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My old friend Fabian Scalise escaped Katrina with his family, a box of pictures and an undaunted attitude that is pure New Orleans.

Fabian, like his wife Michelle, is New Orleans, down to the fibers of his vocal chords. He speaks with a patient, articulate New Orleans drawl that makes you just want to shut up and listen. “Lemme axe ya this,” he’ll begin, and you just hope it’s a nice long question.

The Scalises ran a bakery back in the 1990s called the Billabong in Uptown New Orleans, and my younger brother worked for them. But grueling bakery hours didn’t jibe with raising children, so the Scalises sold it and took government jobs.

Katrina came and went and I had no idea how my old friends fared.

What I didn’t know is that they got out ok, but their Lakeview home took in water to the rafters. I didn’t know they moved in with relatives in a cramped rental off Causeway in Metairie, didn’t know Fabian was laid off from his job, didn’t know he was mowing lawns to support his family.

Then one day in November my cell phone rang. “Hey Tam, it’s Fayyyy-bian.”

It was the first elation I’d felt in days. At that very moment I was wandering around a department store with my older brother looking for a pair of dress shoes to wear to our mom’s funeral. Two days earlier the cancer and the side effects of treatment had ended her fight.

As I always try to do, I just listened as Fabian spoke. He was not only fine, but in good spirits. He told me they got out with their most precious photos and mementos.

“I don’t even care about the howsss,” he said. “Ya know what I’m taaaalking about? It don’t matter.” he said, now laughing. “We alright, and we got our pictures.”

Our conversation shifted to my mom. He was shocked and saddened, but offered gentle words of support. He’d be at the Adoration Chapel of St. Pius Catholic Church praying for my mom and family before the sun set. He asked me what else he could do.

I blurted it out before I could censor myself. “Lemon pound cake.”

Fabian bakes an incredible lemon pound cake, with real butter, fresh lemon and incredible, tart, sweet icing. It’s my dad’s favorite. I was thinking, as author Raymond Carver once wrote, that sometimes all you can do for the grieving is a small, good thing, like feed them.

“Is it possible,” I stammered, “I mean, I know you’re busy so I shouldn’t even ask you this, would you bake a lemon pound cake?”

“Is it possible?” he responded, incredulous. “Is it possible? Tom, it’s already gonna happen.” So the following day we made the drive to the Scalise’s cramped, temporary home.

Between mowing lawns, playing with his kids and praying at the chapel, Fabian hadn’t baked us a lemon pound cake. He’d baked two, with extra icing.

Tom Guarisco is editor of 225 magazine. He spent his childhood in Scotland, where “a wee blether” is simply a little chat.