On missing me:

“I keep saying, when is Anna going to come visit and cook something for me?” (My dad is a chef. My heart exploded, like a firework. Sudden pops and streams of light and joy).

On the Grainery:

“You know, if you have a sandwich shop in New Orleans, you have to have po’ boys.”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“You have to.”

“Well, I’ll have Anna-po’-boys.”

“No, you have to have just po’ boys. You have to do them a certain way; you can’t do them any other way.”

I would be a bit hurt if I didn’t feel equally as passionate about doing simple, wonderful foods justice by trusting and following tradition. If I couldn’t hear the crinkly-smiled passion in his voice. And then:

“And they have to be on New Orleans French bread. It’s just…I don’t know. It’s different. Everyday, when I come into work, I warm up some New Orleans French bread, and I eat it with some oyster soup. I have my bread and my oyster soup, and I’m ready for my day.”

On saying I had a doctor’s appointment coming up:

“For what?”

“Oh, it’s the lady doctor…”

“Nothing to do with a pregnancy, I hope?”

Bless him, he thinks I’m having sex! Thanks, dad.