Sunday mornings, Dad and I got bagels from the deli. Once, the lady behind the case handed over a chocolate log. Provoking panic: I hadn't asked for it. I couldn't pay for it. I thought my thoughts were private. Dad said it was OK _ I didn't even have to share. That eclair was a gift, a find, a lagniappe.
Not that I knew lagniappe _ it dropped into my life this week, via Marlene, who, like the noun, comes from New Orleans. It's a little extra, she explained, the padding on a baker's dozen.
That made it easy to grasp. After our family left bagel territory, the kids took over Sunday-morning provisioning. Whoever biked to the bakery earned the bonus, though, after the first 12 doughnuts, the prize often went unclaimed.
I mulled over my windfall word while sauteing shallots for a surreptitious snack. Were the mushrooms a lagniappe to the toast? Or toast to mushrooms? Perhaps the two together define a lagniappe _ an add-on bite, a taste, a pleasure _ with no obligation to share.
