Is the Pope Catholic? Mais, yeah. But is the Pope Créole? Then, mes chères, he ought to know—we hold ourselves to the highest of standards - and there’s no greater duty than protecting vulnerable children. So, mon frère, félicitations—and we’ll be watching.

Not Elmo. No, sir. The gauntlet is ON. THE. FLOOR. Not the street that raised your baby and gave you front-row seats to Poirot. If they come for PBS, they’ll come for your childhood & your last nerve. Sign the petition. For LeVar. For Mr. Rogers. For us all. protectmypublicmedia.org/rsc-emails/

I don’t know what’s comin’ first —us slippin’ into the Gulf like an old porch giving way, or this cracked-out weather knocking us sideways with heatstroke one day and ice pellets the next. Either way, we’re getting evicted.

C’est vrai. The sorrow of our time. Tentacles in everything, spoiling it all. But we see you, don’t we? You’ll run out of hidey-holes.

Got stuck halfway to Delcambre and the gators are circling. Please send Jeremy Dufrene—or his cousin with the flatbed—tell him to bring the socket set.

Dis-donc, mes pischouettes - it’s a creole tomato, Duke’s mayonnaise & sea salt on French bread. C’est tout.

Oh, Clay Higgins…poor Higgins. Waving a “list” in too-tight jeans doesn’t make you a patriot—it makes you a spectacle.

If you need me, I’ll be on the front gallery, cocooned in the hammock and being tossed about by these unseasonable winds.

I’ve no intention of waltzing in circles just to amuse someone’s ego. I see your little tactics, and I’ve danced that reel before.

When, I wonder, did we abandon the notion—if indeed we ever held it—that two things might be true at once?

Art—one of the few comforts left in these trying times. I named my eldest Artemisia, naturally.

Don’t wait up.

Off to play Bourèe!

Mon Dieu et encore… NO, mes amis, I have never partaken in this “cock fighting.” Please refrain from asking. It’s beneath you.

Afraid I’ve no time for pleasantries, but I do love the blueberry muffins at the gym. Saved you one in my purse.

I’ve always felt Monsieur Gorey captured me a bit TOO well here—thankfully, I’ve since upgraded my fainting couch to one slightly more comfortable.

Naturally, my expat friends inquire how I manage so well in such a swamp. Oh, my dears—it’s memory, handed down in simmering pots and secret prayers. It keeps the children safe and the cowards nervous.

Jeff Landry polishing the keys to his baby jail like heirlooms—silver from his grand-mère’s plantation tea set. Salivating in seersucker. One is tempted to say, ‘Run along now, let the grown-ups talk.’ Alas.

To those who tried to torch the truth and silence the stacks, I offer a single, well-bred finger. And to the brave hearts who held the line, I tip my hat and my heart. That our new library rises at Holy Rosary, sacred ground of Black excellence, is nothing short of divine poetry.

You already know this, but tonight calls for chamomile—and I’ll say an extra decade for each of you.

Là bas!? Trump as pontiff of all good Louisiana Catholics? Is this Clay Higgins’ idea? No, don’t tell me. I shall make my way to this new papal seat to find out for myself—Vatican, Louisiana, inside the Bass Pro Shop, wedged between the duck blinds and the gator jerky. I shall keep you all apprised.

Mais voyons donc, mes chères. Take your manglier—extra honey. We shall all need strong constitutions.

Paid a visit to the Cajun prairie of my youth, only to find it had packed its roots and drifted south—straight into the Gulf of Mexico, or whatever name they’re giving that ever-expanding puddle of our regrets these days.

Where might one procure a scale? I’ve scoured the marketplace, only to find a plethora of “scales of justice,” which apparently exist on perpetual sale. Unfortunately, I’m not in the market for one that’s purely decorative.

Met with a gaslighter today—told him with tariffs rising and Elon bottling moonlight, even deceit’s gone luxury, bless his deluded little heart.