Felicity at Claiborne
- Kateb-Nuri-Alim
- 3 days ago
- 8 min read
Felicity at Claiborne
The Pot Was Never Meant for One Ingredient
Written by Kāteb Shunnar
Author’s Opening Note
Alright now, before we get into this reflection, lemme gone head and say this first.
Yeah.
I know.
I talk about New Orleans alot.
At this point somebody probably sittin somewhere sayin, “Lawd, if Kāteb mention New Orleans one mo time we gon have ta put him on the city payroll and give him a brass band escort.”
Man look.
I can’t help it.
I love this city.
Not in that fake postcard kinda way neither. I ain’t talkin bout tourists holdin beignets takin pictures like powdered sugar changed they whole spiritual direction. I’m talkin bout the real city. The loud city. The tired city. The city wit cracked sidewalks, crooked porches, bad drainage, corner stores smellin like bleach and fried chicken grease at the same damn time.
That city.
The one where somebody auntie yellin out a screen door while Frankie Beverly playin low somewhere in the background. The one where people argue hard as hell then still ask if you ate before you leave.
That’s the New Orleans I know.
And maybe that’s why this reflection been sittin on me so heavy lately.
Cause people driftin from each other now.
You can feel it.
Folks don’t really sit together no more. Everybody rushin. Everybody performin. Everybody tryna protect they own little corner of existence like the world finna run outta space if somebody else shine too bright.
And I get it too.
People tired.
Bills high.
Trust low.
Everybody carryin somethin heavy even if they smilin decent through it.
Still though… I think people need people more than we pretend we do.
Not perfect people neither.
Just real ones.
Folks who check on you.
Folks who pull up wit food when life fall apart.
Folks who sit wit you on porches after funerals not sayin much cause honestly ain’t nothin smart enough ta say sometimes.
That kinda love matter.
And truthfully, alotta what I learned bout community ain’t come from books. It came from kitchens. Front yards. Foldin chairs. Second lines. Storm season. Family fish fries where somebody always burned somethin but everybody still ate anyway.
That’s where alotta wisdom live at down here.
Not in polished speeches.
In regular moments.
Somebody grandmother fussin while stirrin beans.
Somebody uncle fixin a neighbor car for free while complainin the entire damn time.
Somebody sharin extension cords after hurricanes like it’s neighborhood currency.
That stuff stay wit you.
And I guess that’s what this reflection really became.
Not some grand sermon.
Just me thinkin bout people.
Bout togetherness.
Bout how everythin got folks believin independence the same thing as peace.
It ain’t.
A person can isolate theyself so long they forget what tenderness even feel like.
So before we step into this thing fully, just breathe for a second.
That’s all.
Sit down somewhere comfortable.
Loosen ya shoulders.
And come walk through Uptown wit me for a lil while.
Felicity at Claiborne
The Pot Was Never Meant for One Ingredient
By Kāteb Shunnar
Evenings round Felicity and Claiborne got they own kinda mood to em.
Not peaceful exactly.
Cause New Orleans ain’t never fully quiet. This city always got somethin makin noise. Somebody playin music too loud. Somebody cousin revvin an old engine that sound like it owe money. Dogs barkin. Sirens hummin in the distance. Folks laughin too hard outside corner stores.
Life.
That’s what it sound like mostly.
And round that part Uptown, the air always smelled like a combination of rainwater, hot grease, cigar smoke, and somebody seasonin meat like they tryna impress they ancestors.
Man listen.
One time I walked past Claiborne smellin smoked sausage so strong I almost changed directions entirely. Forgot where I was even headed.
That’s dangerous cookin right there.
Near that corner used to be this lil store. Tiny spot. Bars on the windows. Lottery signs everywhere. Floor tilted slightly like the buildin itself got tired over the years and decided leanin was easier.
I loved that store though.
Couldn’t tell you why exactly.
Maybe cause places don’t gotta be pretty ta matter.
The owner was this old man everybody called Mister Lucien.
Now Mister Lucien looked like somebody who knew where old secrets buried at. Thin dude. Gray beard. One lazy eye. Suspenders hangin uneven every single day like symmetry personally offended him.
And this man always sat outside stirrin this giant black iron pot.
Every evening.
Didn’t matter if it was hot.
Didn’t matter if rain threatened.
Didn’t matter if Saints lost and the whole city emotionally unstable for twenty four hours.
That pot gon be outside.
People gathered round it too.
Construction workers dusty from work.
Old ladies carryin purses big enough ta survive floods.
Kids runnin around sticky from melted candy.
This trumpet player named June who always smelled like cigarettes and brass polish.
And this one dude Marvin who sold incense but somehow always smelled exactly like boiled crawfish. Nobody ever figured that out.
New Orleans got mysteries science ain’t ready for.
Now some days Mister Lucien pot had gumbo.
Some days stew.
Some days somethin nobody could properly identify but folks still ate it anyway cause old people cookin from iron pots automatically receive community trust.
That’s just law down here.
One evening this young dude named Terrence walked up there talkin loud.
Yall know the type.
Folks who think volume equal intelligence.
Terrence stayed hollerin bout independence all the time too. Always sayin stuff like “I move alone” while borrowin chargers, askin for rides, and forgettin his wallet everywhere he went.
Anyway he stared in the pot and made this face.
“Mister Lucien,” he said, “why you always mixin everythin together like that? Seem like stuff lose what make it special.”
Mister Lucien ain’t answer right away.
Just kept stirrin slow.
Then finally he said, “Boy you ever ate plain flour?”
Terrence blinked hard.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“No.”
“Exactly. Flour by itself ain’t biscuits yet.”
Now that right there shut everybody up.
Even June stopped messin wit his trumpet.
Mister Lucien pointed in the pot wit that long spoon.
“That sausage still sausage. Onion still onion. Celery still celery. Ain’t nothin disappearin in here. Everythin just finally found somewhere ta belong.”
See.
That sound simple.
But simple don’t mean small.
I still think bout that conversation sometimes. Specially nowadays when everybody so scared of togetherness.
Folks think collaboration mean weakness now.
Like helpin each other somehow make people smaller.
Whole time jazz bands figured this out decades ago.
You ever stood near Frenchmen and really listened?
Not halfway listened neither.
I mean stood there still enough ta hear how every instrument make room for the others.
Trumpet lead for a minute.
Then drums.
Then saxophone slide through smooth.
Nobody panic because somebody else got a moment.
That’s what make it beautiful.
Meanwhile humans out here fightin ta dominate every conversation, every relationship, every room they enter.
Exhaustin.
And social media made it worse too.
Everybody marketin theyself now.
People can’t even drink coffee quietly no more. Gotta post captions talkin bout “protecting my peace” while sittin in traffic stressed enough ta fight strangers at red lights.
Baby drink ya coffee before it get cold.
Life already hard enough without turnin every moment into a performance review.
And truthfully?
I think folks lonely.
Not the dramatic movie kind neither.
I mean regular loneliness.
The kind where people laugh all day then sit in parked cars for ten extra minutes before goin inside they house.
The kinda loneliness where folks say “I’m straight” cause explainin the truth would take too much energy.
That heaviness everywhere now.
And I think alot of it connected ta people forgettin how ta be around each other naturally.
Everythin transactional.
Everythin rushed.
Even conversations got clocks attached now.
Ain’t nobody lingerin no more.
But when I was younger, people lingered.
That’s what I remember most.
My grandmother kitchen used ta stay full.
Not fancy full neither.
Real full.
Too hot.
Too loud.
Somebody always openin the refrigerator every six minutes like new food magically appeared since the last time.
Big Shot cream sodas sweatin on tables.
Dominoes slammin somewhere in the background.
My grandmother yellin “close that damn screen door” every few minutes cause mosquitoes down here built like small birds.
Man.
I miss stuff like that.
And my grandmother fed everybody too.
Didn’t matter if ya life was messy.
Didn’t matter if ya pockets empty.
If you came hungry, she fixed a plate first and asked questions later.
Now granted… she definitely gon lecture you while spoonin rice though.
Couldn’t avoid that part.
Affection and accountability came together in her kitchen.
But that care stayed wit people.
I still run into folks sometimes who remember meals she cooked thirty years ago.
Think bout that.
Not money.
Not status.
Not achievements.
Beans.
Fried fish.
Warmth.
That’s what people carry wit em.
And maybe that’s why this reflection keep circlin back ta food honestly.
Cause food down here ain’t just food.
It’s memory.
It’s comfort.
It’s apology sometimes.
It’s celebration.
It’s community.
After hurricanes, people don’t ask first what political party you belong to before handin you a plate.
They just feed you.
I remember after one storm this old lady down the block made red beans for practically the whole neighborhood usin whatever she still had left in the house.
At one point somebody looked in the pot and said, “Miss Loretta this look kinda thin.”
She said, “Baby then everybody just gon enjoy extra bean juice tonight.”
And everybody laughed.
Cause humor help people survive down here.
We joke through sadness alot.
Not cause pain funny.
Cause laughter create breathing room.
That’s another thing people misunderstand bout New Orleans.
Outsiders think this city just party all the time.
Nah.
This city grieve loud too.
Love loud.
Argue loud.
Cook loud.
Everything got emotion attached to it here.
Even silence got humidity on it.
And maybe that’s why I think people need each other more than ever now.
Cause this world teaching folks ta isolate the second things get difficult.
Friendships disposable.
Relationships disposable.
Communities disposable.
People one inconvenience away from givin up on each other completely.
That ain’t healthy.
Somebody gon annoy you eventually.
That’s humanity.
Some folks loud.
Some folks moody.
Some folks communicate like broken GPS systems givin emotional directions nowhere near the destination.
Still.
People worth the effort alot of times.
Miss Bernadine used ta say somethin similar.
Now she was another Uptown character altogether.
Tiny woman. Flower dresses. Sharp mouth. Cooked under Claiborne every Friday while music drifted through the air and mosquitoes held community meetins on everybody ankles.
Her stew changed every week.
Nobody ever figured out the recipe neither.
One man swore she used cinnamon.
Another claimed she added wine.
One auntie said, “Baby that woman seasonin wit prayer and attitude.”
Honestly that sounded accurate.
One evening this dude started braggin loud bout bein self made.
Talkin bout how nobody helped him.
How he built everythin himself.
Miss Bernadine kept stirrin for a second then looked up and said:
“Baby if you built yourself alone then who taught you how ta speak?”
Table got real quiet after that.
Then she kept goin too.
“Who grew ya food? Who built these roads? Who taught ya teachers? Who kept lights runnin? Who raised the folks who raised you?”
Whew.
That sat heavy.
Cause people really do forget how connected everythin is.
Nobody got here alone.
Not emotionally.
Not physically.
Not spiritually.
Shoot, even breathing require trees handlin they business properly.
Everythin connected.
And maybe folks wouldn’t feel so hollow nowadays if they remembered that more often.
Maybe people don’t need bigger platforms.
Maybe they need better conversations.
Better neighbors.
More porches.
More honesty.
More moments where folks sit together without everythin bein content for the internet.
I don’t know.
Maybe I’m old fashioned.
That’s alright too.
Cause honestly some old fashioned things still work just fine.
Like feedin people.
Like checkin on folks.
Like makin room at tables.
Like listenin all the way through somebody sentence before thinkin bout ya response.
That matters.
Probably more than we realize.
And maybe that’s really what Mister Lucien pot represented all them years.
Not sameness.
Not perfection.
Just people bringin what they got and lettin it become part of somethin larger than ego.
That’s all.
The world don’t need everybody tryna become the whole recipe.
It just need folks willing ta bring honest flavor without demandin complete control of the pot.
That’s how communities stay alive.
That’s how memories survive.
That’s how people keep each other human.
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