the light. The smell of decaying flesh grows stronger. Moving swiftly, I collect a few items from the corpse and its repository: a sampling of hair and fingernails, a swatch of cloth cut from his undershirt, and a scraping of wood from the coffin edge. All of these go into a tiny bag of coarse burlap, along with a few shakes of a very special powder.

Collection complete, I turn to my bubbling pot of gumbo.

“You’re not gonna put that in the gumbo!” Henry gasps, eyes wide.

I spare him an incredulous glance. “What? Spoil a gumbo with gris gris from Grandfather Francois? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Shaking my head, I touch the little sack to the flame of the camp stove. Holding it up, I murmur a few words, words learned long ago and with great difficulty. Words I was forbidden to utter, words that I was told would bring nothing but trouble.

However, I’ve never been one to live by the dictates of others.

The bag burns swiftly, and I drop it to the floor, where it flares into a pile of ashes. While Cousin Henry’s gaze is fixed on the fire, I deftly slip one final ingredient into the pot.

I straighten, dusting off my hands. “Now, let’s eat, shall we?”

Cousin Henry shifts from foot to foot. “You know, I’m not really hungry…”

“Nonsense. We can’t let this go to waste. Let’s have a meal, in honor of the memory of Grandfather Francois.”

“But… what about the recipe…?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I say. “That will be revealed. In time.”

I ladle a generous, steaming helping into a bowl and hand it to Henry. “To your very good health, Cousin.”

Still, he hesitates, so I dip a spoon into my own bowl, bring it to my lips, and feign swallowing.

Finally, Cousin Henry scoops up a mouthful. His eyebrows rise. “That is good, Jed. You sure we even need the secret recipe?”

“Oh, trust me,” I say. “My best is but a trifle compared to what Grandfather Francois could produce. But I’m flattered all the same.”

Henry smacks his lips, evidently satisfied. Then his eyes roll up and he pitches forward to lie face down on the floor. His bowl of gumbo shatters, splattering food. I frown and shake my head at the waste, but it couldn’t be helped.

I roll Cousin Henry onto his back. He’s snoring softly, utterly out of it. He shouldn’t recall this experience, but if he does, he’ll never accept anything I cook for him again. No great loss, I suppose.

I pinch up a bit of the ash from my little gris gris bag, sprinkle it over Henry’s supine form, speaking more of those taboo words.

An instant later, Cousin Henry’s eyes flutter open. Only they aren’t his eyes. They’re older, clouded, glancing around in confusion.

Then his nostrils flare, sniffing the air, and his mouth opens. “Gumbo…,” he sighs, seeming to become more aware. More… present. But the voice is not that of Cousin Henry. It’s rough and gravely, as if spoken by a throat with much more mileage than the man to whom it belongs. “Is it dinner time?”

A smug grin crosses my face. “Hello, Grandfather Francois,” I say. “Welcome back to the land of the living.” I glance around the crypt. “In a manner of speaking.”

“I… I know that voice.” Those clouded eyes swivel until they come to rest on me. Cousin Henry’s features twist into a scowl. “Jedediah. I might have known. Only you would be so bold as to disturb my eternal rest.”

“Quite,” I agree. “And I do apologize. But we have important matters to discuss, dear Grandfather.”

A hoarse chuckle comes from the prone body. “Ah, so that’s it. You want my secret recipe.”

“Now, Grandfather, you know that isn’t your secret. That belongs to the family. Why, what you’ve done is no better than thievery.”

A dismissive snort comes from Cousin Henry’s body. “You’re not worthy of the secret. None of you are. Galivanting about, opening five-star restaurants, appearing on celebrity cooking shows. It’s shameful. You know nothing about the sublime purpose of our noble craft.”

I put on a hurt expression. “Oh, Grandfather, you know I never went in for any of that. I did my very best to follow your high aspirations. For me, it has only ever been about the food. I spent years in the kitchens honing my craft. And yet you still snubbed me, just to spite the family.”

“Give it to one, give it to all,” he scoffs. “No, I’ll not enrich the nest of parasites who claim my lineage. All of you will go down together.”

I heave another sigh. “If you feel that way, so be it. We’ll all have to live with the consequences. Even you.”

Those eyes that don’t belong in Cousin Henry’s face narrow. “Consequences?”

I nod. “If our fortunes fail, you will be there to see it, Grandfather.”

“Me?” he cackles. “I’m dead and buried. Nothing in life can affect me any longer.”

“So you believe,” I say. “But have you noticed where you are?”

“Lying on the floor of my own tomb?”

“Indeed. And in the body of none other than our dear Cousin Henry.”

The borrowed body gives a start. The hands lift, the eyes look down at them. “Oh. Oh no. Not Henry. Why, that boy is even more hopeless than you.” He snorts again. “Which is why you brought him, of course. Who else would be so easily duped?”

“Just so. But you are now, shall we say, imprisoned in his hopeless form.” My grin spreads, becoming something malicious. “And there you will stay, Grandfather, unless you accept my terms.”

His gaze snaps back to me. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, yes I would.” I shrug. “But we can be civil about this. Come to an agreement. It’s entirely up to you.”

Cousin Henry’s mouth works silently for a long minute, as Grandfather Francois works out just how unpleasant it would be to spend eternity trapped in the body of the blackest of black sheep in our family flock.

“Fine,” he snaps. “I’ll give you the recipe. But you must swear on your honor, on your devotion to your craft, that you will never trouble me again.”

“For so long as I live,” I reply, touching a hand to my breast. “I swear.”

Cousin Henry’s body shifts, Grandfather’s voice grumbling and muttering from his mouth. “All right. The secret family recipe is….” He lets out a sigh. “Peanut oil.”

I blink. “Peanut oil?”

His borrowed head nods. “Yes. That’s it. Use peanut oil in the roux. Same proportions.”

I rock back on my heels, incredulous. “But… but extra virgin olive oil—”

“It’s rubbish for a good roux,” Grandfather Francois snaps. “Peanut oil has a more complex flavor. And a much higher smoke point; let’s you brown the roux better without burning it.”

“Peanut oil,” I murmur. Well, it does make sense. In fact, I can’t wait to try it out. “Thank you, Grandfather.”

A crooked grin twists his lips. “Go to hell, Jedediah.”

I smile, and speak the last words of the ritual. Cousin Henry’s body goes limp, the eyes fluttering shut, and Grandfather Francois is gone for good.

Reaching out, I give Henry a shake.

“Wh… what?” he sputters, rousing. “What’s going on? What happened to me?”

“Why, you just passed out, Cousin,” I say. “One second we were enjoying a celebratory supper, the next you fainted dead away. Had I known you were susceptible to such spells, I would never have involved you in such a stressful endeavor.”

Cousin Henry sits up, rubbing his head. “Right. Okay. Um, did we get what we came for?”

A genuine smile forms on my lips. “Oh, we did indeed, Cousin. We did indeed. Now, let’s get out of here, before our antics end up waking the dead.”