Louisiana’s heat is not always measured in Scovilles
Chapter 1: A Gumbo of Gloom
Well, sir, let me tell you, that naught-minus-twenty ice storm in Louisiana was a doozy. A real humdinger, as my dear departed Mama used to say. It clung to the state like a bad relative at a family reunion, refusing to budge for a good five days. Now, at the River Bend Nuclear Power Station, things were usually as smooth as a freshly peeled crawfish. But this storm, oh this storm, threw a monkey wrench into the whole operation.
Louise Thornton, our plant manager, a woman who could usually out-argue a Cajun swamp tour guide, was starting to sweat. Not the good kind of sweat you get from a plate of filé gumbo sprinkled with Crystal on a sweltering day, mind you. This was a cold sweat, the kind that trickles down your spine and makes your shirt feel like a damp dishcloth. See, the storm had done a number on the intake pipes. Burst clean in two, they were about as useful as a chocolate teapot in a blizzard.
