I was born and raised in Louisiana. The smell of cypress and the sound of boats on the river colored my childhood. And the sepia color of my name when traced on the meaty white petal of a magnolia has become the lens through which I view the world. It is the color of sun brewed tea, of river water, of old photos, of roux, of rainwater running in gutters, of oak galls, and of dried lichen on gravestones. In Louisiana, so much of our lives are flavored by bits of the past, including bits that are forgotten or glossed over. These historical keepsakes have always fascinated me. They haunt me. Our family also has bits of history running through it, glossed over or forgotten. On my father’s side, we are redbone. A gumbo mix of Native, African and European blood. We are Redbone. We are Creole. Yet most of us are white passing and know nothing of those who came before us. So, for me, these stories are for me part of my heritage, my culture, my history, my DNA. They are like tarot cards I keep turning over to explore new meanings and new relationships. The foodways of my ancestors, the customs, the beliefs. The way such separate peoples came together and created my ancestral tree. I hope you find something in them that tugs at you. That connects you to something that has meaning for you. You don’t have to be from the South to feel its magic. But I hope that I portray that its magic is multi-hued and owes its existence to all the cultures that have been a part of its creation. My childhood street in Old Algiers held Greek families, Vietnamese families, Black, Irish, Italian and Creole. I was welcomed in all of these homes and fed at their tables. So, if you have no family or a family who does not cherish you as they should, these stories are for you. Welcome home.