By Father's Day, and the kids gave me the greatest gift a Cajun father can receive: they let me cook in peace. Danielle enforced a "leave Papa alone in the kitchen" policy from 10 AM to 2 PM, and for four hours I stood at my stove and my pit with nobody asking me for anything — no snacks, no mediations, no emergency Spider-Man Band-Aid applications — just me and the food and the quiet.
I made a cochon de lait, which is Cajun for "roast suckling pig" but which in the Beaumont house means a pork shoulder so slow-roasted it falls apart when you look at it sternly. Rubbed with salt, garlic, cayenne, and onion powder, wrapped in foil, and smoked on the pit for eight hours while the oak smoke curled through the yard and the neighborhood learned it was Father's Day. Pulled it at 2 PM, shredded it with two forks, piled it on French bread with a vinegar-based slaw and a squeeze of hot sauce. Rémy ate two sandwiches. Luc ate three. Colette ate one and announced she was "full," which at eight means "saving room for dessert."
Called Mama. Went to Joey's grave in spirit — didn't drive to Thibodaux, but I stood in the backyard at sunset, near the pit, holding a beer, and talked to him. Out loud. I do this sometimes. I tell him about the kids. About Rémy's fish. About Luc's science fair. About Colette's colored pencils and her teacher's note and the way she folds wrapping paper. I tell him about the pit I built and the business I'm growing and the roux I stirred last Tuesday that was the exact shade of chocolate he taught me. I talk to a man who's been dead for three years, in a backyard in Baton Rouge, and the neighbors probably think I'm crazy, and that's fine, because talking to your dead father while standing next to a smoker is the most Cajun form of therapy there is.
Danielle found me out there. She didn't say anything. She just stood next to me, handed me a fresh beer, and watched the sky change colors. That woman knows when to talk and when to stand. She's been standing next to me for fourteen years and she always knows which one I need.
After eight hours of smoke and two hours of standing quietly in a backyard holding a beer, the last thing I wanted was something complicated—just something cold and sharp and good on a cracker while the kids ran off their sugar and Danielle and I let the evening settle around us. Pimento cheese is what you make when the heavy cooking is done and you still want something on the table that feels like it belongs there. In Louisiana, it shows up at every gathering that matters, and this Father’s Day was no different.
Pimento Cheese
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 2 cups sharp cheddar cheese, freshly shredded
- 4 oz cream cheese, softened
- 1/3 cup mayonnaise
- 1 jar (4 oz) diced pimentos, drained
- 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
- 1/2 teaspoon onion powder
- 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
- 1/4 teaspoon smoked paprika
- Salt and black pepper to taste
- Crackers, sliced French bread, or celery sticks for serving
Instructions
- Soften and combine. Allow the cream cheese to come to room temperature. In a large mixing bowl, combine the softened cream cheese and mayonnaise and stir until smooth and well blended.
- Add the cheese and pimentos. Fold in the shredded sharp cheddar and drained pimentos, mixing until evenly distributed but still slightly chunky—you want texture, not a paste.
- Season. Add the garlic powder, onion powder, cayenne, and smoked paprika. Stir to combine, then taste and adjust salt and black pepper as needed. Add a touch more cayenne if you want a little heat.
- Chill. Cover and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes before serving to let the flavors come together. It gets better as it sits.
- Serve. Spread generously on crackers, thick-cut French bread, or crunchy celery sticks. Store leftovers in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to five days—if it lasts that long.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 210 | Protein: 7g | Fat: 19g | Carbs: 2g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 280mg