I'm not one of those people, like the gifted Chris Rose, who can write whole essays on Jazz Fest, complete with descriptions of sights and sounds and smells, and well-thought-out reviews of music and food. For me, Jazz Fest is a shifting kaleidoscope, with rapidly changing patterns, going by so quickly I can hardly process them. I'm lucky to snatch a few moments as they speed past me. Here's a few of my personal Jazz Fest Moments I'll be savoring til next year:
•Friends and strangers alike greeting each other on the Fairgrounds and around the city with "Happy Fest!" -- as though Jazz Fest were an acknowledged holiday like Christmas or Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day. Store clerks and waiters would wish you a Happy Fest, not just those at the fairgrounds. Big Man said that nowhere else in the world would a local music festival be embraced by a entire region and turned into a holiday that folks would greet each other with.
•Quint Davis being interviewed on TV and saying that "with the return of Jazz Fest Local Thursday, Angelo Brocato's strawberry ice, and the Neville Brothers to close the fest on the last day, that Jazz Fest was formally and officially back to pre-Katrina standards. The very next day, I bought a strawberry ice and told the folks at the Brocato's booth what had been said. They were thrilled, and with strawberry ice on my tongue, so was I.
•Seeing the great Allen Toussaint walking the track like us regular folks, eschewing the shuttle that Jazz Fest officials would surely have offered him had he wanted one. His entourage -- his sons maybe? -- were dressed in T-shirts and jeans, but Allen, handsome and dapper as ever, was in a suit and tie. Coming upon him so unexpectedly, Big Man swept his hat off his and held it over his heart, as, he said later, a sign of his deep and total respect; my mouth agape, I blurted out, "Allen, I'm so GLAD to see you!" and my son, nonplussed, totally forgot to take a picture with his fancy digital camera. Allen was his usual smooth and gracious self, stopping to allow photos, speaking kindly to those who came up to him, and replying to me with a smile, "I'm glad to see YOU too." (On the Sunday that Big Man played the Fest, in the musicians' parking lot we came upon a gleaming black Cadillac with the personalized plate PIANO1 and assuming it was Allen's, we made little "we're not worthy" bows to it.)
•Big Man's first-ever Jazz Fest gig was the cause of another Jazz Fest moment, as he warmed up on trumpet on the Gospel stage before the fest opened, and a small boy wearing a volunteer T-shirt and holding a push-broom came up to the stage and hollered up, "Hey, Mister, how you do them high notes?" and Big Man replying, like the old joke about Carnegie Hall, "Practice, practice, practice!" But then he relented and leaned over the edge of the stage to show the young would-be trumpeter a few tricks of the trade. And so the music is passed on, as it should be, from one musician, one generation, to the next.
•Eating at the Fest is such a trip. For amounts ranging from $6-$13, you receive a dish worthy of the world's finest restaurants, complete with presentation details like little bows made of green onion, slivers of fresh lemon, and sprinklings of parsley, and tasting like pure heaven. Standing or sitting at the food tables, we communed with folks from Japan, Germany, Iowa, New Hampshire, Chicago, New York, Australia. We asked each other what we were eating, and total strangers offered each other tastes and pointed out favored food booths. An amazed "Where did you get that??" was frequently heard, as was fervent gasps of "Ohmygod!" Yes, eating at Jazz Fest is truly a religious experience.
•Speaking of religious experiences, I had several in the Gospel Tent. The Famous Rocks of Harmony truly did rock the tent, in their natty matching suits, and their special trick of soloists working up to a near-frenzy and then handing off the solo to the next singer. It was such an historic moment to be there for Mr. Sherman Washington's final appearance (in a wheelchair) with the mighty Zion Harmonizers bringing the crowd to their feet. And what more can be said about Aaron Neville's return to the Gospel Tent for his traditional gospel-soul set, movingly dedicated to his late wife, Joel, with brother Charles wailing on sax next to him. By the time Aaron got to "Louisiana 1929" with its heart-breaking refrain, "They're tryin' to wash us away," there could not have been a dry eye or face in the place. Some of us wept quietly, others sobbed aloud. Folks waved handkerchiefs and paper napkins and screamed his name. He was home, we were home, and we were all together. Incredible spiritual experience.
•While I was there, it rained on two different days (I arrived after the rain on the second Saturday so I can't speak to THAT downpour), and it was quite a sight both times to watch all those umbrellas blossom like flowers in stop-motion as the clouds opened up. Most folks seemed prepared, with raincoats or rainsuits or rain jackets and umbrellas and boots (and tarps and shower curtains!); those who weren't thus physically prepared seemed at least mentally and spiritually equipped, stoically or hilariously getting soaked to the skin in order to see and hear their favorites, like Billy Joel and Stevie Wonder and Dr. John. Later, after rains, you could see people practically encased in sticky fairgrounds mud, or nearly invisible swathed in vinyl and plastic. (Women came up to me, demanding to know where I got my bright-red fireman boots and were disappointed to learn that the boots were close to 20 years old!)
•We all have our favorite tunes that we hope-hope will be played by our favorites at the fest. Since my son was with me on the second Saturday, I was wishing that the subdudes would do "Sugar Pie," an especial favorite of ours that was played for the "mother-son" dance at my wedding to Big Man four years ago. (Such wonderful lyrics about what it means to a parent when their "baby-my-own" grows up.) Sure enough, they did sing it, causing us to be all overcome with gushy emotion, both of us tearing up. Later that same day, to our enormous surprise and gratification, we ran into our old friend Johnny Magnie of the subdudes at the booth that sells crawfish sacks (a big festival hit). He seemed as glad to see us as we were to see him, and asked about mutual friends by name. Johnny was astonished to learn that I was now pastoring the congregation he used to attend and was amazed to see how adult my son was (I'm sure I'd be just as amazed by Bo and Tyler's growing up). While we clumped together visiting, folks went by and took his picture as a celebrity, with us in the picture!
•Even now, days later, I can hardly write about the experience of being at the fest for the Neville Brothers return. There were tens of thousands of people, full-throated roaring their pleasure and joy. Artie saying into the mike, "We never left, y'all, not really" meaning, I suppose, that no matter where they had been physically, it was impossible for the Nevilles to truly leave New Orleans. They ran through all the songs we wanted to hear, not like showmen, but like relatives at a gathering retelling the favorite old family stories. Famous names joined them on the stage -- Carlos Santana, for one -- but the Nevilles were all we cared about. Aaron dedicated more songs to his beloved Joel, and it seemed to us that he had been afraid to come home, fearing her loss would be worse in familiar settings. (Maybe he came to realize that he might miss her LESS if he were home.) The songs that had defined our lives, that had become part of our sexuality and our spirituality rang our over the fairgrounds -- "Tell It Like It Is," "That's My Blood," "Yellow Moon," Voodoo Woman," "Hey Pocky Way" -- and we sang and danced along, the years of our lives going by in our minds. Men and women alike broke down in an ecstasy of shared grief and joy. Couples clung to each other, sobbing on each other's shoulders. Grown men stalked past us with tears streaming down their faces. Big Man wiped his face; the woman in the chair next to ours sank down, laid her head on her knees and just cried, her shoulders heaving. The set was supposed to end at 7 pm but it went on and on, with the crowd screaming and cheering and dancing and singing along, until 7:35 pm. We practically expected a representative of the mayor's office to show up with keys to the city. Quint Davis finally came on, pronounced us all Nevilles, and told us that Jazz Fest was now officially back to normal. "Stay safe, be well, love New Orleans, and see you next year!" Totally wrung out, we staggered from the fest. Until next year.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Earth Day in the Park (Cue Lion Roar)
On Sunday afternoon, April 20th, my church celebrated Earth Day in Audubon Park with the two other Greater New Orleans congregations of our denomination, and with some 100+ volunteer adults and young people from Massachusetts and New Hampshire and Vermont, also of our faith tradition. We set up chairs and blankets in the shade behind the labyrinth, with a folding table covered in batik cloth as our altar, our chalice flame protected by a glass hurricane shade, and a flaming chalice metal sculpture crafted by a member of my congregation hanging from a low branch over us.
It was a glorious day, blue sky with a few drifting clouds, a light breeze riffling the pages on our makeshift pulpit, the grass and clover soft and green. There was a flock of birds chirping and swooping a few yards behind where we had set up, and a little further away, behind a fence, was the Audubon Zoo, where the new Asian-Pacific Festival was going on. The park was filled with happy people of all ages and races, and faint sounds of music drifted toward us from cars going by on East Drive, from inside the Zoo and the festival, from over by the Great-Grandmother Oak where some young people strummed guitars and sang softly.
We decided not to try to set up a sound system and the four ministers (one from each congregation and one community minister) just pitched our voices higher to reach our spread-out Earth Day congregation over the mild din of everything else going on. The responsibility of the Meditation portion of the service fell to me, and I gamely reminded everyone that we were not going to "enter into the silence" as in a usual worship service, but would instead enter into a time of paying attention to sight and sound -- the different shades of green from the leaves, the vines, and the grass, the blue of the sky, the creamy cottony wisps of clouds, the blue, pink, white and purple of the wildflowers, the whoosh of the wind, the songs and calls of the birds, the voices of the people around us -- even, I said, the faint sound of the animals at the Zoo -- all part of creation, all part of our world, all part of our celebration of Earth Day. Enter into a time of paying attention.
And we did. And around us was symphony of natural and human sounds that we were a part of and paying attention to. And then, right on cue, a lion at the Zoo ROARED.
Well, you couldn't have planned it any better, and when we resumed the service, I said, "That's something that never happens in church -- I've never had a lion roar during meditation before!" And everyone laughed.
When the service was done, we shared the food and drink we had brought with us -- ham and chicken (both home-made and that New Orleans church potluck staple Popeye's) and hummus, tabouleh, spinach salad, ambrosia fruit salad, 3-bean salad, cheese and crackers, black bean dip, fresh fruit, French bread and Passover matzoh, an apple pie, Girl Scout cookies, cake, and yummy baklava. Lots of cold juice and water and iced tea and soft drinks. Despite the large numbers of people, many of whom had NOT brought anything, there seemed to be enough food for everyone. Folks gathered in clumps in the shade, or on the benches around the Labyrinth and enjoyed the food and conversation and the day.
There were many hands to make light work of the clean-up afterwards, and we all agreed it had been one of the best Earth Day services and picnics ever. But the highlight of the day for me was that lion roaring into our meditation time.
It was a glorious day, blue sky with a few drifting clouds, a light breeze riffling the pages on our makeshift pulpit, the grass and clover soft and green. There was a flock of birds chirping and swooping a few yards behind where we had set up, and a little further away, behind a fence, was the Audubon Zoo, where the new Asian-Pacific Festival was going on. The park was filled with happy people of all ages and races, and faint sounds of music drifted toward us from cars going by on East Drive, from inside the Zoo and the festival, from over by the Great-Grandmother Oak where some young people strummed guitars and sang softly.
We decided not to try to set up a sound system and the four ministers (one from each congregation and one community minister) just pitched our voices higher to reach our spread-out Earth Day congregation over the mild din of everything else going on. The responsibility of the Meditation portion of the service fell to me, and I gamely reminded everyone that we were not going to "enter into the silence" as in a usual worship service, but would instead enter into a time of paying attention to sight and sound -- the different shades of green from the leaves, the vines, and the grass, the blue of the sky, the creamy cottony wisps of clouds, the blue, pink, white and purple of the wildflowers, the whoosh of the wind, the songs and calls of the birds, the voices of the people around us -- even, I said, the faint sound of the animals at the Zoo -- all part of creation, all part of our world, all part of our celebration of Earth Day. Enter into a time of paying attention.
And we did. And around us was symphony of natural and human sounds that we were a part of and paying attention to. And then, right on cue, a lion at the Zoo ROARED.
Well, you couldn't have planned it any better, and when we resumed the service, I said, "That's something that never happens in church -- I've never had a lion roar during meditation before!" And everyone laughed.
When the service was done, we shared the food and drink we had brought with us -- ham and chicken (both home-made and that New Orleans church potluck staple Popeye's) and hummus, tabouleh, spinach salad, ambrosia fruit salad, 3-bean salad, cheese and crackers, black bean dip, fresh fruit, French bread and Passover matzoh, an apple pie, Girl Scout cookies, cake, and yummy baklava. Lots of cold juice and water and iced tea and soft drinks. Despite the large numbers of people, many of whom had NOT brought anything, there seemed to be enough food for everyone. Folks gathered in clumps in the shade, or on the benches around the Labyrinth and enjoyed the food and conversation and the day.
There were many hands to make light work of the clean-up afterwards, and we all agreed it had been one of the best Earth Day services and picnics ever. But the highlight of the day for me was that lion roaring into our meditation time.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
How Many Colors Does It Take...
to paint a house in New Orleans? Well, that depends.
There was a time when I was young that the classic look for a New Orleans-style house was white boards and dark green shutters. (Turns out that this rather dull color scheme became fashionable in the early 20th century; in the 19th century, houses were painted in bright or dark colors, almost never white.)
But even white-with-green-shutters is more colors than you might at first think. The flooring of the porch is usually another color, such as dark gray, and if the house has any cast-iron trim, that's painted glossy black. And of course, there's the old tradition of painting the ceiling of the porch or under the front eave "hant blue." (This is to fool the ghosts, or "hants," into thinking they're seeing the sky, to get them to fly away from the house. I'm always disappointed when I find folks who are not keeping this old custom.) So even though the main color scheme is white with green shutters, it actually totals 4 or 5 colors.
But nowadays, we seem to be going back to the 19th century style of painting, in coordinated and contrasting bright and dark tones, and then the numbers begin to add up. There's the color of the main house, then the *2* colors of trim, the floor of the porch, the one for the railings, and finally the accent color. My sister L's house is painted in 6 colors, and looks demure compared to some others. I've also seen up to 7 or 8 without looking like a Carnival (or an exploded paint store).
But my real favorite is what's going on over at the marvelous tropical building on Magazine Street at Felicity (always one of my favorite buildings, it looks like it belongs in Jamaica or Haiti or somewhere), where Harkins the Florist has been repainting. So far, Big Man and I count 10 colors, and while it is admittedly wild, it is delightful. It makes me smile every time I drive by.
So, how many colors does it take to paint a New Orleans house? Well, it's limited only by your imagination.
There was a time when I was young that the classic look for a New Orleans-style house was white boards and dark green shutters. (Turns out that this rather dull color scheme became fashionable in the early 20th century; in the 19th century, houses were painted in bright or dark colors, almost never white.)
But even white-with-green-shutters is more colors than you might at first think. The flooring of the porch is usually another color, such as dark gray, and if the house has any cast-iron trim, that's painted glossy black. And of course, there's the old tradition of painting the ceiling of the porch or under the front eave "hant blue." (This is to fool the ghosts, or "hants," into thinking they're seeing the sky, to get them to fly away from the house. I'm always disappointed when I find folks who are not keeping this old custom.) So even though the main color scheme is white with green shutters, it actually totals 4 or 5 colors.
But nowadays, we seem to be going back to the 19th century style of painting, in coordinated and contrasting bright and dark tones, and then the numbers begin to add up. There's the color of the main house, then the *2* colors of trim, the floor of the porch, the one for the railings, and finally the accent color. My sister L's house is painted in 6 colors, and looks demure compared to some others. I've also seen up to 7 or 8 without looking like a Carnival (or an exploded paint store).
But my real favorite is what's going on over at the marvelous tropical building on Magazine Street at Felicity (always one of my favorite buildings, it looks like it belongs in Jamaica or Haiti or somewhere), where Harkins the Florist has been repainting. So far, Big Man and I count 10 colors, and while it is admittedly wild, it is delightful. It makes me smile every time I drive by.
So, how many colors does it take to paint a New Orleans house? Well, it's limited only by your imagination.
Highlights of the French Quarter Festival
Just a few vignettes of the wonderful French Quarter Fest this past weekend:
**The absolutely gorgeous and 7-month-pregnant chanteuse Anaïs St. John sitting on a stool on a stage on Royal Street, scissoring her bare legs deliciously, grinning knowingly, while singing a dirty ditty about a dentist named Dr. Longjohn, who does such great "drilling." Anaïs was backed up by the more-than-able Harry Mayronne Trio, but who could look at them while Anaïs was on stage? She makes the tamest standards smokin' hot.
**Cute-as-a-button and talented as all-get-out young fiddler Amanda Shaw joining Rockin' Doopsie on stage behind the Mint, after playing her own fest gig on another stage. The crowd was so packed in, nobody even had space to dance -- highly unusual at a Zydeco or Cajun stage. Amanda and Doopsie on stage were like yin and yang, or ebony and ivory, or any other cliche opposites -- but the truth of it is, they were totally together on the music they both cherish.
**Big Man and I had already eaten, but when we passed the food booth from the Royal Orleans Rib Room, we were caught up real short. The sign said, "Shaved prime rib on pistolettes with horseradish cream." Just the thought was pretty high on the Ohmygod Scale. Two pretty young women in the booth called to us, "It's good, it's really good, we promise!" but they needn't have bothered. The sandwich that was handed over to us -- the richest, darkest chunks of prime rib soaked in pan gravy in a hand-sized pistolette with sesame seeds, on which you pumped your own amount of horseradish cream -- was a platonic ideal of a debris po-boy. Wow! was it good!
**Kermit Ruffins, dressed in a dazzling white summer suit, topped with his new white straw hat (from Meyer's ça va sans dire), beguiling the huge crowd at the Riverfront with his trumpet playing, his crooning, and even his rapping. "What Is New Orleans"? Why Kermit Ruffins of course!
**We didn't eat any, but it had to be the best dessert, not only at the fest, but possibly anywhere: Oreo Cookie Bread Pudding with Fudge Sauce. Talk about overkill! A glistening dark brown almost black ball of creamy bread pudding, sitting in a styro bowl, topped with a river of thick fudge sauce. I think I gained a few pounds just looking at it. The folks behind the booth egged me on, but I managed to resist. But I went over to them and said seriously, "Now, y'all, this is just wrong."
**Astral Project playing sweet to an enthralled crowd in folding chairs in front of the Louisiana Supreme Court building on Royal Street, Tony DaGradi's sax moaning, David Tork on the keys, Steve Masokowski's fingers running on the fret of his guitar. But beautiful.
**On the day after his induction into the New Orleans Legends Park on Bourbon Street, the great Ronnie Cole (Ronnie, lose the rug!) playing swell piano with a really hot older-guy band (including a terrific trumpet player) on the Jackson Square stage, showing that hotness in musicians is not a function of age.
**A street band we've never heard of before with an older heavy-set black woman styling herself "Queen" on clarinet -- what a player! Such sweet tones, long held notes, sassy rhythm -- hey, where you been all my life? We'll be looking for her again.
**The good folks from the Praline Connection Restaurant were selling wonderful combo plates with tasty greens, rice, and a generous pile of *grilled* (not fried!) chicken livers, with hot pepper jelly sauce. On the Ohmygod Scale, this had to be right up with the prime rib pistolette. The greens were savory and spiced just right; the livers -- alone, before you even dipped them in the hot pepper jelly -- were tender and juicy, not charred at all, even though freshly grilled, and were wondrously spiced (maybe marinated?). Big Man said wonderingly, while we sat on the levee eating, "I always thought I didn't like chicken livers, but I guess I just didn't like the way they cook them up North." (We decided that that would make a GREAT commercial for the city: "Is there a food you don't like? Come eat it in New Orleans and we bet you change your mind!")
What? You missed all this? Oh, we feel bad for you! Make plans to come to French Quarter Festival next year!
**The absolutely gorgeous and 7-month-pregnant chanteuse Anaïs St. John sitting on a stool on a stage on Royal Street, scissoring her bare legs deliciously, grinning knowingly, while singing a dirty ditty about a dentist named Dr. Longjohn, who does such great "drilling." Anaïs was backed up by the more-than-able Harry Mayronne Trio, but who could look at them while Anaïs was on stage? She makes the tamest standards smokin' hot.
**Cute-as-a-button and talented as all-get-out young fiddler Amanda Shaw joining Rockin' Doopsie on stage behind the Mint, after playing her own fest gig on another stage. The crowd was so packed in, nobody even had space to dance -- highly unusual at a Zydeco or Cajun stage. Amanda and Doopsie on stage were like yin and yang, or ebony and ivory, or any other cliche opposites -- but the truth of it is, they were totally together on the music they both cherish.
**Big Man and I had already eaten, but when we passed the food booth from the Royal Orleans Rib Room, we were caught up real short. The sign said, "Shaved prime rib on pistolettes with horseradish cream." Just the thought was pretty high on the Ohmygod Scale. Two pretty young women in the booth called to us, "It's good, it's really good, we promise!" but they needn't have bothered. The sandwich that was handed over to us -- the richest, darkest chunks of prime rib soaked in pan gravy in a hand-sized pistolette with sesame seeds, on which you pumped your own amount of horseradish cream -- was a platonic ideal of a debris po-boy. Wow! was it good!
**Kermit Ruffins, dressed in a dazzling white summer suit, topped with his new white straw hat (from Meyer's ça va sans dire), beguiling the huge crowd at the Riverfront with his trumpet playing, his crooning, and even his rapping. "What Is New Orleans"? Why Kermit Ruffins of course!
**We didn't eat any, but it had to be the best dessert, not only at the fest, but possibly anywhere: Oreo Cookie Bread Pudding with Fudge Sauce. Talk about overkill! A glistening dark brown almost black ball of creamy bread pudding, sitting in a styro bowl, topped with a river of thick fudge sauce. I think I gained a few pounds just looking at it. The folks behind the booth egged me on, but I managed to resist. But I went over to them and said seriously, "Now, y'all, this is just wrong."
**Astral Project playing sweet to an enthralled crowd in folding chairs in front of the Louisiana Supreme Court building on Royal Street, Tony DaGradi's sax moaning, David Tork on the keys, Steve Masokowski's fingers running on the fret of his guitar. But beautiful.
**On the day after his induction into the New Orleans Legends Park on Bourbon Street, the great Ronnie Cole (Ronnie, lose the rug!) playing swell piano with a really hot older-guy band (including a terrific trumpet player) on the Jackson Square stage, showing that hotness in musicians is not a function of age.
**A street band we've never heard of before with an older heavy-set black woman styling herself "Queen" on clarinet -- what a player! Such sweet tones, long held notes, sassy rhythm -- hey, where you been all my life? We'll be looking for her again.
**The good folks from the Praline Connection Restaurant were selling wonderful combo plates with tasty greens, rice, and a generous pile of *grilled* (not fried!) chicken livers, with hot pepper jelly sauce. On the Ohmygod Scale, this had to be right up with the prime rib pistolette. The greens were savory and spiced just right; the livers -- alone, before you even dipped them in the hot pepper jelly -- were tender and juicy, not charred at all, even though freshly grilled, and were wondrously spiced (maybe marinated?). Big Man said wonderingly, while we sat on the levee eating, "I always thought I didn't like chicken livers, but I guess I just didn't like the way they cook them up North." (We decided that that would make a GREAT commercial for the city: "Is there a food you don't like? Come eat it in New Orleans and we bet you change your mind!")
What? You missed all this? Oh, we feel bad for you! Make plans to come to French Quarter Festival next year!
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Fest With No Rest
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire…
T. S. Eliot, "The Wasteland"
April really is the cruellest month, because it's absolutely impossible to attend every single one of the festivals happening in the Greater New Orleans-South Louisiana area this month, and it's almost impossible to choose between them.
Last weekend, there was a Latina Festival on the corner of Napoleon and Magazine (my old neighborhood!), the Isleños Festival happened in its original location in St. Bernard Parish (where I grew up), the Cajun Hot Sauce Festival was going on in New Iberia, Lusher School threw a benefit crawfish boil, the Old Algiers Festival went on across the river, and the 11th Annual Freret Street Fest was held on the afore-mentioned street. Big Man and I attended the latter, being as he had another gig playing behind Joe Cool Davis. After their set was over, we ate ourselves silly on the fantastic food, enjoyed looking at all the crafts items, and heard some really great music. But we had to miss the other *5* festivals, all of which I'm sure also had terrific food and great music. (Next year, Big Man *really* wants to try that Hot Sauce Fest!)
This weekend is the famous French Quarter Festival, and it will be Big Man's first time at this event (and my first time in 15 years). We are hosting some friends from out of town this weekend, and I know we'll have lots of fun. But we'll be missing the Strawberry Festival in Pontchatoula and the Louisiana Bird Festival in Mandeville, as well as the Swamp Celtic Games in Gonzales. The weekend after, April 19-20, there will be the giant Asian-Pacific American Heritage Festival at Audubon Zoo, the famous Angola Rodeo, the Slidell Antique District Street Fair, the Indian Parade and Festival in Algiers. (We'll be in the Park for an outdoor church Earth Day service, so I guess we'll run over to the zoo and check out the festivities there. We may be too full from the church picnic to enjoy the food, but I'm sure we'll at least sample some.)
The last weekend in April is just ridiculous. There's the Blues Fest in Baton Rouge, the Crawfish Fest in Breaux Bridge, the Etouffee Festival in Arnaudville, the annual Blessing of the Boats in Bayou Segnette, and the famous Festival International in Lafayette. Oh yeah -- there's also this little thing called the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. Big Man and I will be at Jazz Fest, of course -- I figure it'll take me about 5-10 years to have my fill of Jazz Fest and to want to check out another festival instead. But the overchoice! It's incredible!
There's just no rest for the fest-inclined in New Orleans and South Louisiana this month. Oh well. Wonder what the rest of the country is doing in April? Likely, wishing they were here.
Friday, April 4, 2008
1st Annual Whatever
I guess you could say this is #468 in my long list of reasons why you gotta love New Orleans.
Whenever we in New Orleans start something new -- an event or happening, holiday or festival, celebration of anything -- it's never a try or a stab or an experiment. It's the "1st Annual" Whatever. I've done it myself, inaugurating at the church what I hope will become a yearly tradition of the Jazz Funeral Service for the Old Year for the last Sunday of December or the first Sunday of January.
It is an impulse that's endemic to this city, both pre- and post-Katrina. I can remember in years past, attending some festive event, and having someone announce that it was the 1st Annual. But it does seem more pervasive now. Last year, we happily attended the 1st Annual Congo Square Festival. Also last year, on Oak Street, a new festival called "S.O.S." ("Save Our Sandwich") was advertised as the First Annual Po-Boy Festival.
Yesterday afternoon, Big Man and I headed over to the edge of the Tulane University campus for something I thought I had heard about on WWOZ, but I was not able to verify. I had tuned in late to hear Irvin Mayfield talking about the release of the latest CD from the New Orleans Jazz Orchestra (NOJO), and saying something about a "Porch Party" at the NOJO office "at the corner of Broadway and Freret" on Thursday from 4 to 6 om. Irvin was saying that there would be free barbeque and free music by Kermit Ruffins, and then he talked a lot of trash about how he'd have to "teach Kermit some trumpet" and give Kermit "another beat-down." After I heard this -- it must've been Monday when I was making the bank deposit -- I tried and tried, but failed, to find about any more information about it, on the 'OZ website, on NOLA.com, on the NOJO website, anywhere.
So Big Man and I were a little leery as we drove over to Freret and Broadway -- maybe it was happening, maybe not; maybe I misheard *which* Thursday it would be. When we got to that corner, there was nothing going on, and I shrugged it off. "Maybe it's next week," I said, and Big Man turned the van onto Freret, in order to return me to the church early for a meeting at 6 pm.
And then, we saw it -- a giant barbeque rig in the yard in front of an old house that was now part of the Tulane campus, right next to the Chabad House. (I think it used to be used as Tulane's payroll department.) On the front porch, a band was setting up, and there was a big banner that said, "New Orleans Jazz Orchestra Porch Party! Free BBQ! Free music! Kermit Ruffins! Thursday, April 3, 4-6 pm." Ah-ha!
We found a parking place and hurried over. A small crowd of diverse ages was gathering. A young black man from V.I.P. -- Voting Is Power -- asked if we were registered voters and I said I was. Big Man admitted he wasn't yet, and filled out the papers right then and there. Well! Something off our To-Do List easy as pie (wish somebody would come running up to us out of the blue to register our cars and switch our driver's licenses!).
The smoky smell of the meats in the big rig was wonderful, and I wondered about the Jewish folk next door in the Chabad House, with all that trayf smoke drifting over their yard. Pans of grilled smoked sausage were laid out, with wheat bread and mustard, and folks lined up to eat. There was an ice chest filled with free soft drinks and ice water too (although the musicians were drinking beers obtained from inside the NOJO offices). We found a shady spot and wolfed down the sandwiches.
As we were eating, a young man came on the porch and tested the microphone, and then said, "I want to welcome everybody to the 1st Annual NOJO Porch Party and Barbeque. Thanks for being here and the music will start soon." Well, of course. The 1st Annual. We're doing it now, and we're gonna do it again every year, forever. Yeah you right.
Irvin Mayfield sat on the porch steps with family members (including 2 little boys who looked like Irvin-clones) as Kermit Ruffins -- nattily dressed in a quintessential New Orleans outfit of white guayabera shirt over red and white seersucker pants and a SHARP dazzlingly white straw hat over a white bandanna -- came on and blew pretty, playing several standards ("Strutting with Some Barbeque," "Marie," "Someone Like You") and then into his signature "The Side of The Street That's Sunny." The crowd broke up when Kermit ended "Sunny Side" with the wicked line "and if I ever-ever had a cent, I'd be rich as Irvin Mayfield!" Irvin turned and grinned and shook his fist playfully at Kermit.
The good folks over at the bbq rig then set out trays of -- unbelievable! -- barbequed quail and the crowd once again converged like locusts on the food table. Big Man snagged one and I sucked on a tiny drum stick and he went at the rest of little bird. Wow! Free burgers or dogs and sausage is one thing, but quail?? When they do this next year, for the *2nd* Annual Porch Party, there will surely be a bigger crowd!
Whenever we in New Orleans start something new -- an event or happening, holiday or festival, celebration of anything -- it's never a try or a stab or an experiment. It's the "1st Annual" Whatever. I've done it myself, inaugurating at the church what I hope will become a yearly tradition of the Jazz Funeral Service for the Old Year for the last Sunday of December or the first Sunday of January.
It is an impulse that's endemic to this city, both pre- and post-Katrina. I can remember in years past, attending some festive event, and having someone announce that it was the 1st Annual. But it does seem more pervasive now. Last year, we happily attended the 1st Annual Congo Square Festival. Also last year, on Oak Street, a new festival called "S.O.S." ("Save Our Sandwich") was advertised as the First Annual Po-Boy Festival.
Yesterday afternoon, Big Man and I headed over to the edge of the Tulane University campus for something I thought I had heard about on WWOZ, but I was not able to verify. I had tuned in late to hear Irvin Mayfield talking about the release of the latest CD from the New Orleans Jazz Orchestra (NOJO), and saying something about a "Porch Party" at the NOJO office "at the corner of Broadway and Freret" on Thursday from 4 to 6 om. Irvin was saying that there would be free barbeque and free music by Kermit Ruffins, and then he talked a lot of trash about how he'd have to "teach Kermit some trumpet" and give Kermit "another beat-down." After I heard this -- it must've been Monday when I was making the bank deposit -- I tried and tried, but failed, to find about any more information about it, on the 'OZ website, on NOLA.com, on the NOJO website, anywhere.
So Big Man and I were a little leery as we drove over to Freret and Broadway -- maybe it was happening, maybe not; maybe I misheard *which* Thursday it would be. When we got to that corner, there was nothing going on, and I shrugged it off. "Maybe it's next week," I said, and Big Man turned the van onto Freret, in order to return me to the church early for a meeting at 6 pm.
And then, we saw it -- a giant barbeque rig in the yard in front of an old house that was now part of the Tulane campus, right next to the Chabad House. (I think it used to be used as Tulane's payroll department.) On the front porch, a band was setting up, and there was a big banner that said, "New Orleans Jazz Orchestra Porch Party! Free BBQ! Free music! Kermit Ruffins! Thursday, April 3, 4-6 pm." Ah-ha!
We found a parking place and hurried over. A small crowd of diverse ages was gathering. A young black man from V.I.P. -- Voting Is Power -- asked if we were registered voters and I said I was. Big Man admitted he wasn't yet, and filled out the papers right then and there. Well! Something off our To-Do List easy as pie (wish somebody would come running up to us out of the blue to register our cars and switch our driver's licenses!).
The smoky smell of the meats in the big rig was wonderful, and I wondered about the Jewish folk next door in the Chabad House, with all that trayf smoke drifting over their yard. Pans of grilled smoked sausage were laid out, with wheat bread and mustard, and folks lined up to eat. There was an ice chest filled with free soft drinks and ice water too (although the musicians were drinking beers obtained from inside the NOJO offices). We found a shady spot and wolfed down the sandwiches.
As we were eating, a young man came on the porch and tested the microphone, and then said, "I want to welcome everybody to the 1st Annual NOJO Porch Party and Barbeque. Thanks for being here and the music will start soon." Well, of course. The 1st Annual. We're doing it now, and we're gonna do it again every year, forever. Yeah you right.
Irvin Mayfield sat on the porch steps with family members (including 2 little boys who looked like Irvin-clones) as Kermit Ruffins -- nattily dressed in a quintessential New Orleans outfit of white guayabera shirt over red and white seersucker pants and a SHARP dazzlingly white straw hat over a white bandanna -- came on and blew pretty, playing several standards ("Strutting with Some Barbeque," "Marie," "Someone Like You") and then into his signature "The Side of The Street That's Sunny." The crowd broke up when Kermit ended "Sunny Side" with the wicked line "and if I ever-ever had a cent, I'd be rich as Irvin Mayfield!" Irvin turned and grinned and shook his fist playfully at Kermit.
The good folks over at the bbq rig then set out trays of -- unbelievable! -- barbequed quail and the crowd once again converged like locusts on the food table. Big Man snagged one and I sucked on a tiny drum stick and he went at the rest of little bird. Wow! Free burgers or dogs and sausage is one thing, but quail?? When they do this next year, for the *2nd* Annual Porch Party, there will surely be a bigger crowd!
Thursday, April 3, 2008
On Being an Exile
At some level, all of us New Orleanians are coping with tangled and complicated feelings of exile. This is true whether or not a person has been, like me, away for a number of years pre-Katrina more or less voluntarily, or forced out of the city for however long because of the Storm, or home as always never-left. We are all exiles because our city is not as it was, and -- as much as I want to be in denial about this and resent hearing it -- for good and ill, New Orleans will never be exactly as she was before Katrina.
We are all in exile, banished in a sense, kept away from a place that we loved and cherished, or loved and took for granted, or loved and hated in almost equal measure. Just like exiles anywhere else, we love the place we're in exile from with a passion that is made greater and deeper by our forced absence from it. Exiles in general do not have a clear perspective or an objective point of view. We wax nostalgic -- ironically missing things we didn't even like before we became exiles. Our memories become suffused with a rosy glow; we ache and long for small trivial things that will never be the same again, even if it can "proven" that some of those things, at least, are better now than they were before.
We New Orleans exiles-in-place navigate our way through a "ghost city" -- here is where this used to be, there is the place (underneath that rubble or in that empty lot) where this important event took place, over yonder is where we used to buy this or that, or have this service done, this is where we ate the most delicious whatevers, here there used to be giant oak trees or magnolia trees or cypress trees in this now-sunny spot. (Big Man and I got sunburned on a recent stroll around the Loop at Audubon Park, because I forgot we had lost so many shade trees.) It was pointed out to me recently that every major city in the U.S. is the same way, with long-lost landmarks still appearing in the consciousness and the emotions of long-time residents, but with New Orleans, we are not talking about gradual development and the natural occurrences of the passing of long periods of time. New Orleans as we knew it was taken from us in an instant, and neighborhoods and landmarks were wiped out wholesale, all at once, never to return. This is much harder on the psyche and the spirit. It is sometimes very hard to bear.
I read recently a review of "Tastes Like Cuba: An Exile's Hunger for Home," a book by Eduardo Machado, a playwright and Cuban-American. (The title alone speaks to us New Orleanians, hungering for a home that is forever lost to us in its old entirety.) Machado, visiting Cuba for the first time since coming to the U.S., was eager to sample his favorite Cuban dishes, to see if the food of Cuba itself was as good as the cultural favorites he had savored as a boy in Miami. He writes:
Oh, how that speaks to me! I do not want to be that kind of New Orleanian. I don't want to be or become bitter and sad, always mourning and grieving what was lost; always complaining that Jazz Fest used to be smaller, Mardi Gras used to be better, City Park used to be prettier, this or that used to taste stronger or sharper or that crabs used to be bigger or that St. Joseph's altars used to be larger or...
It is true that we have lost a lot, A LOT. It is true that it still hurts, 2 1/2 years later, and it will most likely hurt for years to come. It is true that we are in exile, and there is no way home to what was before. For some people, this cause for despair and depression. Some folks, they cannot reconcile themselves to what was lost and can never be regained.
I don't want to be that kind of New Orleanian. I will not forget what was, but I will take joy and pleasure in our dear old belle NOLA. This is still a beautiful city. We still have our wonderful architecture. We still have beautiful old giant trees (and we are replanting all the time, our gift to the New Orleanians of the future). We still have delicious food, the best indigenous food anywhere in the country. We still have our traditions and holidays and customs, and we still observe them fastidiously and joyously. We still have our music, and people of all ages still dance unselfconsciously in public, dignity be damned, shaking our booties and we don't care who sees. (God bless those folks at the Wednesday at Lafayette Square concert last night, so obliviously shakin' it to Ivan Neville and Dumpstafunk! Gotta love these people.)
I promise to remember that, whatever we lost, a half-destroyed New Orleans is still a much better place to live and love and enjoy than anywhere else in America.
We are all in exile, banished in a sense, kept away from a place that we loved and cherished, or loved and took for granted, or loved and hated in almost equal measure. Just like exiles anywhere else, we love the place we're in exile from with a passion that is made greater and deeper by our forced absence from it. Exiles in general do not have a clear perspective or an objective point of view. We wax nostalgic -- ironically missing things we didn't even like before we became exiles. Our memories become suffused with a rosy glow; we ache and long for small trivial things that will never be the same again, even if it can "proven" that some of those things, at least, are better now than they were before.
We New Orleans exiles-in-place navigate our way through a "ghost city" -- here is where this used to be, there is the place (underneath that rubble or in that empty lot) where this important event took place, over yonder is where we used to buy this or that, or have this service done, this is where we ate the most delicious whatevers, here there used to be giant oak trees or magnolia trees or cypress trees in this now-sunny spot. (Big Man and I got sunburned on a recent stroll around the Loop at Audubon Park, because I forgot we had lost so many shade trees.) It was pointed out to me recently that every major city in the U.S. is the same way, with long-lost landmarks still appearing in the consciousness and the emotions of long-time residents, but with New Orleans, we are not talking about gradual development and the natural occurrences of the passing of long periods of time. New Orleans as we knew it was taken from us in an instant, and neighborhoods and landmarks were wiped out wholesale, all at once, never to return. This is much harder on the psyche and the spirit. It is sometimes very hard to bear.
I read recently a review of "Tastes Like Cuba: An Exile's Hunger for Home," a book by Eduardo Machado, a playwright and Cuban-American. (The title alone speaks to us New Orleanians, hungering for a home that is forever lost to us in its old entirety.) Machado, visiting Cuba for the first time since coming to the U.S., was eager to sample his favorite Cuban dishes, to see if the food of Cuba itself was as good as the cultural favorites he had savored as a boy in Miami. He writes:
"And then it hit me. I didn't care. I didn't want to compare them...I no longer wanted to be the kind of Cuban that let what was lost get in the way of the beauty and the joy and life and food that was staring me in the face."
Oh, how that speaks to me! I do not want to be that kind of New Orleanian. I don't want to be or become bitter and sad, always mourning and grieving what was lost; always complaining that Jazz Fest used to be smaller, Mardi Gras used to be better, City Park used to be prettier, this or that used to taste stronger or sharper or that crabs used to be bigger or that St. Joseph's altars used to be larger or...
It is true that we have lost a lot, A LOT. It is true that it still hurts, 2 1/2 years later, and it will most likely hurt for years to come. It is true that we are in exile, and there is no way home to what was before. For some people, this cause for despair and depression. Some folks, they cannot reconcile themselves to what was lost and can never be regained.
I don't want to be that kind of New Orleanian. I will not forget what was, but I will take joy and pleasure in our dear old belle NOLA. This is still a beautiful city. We still have our wonderful architecture. We still have beautiful old giant trees (and we are replanting all the time, our gift to the New Orleanians of the future). We still have delicious food, the best indigenous food anywhere in the country. We still have our traditions and holidays and customs, and we still observe them fastidiously and joyously. We still have our music, and people of all ages still dance unselfconsciously in public, dignity be damned, shaking our booties and we don't care who sees. (God bless those folks at the Wednesday at Lafayette Square concert last night, so obliviously shakin' it to Ivan Neville and Dumpstafunk! Gotta love these people.)
I promise to remember that, whatever we lost, a half-destroyed New Orleans is still a much better place to live and love and enjoy than anywhere else in America.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
I Won!
In this greater scheme of things, I know this is no big deal. In fact, it's really nothing. If I were a better person, I wouldn't even care at all.
But. It IS a big deal, and I care about it a lot. (OK, more than I should.) So I am taking this opportunity to announce to the world, This weekend, I finally won the Morel Family Cook-Off!
A bit of background: In my 15 years away from the city, I gained a reputation as a terrific cook, and I not only got used to thinking of myself that way, I took no little pride in the distinction. Serving congregations in Tennessee, New Zealand, and suburban Philadelphia, I was pleased that congregants made a fuss over my pot-luck contributions, and even paid big bucks at church auctions for the privilege of being a part of my annual Creole Dinner. (My Creole Dinner always sold for far more than my annual auction sermon topic. A parishioner comforted me by saying, "We can hear you preach any time, but it's difficult to find good New Orleans food.") When I first met and cooked for Big Man, he was blown away by my cooking and bragged about me to his friends.
All this was, of course, quite gratifying, but it was out of context. Just as I have always said that I may seem extravagantly extroverted when I am outside New Orleans, but I am only mildly extroverted when I'm in the city, something similar can be said about my cooking. (I'm even less extroverted when compared to other Morels.) Outside the city, I'm a whiz-bang chef, I'm a cooking genius, I should open a restaurant -- but inside the city, I'm about average. I'm not even the best cook in my family.
My family, those wonderful, funny, outrageous, everybody-talking-over-each-other, competitive Morels. Once a month, all 5 of the New Orleans siblings gather together for an over-the-top dinner with a pre-announced theme. (Once a year at the Morel family vacation in Gatlinburg, our out-of-town sister gets to compete as well and then there are 6 entries.) Everyone submits an entree befitting the theme, we eat like starved elephants (remember, to be fair, you must taste every submission), and then there's a blind vote to judge which is the best. ("Blind" is not always so blind, but there is a conscientious effort not to identify cooks until after the vote is taken.) While all my entries have been -- to my mind, at least -- creditable, I have never won. A few times, the only vote I got was MINE, after I reluctantly gave Big Man my assent to the novel proposition that he should be able to vote for whichever dish he deemed the very best, and not just voting loyally for mine. (Do you have any idea how humiliating THAT was?)
Not that I didn't make every effort. Once I traveled all over South Jersey and Philadelphia to get the finest ingredients for an authentic and superb pizza, only to be beaten by my brother-in-law who concocted a filet mignon pizza. Another time, after going to great expense for high-quality veal shanks for my specialty osso bucco, my Crockpot malfunctioned and I was almost disqualified altogether for the use of a microwave to finish it off. Didn't seem to matter what I did, I was just an also-ran. In a family as competitive as mine, it was depressing.
Then, luck went my way. The winner of last month's cook-off announced meatloaf as the next theme dish, and Big Man and I exchanged looks. I make a *killer* meatloaf, using the justly-famous Hunters' Mix from D'Angelo's on 9th Street in the Italian Market in South Philadelphia. This heavenly concoction is made up of venison, rabbit, wild boar, buffalo, pheasant, and kangaroo meat, ground to order and "Cajun" spiced by the butcher/artist Sonny D'Angelo, a 3rd generation butcher (go to http://www.dangelobros.com/htm -- try as I might, I can't seem to get the hang of inserting an actual link into this blog). The taste is unbelievable, and Big Man and I knew immediately we'd be placing a long-distance order with Sonny as soon as possible.
We met at our older sister's apartment in historic Bywater on Sunday afternoon. It was a beautiful day, with sunshine and some decorative clouds, and a cool breeze blowing. All of the meatloaves were great -- with special mention of my sister-in-law's reproduction of an old Creole recipe out of an out-of-print cookbook that had belonged to our mother, my sister L's *individual* meatloaves made in muffin tins (GREAT idea!), and my sister D's "jellyroll" meatloaf with a stuffing of rice and cheese (unfortunately, not heated all the way through) -- but in the end, it was my hunters' meatloaf that got the most votes.
I almost did a Sally Field at the Oscars, I was so overwhelmed ("You like me! You really LIKE me!"), but managed to confine myself to a simple wordless screech. I finally won a Morel Cook-Off! About damn time!
Well, then, there was the giant round and round discussion of the theme of the next cook-off. A few sibs (who shall remain nameless) tried to veto our choice of Italian, saying it was too broad, contending that it would be impossible to choose between a pizza, a lasagna, and an eggplant parmegiano, but Big Man solved it by narrowing it down to *Northern Italian.* This shut up the nay-sayers, and caused someone to add that all entries would need to be in some way certified as being northern Italian in origin, and there was great discussion of how one would prove provenance. In the end, we left that decision to the cooks.
And so we're the hosts for the April Morel Cook-Off, and we're in the club of Morels who have won a cook-off. What a relief!
THE WINNING RECIPE: Melanie's Hunters' Meatloaf
1 lb. of hunters' mix variety ground meat from D'Angelo's Meats in South Philly
spray olive oil (like Pam but doesn't have to be Pam)
1/4 cup of New Orleans "holy trinity" chopped fine
4 end slices of stale whole-wheat bread, torn or cut into little pieces
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup evaporated skim milk
New Orleans Slap Yo Mama spice
seasoned bread crumbs
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly spray a glass or metal loaf pan with olive oil. In a bowl, mix the holy trinity with the eggs and milk, and add the bread pieces. Season lightly (remember, the meat is prespiced.) Using your hands, mix this mixture with the ground meat, adding seasoned bread crumbs if necessary if it is too wet. Form into a loaf shape and press into the oiled loaf pan. Put into hot oven and bake for 1 hour. Can be served hot or cold. Polenta is a nice alternative to mashed potatoes with this dish, and it can stand up to a well-spiced rich gravy.
But. It IS a big deal, and I care about it a lot. (OK, more than I should.) So I am taking this opportunity to announce to the world, This weekend, I finally won the Morel Family Cook-Off!
A bit of background: In my 15 years away from the city, I gained a reputation as a terrific cook, and I not only got used to thinking of myself that way, I took no little pride in the distinction. Serving congregations in Tennessee, New Zealand, and suburban Philadelphia, I was pleased that congregants made a fuss over my pot-luck contributions, and even paid big bucks at church auctions for the privilege of being a part of my annual Creole Dinner. (My Creole Dinner always sold for far more than my annual auction sermon topic. A parishioner comforted me by saying, "We can hear you preach any time, but it's difficult to find good New Orleans food.") When I first met and cooked for Big Man, he was blown away by my cooking and bragged about me to his friends.
All this was, of course, quite gratifying, but it was out of context. Just as I have always said that I may seem extravagantly extroverted when I am outside New Orleans, but I am only mildly extroverted when I'm in the city, something similar can be said about my cooking. (I'm even less extroverted when compared to other Morels.) Outside the city, I'm a whiz-bang chef, I'm a cooking genius, I should open a restaurant -- but inside the city, I'm about average. I'm not even the best cook in my family.
My family, those wonderful, funny, outrageous, everybody-talking-over-each-other, competitive Morels. Once a month, all 5 of the New Orleans siblings gather together for an over-the-top dinner with a pre-announced theme. (Once a year at the Morel family vacation in Gatlinburg, our out-of-town sister gets to compete as well and then there are 6 entries.) Everyone submits an entree befitting the theme, we eat like starved elephants (remember, to be fair, you must taste every submission), and then there's a blind vote to judge which is the best. ("Blind" is not always so blind, but there is a conscientious effort not to identify cooks until after the vote is taken.) While all my entries have been -- to my mind, at least -- creditable, I have never won. A few times, the only vote I got was MINE, after I reluctantly gave Big Man my assent to the novel proposition that he should be able to vote for whichever dish he deemed the very best, and not just voting loyally for mine. (Do you have any idea how humiliating THAT was?)
Not that I didn't make every effort. Once I traveled all over South Jersey and Philadelphia to get the finest ingredients for an authentic and superb pizza, only to be beaten by my brother-in-law who concocted a filet mignon pizza. Another time, after going to great expense for high-quality veal shanks for my specialty osso bucco, my Crockpot malfunctioned and I was almost disqualified altogether for the use of a microwave to finish it off. Didn't seem to matter what I did, I was just an also-ran. In a family as competitive as mine, it was depressing.
Then, luck went my way. The winner of last month's cook-off announced meatloaf as the next theme dish, and Big Man and I exchanged looks. I make a *killer* meatloaf, using the justly-famous Hunters' Mix from D'Angelo's on 9th Street in the Italian Market in South Philadelphia. This heavenly concoction is made up of venison, rabbit, wild boar, buffalo, pheasant, and kangaroo meat, ground to order and "Cajun" spiced by the butcher/artist Sonny D'Angelo, a 3rd generation butcher (go to http://www.dangelobros.com/htm -- try as I might, I can't seem to get the hang of inserting an actual link into this blog). The taste is unbelievable, and Big Man and I knew immediately we'd be placing a long-distance order with Sonny as soon as possible.
We met at our older sister's apartment in historic Bywater on Sunday afternoon. It was a beautiful day, with sunshine and some decorative clouds, and a cool breeze blowing. All of the meatloaves were great -- with special mention of my sister-in-law's reproduction of an old Creole recipe out of an out-of-print cookbook that had belonged to our mother, my sister L's *individual* meatloaves made in muffin tins (GREAT idea!), and my sister D's "jellyroll" meatloaf with a stuffing of rice and cheese (unfortunately, not heated all the way through) -- but in the end, it was my hunters' meatloaf that got the most votes.
I almost did a Sally Field at the Oscars, I was so overwhelmed ("You like me! You really LIKE me!"), but managed to confine myself to a simple wordless screech. I finally won a Morel Cook-Off! About damn time!
Well, then, there was the giant round and round discussion of the theme of the next cook-off. A few sibs (who shall remain nameless) tried to veto our choice of Italian, saying it was too broad, contending that it would be impossible to choose between a pizza, a lasagna, and an eggplant parmegiano, but Big Man solved it by narrowing it down to *Northern Italian.* This shut up the nay-sayers, and caused someone to add that all entries would need to be in some way certified as being northern Italian in origin, and there was great discussion of how one would prove provenance. In the end, we left that decision to the cooks.
And so we're the hosts for the April Morel Cook-Off, and we're in the club of Morels who have won a cook-off. What a relief!
THE WINNING RECIPE: Melanie's Hunters' Meatloaf
1 lb. of hunters' mix variety ground meat from D'Angelo's Meats in South Philly
spray olive oil (like Pam but doesn't have to be Pam)
1/4 cup of New Orleans "holy trinity" chopped fine
4 end slices of stale whole-wheat bread, torn or cut into little pieces
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup evaporated skim milk
New Orleans Slap Yo Mama spice
seasoned bread crumbs
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly spray a glass or metal loaf pan with olive oil. In a bowl, mix the holy trinity with the eggs and milk, and add the bread pieces. Season lightly (remember, the meat is prespiced.) Using your hands, mix this mixture with the ground meat, adding seasoned bread crumbs if necessary if it is too wet. Form into a loaf shape and press into the oiled loaf pan. Put into hot oven and bake for 1 hour. Can be served hot or cold. Polenta is a nice alternative to mashed potatoes with this dish, and it can stand up to a well-spiced rich gravy.
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