You must be from Texas.

Now that we're fixin' to leave Texas, I've been thinking quite a bit about what it means to be a Texan and what it will mean to leave my home state. One memory in particular sums up much of how I see myself as a Texan.

The year before we were married, Mr. PL and I made a trip to Fred's Lounge in Mamou, Louisiana to see the Cajun radio show that's broadcast live there every Saturday morning. The music was wonderful, the beer was cheap, and everyone was friendly. We were chatting with a man who had come to Fred's with his brother to honor the memory of their father, a musician who had played at Fred's many times. He asked me to dance.

While we were on the dance floor, he looked at me and said, "You must be from Texas."

"I am," I replied, "how did you know?"

"Texas girls always smile when they dance."

I think that about says it all.

The best part of that trip was watching the radio show, which was broadcast in French. The show was sponsored by a Piggly Wiggly store and periodically, in the midst of a long string of speedy French, the announcer would say "Piggly Wiggly" with an accent and I would howl with laughter. If you're ever even remotely close, I strongly recommend Fred's, especially if it's near Mardi Gras. Sadly, the restaurant across the street, which served the best gumbo I've ever had, has closed. A local butcher just a couple blocks away is a great place to get some boudin and the walk over is a nice way to take a break from the closed, smoky whirl of people dancing away their Saturday morning.