The Second The Second Shift: When Uncles, Hunger, and a Delta Tempest

 The Second Shift: When Uncles, Hunger, and a Delta Tempest

 Collide, From the Blog of a Cabin Dweller in Shreveport, Louisiana

The swamp is putting on a show tonight. Not the gentle, lulling performance of a summer shower, but a full-blown, dramatic production. As I write this, the wind is howling, throwing sheets of heavy rain against the cabin windows so hard it sounds like handfuls of gravel. Every few moments, a flash of lightning cracks the night open, illuminating the thrashing cypress trees in a stark, ghostly white, followed by a boom of thunder so deep you feel it in the floorboards.

The funny thing is, the sky gave us a beautiful, deceptive reprieve this afternoon. From about three to six o'clock, the earlier storms had cleared out. The air was still and heavy, washed clean and smelling of pine and damp earth. The sun even made a brief, hazy appearance, setting the swamp aglow. It was a perfect, peaceful Louisiana evening. And in that calm, I thought the day's chaos was finally behind me.

I had just managed to get Uncle Bill, worn out from a long day, settled down for the night. The cabin was filled with the low, gentle burble of the chicken soup on the stove—a simmering promise of a quiet, well-earned dinner. And that’s precisely when the porch door creaked open, signaling the start of the second shift.

In walked Uncle Jerry, with that familiar, hopeful, and hungry look on his face. "Smells good in here," he announced. "I'm just in time, right? I'm starving."

We chatted for a minute as I stirred the pot, the rich aroma of chicken and herbs a welcome scent in the warm air. Everything was coming together perfectly. The carrots were tender, the chicken was falling apart. I dipped a spoon in to taste the broth—it was almost there. And then, a sinking, comical realization hit me. I swirled the spoon through the pot again. No resistance. No familiar, soft thud of a potato against the metal.

I looked at Uncle Jerry. He looked at me, his smile unwavering.

"Jerry," I said slowly. "Did we… did we add the potatoes?"

His eyes went wide for a fraction of a second before he broke into a sheepish grin. "Well now," he chuckled. "I was in charge of chopping 'em, but I guess I got sidetracked telling Billy about that big gar I saw last week. My mind aren't what it used to be."

And so began the Great Potato Rescue. Just as we were dicing a new batch, the first rumbles of the new storm began in the distance. The sky, which had been so calm moments before, was turning a deep, bruised purple. Into the pot the potatoes went, an hour later than planned, plunging into the hot broth with a satisfying plop. The race was on.

Even El Tigre de Setos had to save MS Potato head from the crooks try to kidnapers, who wanted to use her for ransom!

It’s in these moments you appreciate a recipe's forgiveness. This hearty soup didn't mind the latecomers; it just welcomed them into the fold. As the wind picked up and the first flashes of lightning lit the horizon, I put Uncle Jerry on "Fixin's Duty." He happily grated cheese and crumbled bacon, the simple, domestic tasks a comfort as the storm grew in intensity.

By the time the potatoes were finally tender, the tempest was in full force. Ladling that steaming soup into bowls felt like a victory against the elements. We sat at the old wooden table, the storm now raging outside, our warm bowls cupped in our hands. The howling wind and the crashing thunder were no longer just a backdrop; they were part of the meal, a wild soundtrack that made the warmth of the soup and the sturdiness of the cabin logs feel all the more precious.

Each spoonful was a moment of pure comfort, a defiance of the chaos outside. This is the heart of Cypress Swamp living—knowing that no matter how fiercely the storm rages, a solid roof, a warm kitchen, and a forgiving pot of soup can make everything right in the world.

P.S. — You might notice a flurry of posts appearing all at once tonight or Tomorrow morning. My apologies! I've actually been writing and creating these posts all weekend, from Friday right through this evening's storm. But between looking after Uncle Bill and then having Uncle Jerry show up, my hands have been a bit full. Finding a quiet moment to actually get online and upload everything proved impossible until now. So here I am, finally catching my breath while the thunder rolls, trying to get you all caught up on the latest chaos and comfort from our little corner of the world. Thanks for reading!

Yours for Now Captain Hedges