Text to My Girlfriends

For me, it’s often a distinct flavor of the home. Similar to remembering how my grandma’s house smelled when I was growing up, the enduring taste at the home of my closest family friends (I homeschooled with them every day for two years, so we’re talking CLOSE!) was from the can of Tony Chachere’s. Just a whiff of it now can jolt me back for a moment, to the huge old wooden house, standing out with its brilliantly painted gingerbread, as a rarity built among the archetypical brick homes of St. Louis. I’m sitting on a stool at the island in the kitchen, and Mrs. Rice is giving our odd angsty little crew of not yet blossomed adolescents a fierce exhortation. “Your worth is not based in what you accomplish!” she would remind us, while dishing out bowls of the platonic ideal of chicken noodle soup, which we inhaled with rolls and, of course, Tony’s.  When Paris sent me her home’s blends, I was delighted by the Cajun blend she mixed. It’s becoming my own amped up version of Tony’s, a mi...