My father drank bourbon & Coke on Saturday nights
& baked biscuits the next morning. He dipped me 
in thick white milk gravy then sent me to Sunday School
to learn about Jesus & the Great Commission. Twelve 
men at his table, only two at ours.

What’s gluttony? I asked. The way we live around here
he said. Your mother is the only one in our house
who doesn’t eat like a pig. She spoke broken French 
& tossed it out the windows. My father & I ate that as well.

We adored seafood on Friday nights. My favorite 
was fantail shrimp, breaded, glistening with hot oil
from the deep-fryer. Why do Catholics eat fish on Friday?
my sister quizzed. It’s a long story, he said, but for us,
it’s just a habit.

Often we overindulged – my father with
his drinks & me with the fried fish, hushpuppies
& lemon ice box pie with a six-inch toasted meringue
that often stuck to the tip of my nose. Danny Fiord & I 
borrowed a cup full of rye whiskey while no one was looking. 
We sat in our tent, cross-legged, dipping our fingers into the dark amber
liquid, graduating to my grandmother’s tarnished 
tablespoon that we hid in the toolshed. 

Danny said we were getting buzzed. I told Danny that I was glad
we weren’t old enough to drive. On such nights, we slept like fat babies 
on codeine. And it was definitely a lot cheaper.