On Tuesday, October 18, Rev. Jim VanderWeele and I joined a group of activists and religious leaders for a "Tour of Truth" led by the organizers and members of the local Congreso de Jornaleros (Congress of Day Laborers). The plan was to visit several sites in and around New Orleans where agents of Immigration & Customs Enforcement (ICE) had arrested and abused the Latino day laborers who were brought to New Orleans in 2005 to work on post-Katrina reconstruction and rebuilding.
The first stop was, ironically, the corner of Martin Luther King Street and South Claiborne Avenue, at a gas station which is a well-known local corner where workers gather for hire as casual labor (and where once, a Latino worker assisted me in getting the stuck gas cap off my van so I could fill it up). The workers who had been there told us, through a translator, of the daily hassles and threats they had endured, and of workers suddenly "disappearing" after being picked up by ICE. We sang a hymn and continued to the next stop.
Across the street from the Lowe's Home Supply Store on Elysian Fields Avenue, we heard the story of six workers picked up on a Friday by a contractor, who asked if they would be available to work over the weekend. All six eagerly agreed. One young man related, through the interpreter, how excited he had been to get a weekend job; he anticipated being able to buy groceries for his family and pay his rent on the following Monday. But the "contractor" proved to be an ICE agent in disguise. When the workers tried to run away, they were beaten. (Running away is apparently considered by ICE to be "resistance" and thus use of physical force is justified.) Again, an African-American neighborhood activist led us in singing a traditional hymn, one often used in the civil rights movement, and we left for the next location.
On a quiet street in Mid-City, we stood in front of the house that had been home to Delmy, her husband, and their newborn son. Holding the baby, now a squirmy toddler, and wiping away tears, Delmy shared the story of the night that she and her husband had an argument and when he left the house to cool off, she locked him out. When he found he couldn't get back in, and not knowing what else to do, he called the police. When the police arrived, they broke down the door, and dragged Delmy out of bed. They handcuffed her in her nightclothes, separated her from her by-now screaming baby, and arrested her for "domestic violence." Because of the Orleans Parish Sheriff's habit of allowing ICE into the jail to look over prisoners, Delmy ended up in an ICE hold, and was kept incarcerated for *three months*, away from her baby (an American citizen), and her husband, who kept calling the jail saying he wanted all charges dropped. All of us hearing the story were close to tears.
While our little group listened, several neighbor women came out of their houses, and moved closer to see who we were and what we were doing there. When they recognized Delmy with her baby son, they greeted her warmly. They knew Delmy from her time there in their neighborhood; one of them said, "We knew her when she was pregnant, and once that baby was born, she was with him all the time." One of the women had witnessed the arrest and had tried to intervene, asking over and over, "What did she do?" and informing the officers that there was a new baby in the house. The woman was threatened by officers with arrest if she kept asking questions. The two women kept saying to Delmy, "We're so glad to see you, and back with your baby!" When they were informed that Delmy was under a deportation order that would separate her from little Josué, they were outraged. "It's so wrong!" they said, "It's a shame they can do you like that." Once more, we joined hands in a circle and sang a hymn, some of us with tears streaming.
Our final stop was in front of set of cheap apartments in Kenner. A group of workers repeated the same story: after having worked for a local house-leveling firm for two weeks, a group of nearly 40 workers were notified by telephone that they were to be paid at 7:30 am the next morning, and given a location to come to. When the workers arrived, they were immediately surrounded by ICE agents wielding clubs and handcuffs. Anyone who attempted to get away was beaten; one worker ended up in a local hospital for stitches -- and ironically, due to being at the emergency room, was the only worker not held in custody by ICE that day. None of the workers was paid for work they had done -- close to one hundred thousand dollars in total. I thought to myself, That's a good way for a business to save money! We did not feel much like singing, and the tour ended.
On the following Thursday, October 20, a similar group met outside an office building on Poydras Street near the New Orleans Superdome where ICE has its local offices. We had posters representing four members of Congreso who had been abruptly deported the night before, even though they could show legal documents proving that they were subpoenaed witnesses in court cases over wage theft. We laid the posters on the public sidewalk -- after the group was roughly moved away from the front of the building by a security guard -- and laid both symbolic toy handcuffs and bouquets of roses on the posters. We chanted, "We are human beings!" in Spanish. The building's guard called the police and an officer stood by, watching. He made no move to shove the group along, stop the protest, or arrest anyone. A little Latina girl brought him one of the roses bouquet, and, unsure what to do, he laid it gently on top one of the posters on the sidewalk depicting a deported worker. (He told me later, "I love my country and I love the constitution, and people have a right to peacefully protest. I'll always defend that." I thanked him.)
Doesn't seem equally suspicious that not only workers who need to be paid are deported, but also those standing up for their civil rights? I love my country too, and in general I respect its laws. But when my country acts unjustly and unreasonably, I am moved to witness and to protest. It is wrong to deny the right to remain to the Latino workers who have given so much to New Orleans' post-Katrina recovery. It is wrong to separate families, mothers and fathers from little children, intimate partners from each other. It is wrong to pretend to hire honest workers, only to cheat them of the wages they've earned, and then, worse, to deport them away from their families.
People of faith are called to stand up and be counted when wrongs are being done, and Rev. JIm and I were glad to stand with the Congreso.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Trombone Shorty at Harvest the Music
I've avoided blogging about the phenomenal concert last Wednesday night at Harvest the Music at Lafayette Square because I didn't know what to say. I've written about Shorty before -- it's already obvious that I have a giant-sized jones for Shorty, that I'm crushing on him in a big way, unseemly in a woman nearly 60 years old.
But hey, it's not just me. Big Man and arrived a full 45 minutes early, and still there was a big crowd already there ahead of us. The young man has serious fans in NOLA; we're all about as proud of him as if we'd all given birth to him (and I guess in a metaphorical way, we did). There were people of all ages, literally -- a young mom went past our chairs with a very new baby in a chest carrier, the baby's ears protected from loud music by bright pink headphones, and in front of us was a grandma and grandpa, shaking their booties to Shorty's music. By the time the concert actually started, the crowd had doubled in size, and when Shorty took the stage, maybe half again. It was PACKED, and every single one of us, despite outward differences of age, race, education, and career options, were grooving hard and screaming our lungs out. (I had a slight sore throat after the concert, and my heart was beating so fast I felt dizzy.)
The level of musicianship was phenomenal. At one point, I turned to Big Man and asked, "Could you play that?" and he said, "Sure! It wouldn't sound as good, but I could play it." Trumpet or trombone, young Troy played like the consummate pro he is, with brilliance and verve. His vocals are more than serviceable and he knows how to put a song across to the audience. (SUCH as contrast to the shy diffident teenaged boy we spoke to at the Clifford Brown Jazz Festival in Wilmington, Delaware, all those years ago!) He has tremendous stage presence. His original songs are catchy an sexy and soulful. And his horn playing almost literally blows you away.
Why Troy Andrews is not a huge national star by now, I just don't know. But he is surely on the verge of major stardom -- it's just a matter of time.
If you have not heard Trombone Shorty, you need to. Go get his new CD, "For True" (as he said Wednesday night, "It's like we say in New Orleans, f'true"). And if you are lucky enough to have a chance to see him in person, by all means, GO!
But hey, it's not just me. Big Man and arrived a full 45 minutes early, and still there was a big crowd already there ahead of us. The young man has serious fans in NOLA; we're all about as proud of him as if we'd all given birth to him (and I guess in a metaphorical way, we did). There were people of all ages, literally -- a young mom went past our chairs with a very new baby in a chest carrier, the baby's ears protected from loud music by bright pink headphones, and in front of us was a grandma and grandpa, shaking their booties to Shorty's music. By the time the concert actually started, the crowd had doubled in size, and when Shorty took the stage, maybe half again. It was PACKED, and every single one of us, despite outward differences of age, race, education, and career options, were grooving hard and screaming our lungs out. (I had a slight sore throat after the concert, and my heart was beating so fast I felt dizzy.)
The level of musicianship was phenomenal. At one point, I turned to Big Man and asked, "Could you play that?" and he said, "Sure! It wouldn't sound as good, but I could play it." Trumpet or trombone, young Troy played like the consummate pro he is, with brilliance and verve. His vocals are more than serviceable and he knows how to put a song across to the audience. (SUCH as contrast to the shy diffident teenaged boy we spoke to at the Clifford Brown Jazz Festival in Wilmington, Delaware, all those years ago!) He has tremendous stage presence. His original songs are catchy an sexy and soulful. And his horn playing almost literally blows you away.
Why Troy Andrews is not a huge national star by now, I just don't know. But he is surely on the verge of major stardom -- it's just a matter of time.
If you have not heard Trombone Shorty, you need to. Go get his new CD, "For True" (as he said Wednesday night, "It's like we say in New Orleans, f'true"). And if you are lucky enough to have a chance to see him in person, by all means, GO!
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Our Anniversary Dinner at Méson 923
Big Man and I celebrated our 7th wedding anniversary in a strange way -- we worked together on another couple's wedding ceremony! It was the first time we had done that, but we plan to do more, as soon as we get our joint website up and running, me doing the custom service and him doing the music.
On Saturday, after the wedding rehearsal, we decided, a little last minute, to go out to dinner for our anniversary. We thought of a couple of places that would be delicious and impressive and romantic, and made a couple of calls. No dice. There must have been some kind of big convention in town or something, because every place we called was either all booked up or would seat us at or after 9:30 pm. We were looking to eat at around 8-ish, so that was out.
Using my iPhone's Zagat app (and thanks again, Steve Jobs!), I found a place in the Warehouse District about 6 or so blocks from our house. It was called Méson 923, at 923 South Peters Street. It had extraordinary reviews online, and the restaurant website made everything look heavenly. What the hey, I thought, and even though I had never heard of it before I booked us a table for 8 pm, and made sure to say it was our wedding anniversary. (Look, you have to tell a restaurant when it's your special day or a special occasion; they love that and they'll always make a special fuss over you and comp something.)
It being a lovely breezy evening, Big Man and I strolled over, taking our time and talking the whole way. We arrived and found the place with its elegant gas-lit sign and door on the corner. As you enter, you are in the tiny bar with its high stools and a few scattered high tables with stools set around. (On the bar was a small red notice that the restaurant had been chosen as one of the Zagat Top Ten Restaurants in America in 2010 -- What?? Why have I never heard of them?)
They have the ubiquitous flat-screen TV over the bar but the volume was muted, so there was no disturbance. To the left, over a pony wall, is the little dining room, which has one showplace booth that seats about 6, and then about 6 or 7 other tables (yes, it's a tiny place). The walls of the bar and dining room are a soft muted and mottled silver, faintly metallic but not shiny or tacky. There's a long high horizontal window into the kitchen, which gives a partial, and thus mysterious, view into the goings-on in there. Everything you could see in the kitchen, however, was spotless; I told Big Man, cleaner than our kitchen at home by far. He said, "I hope so!"
Our table for two had a view of everything, and we had two waitpersons -- one, seeming familiar to Big Man, turned out to have worked in the past at the old J'Anita's on Magazine Street (which I've blogged about before) and she is even friends with Craig and Kimmie. So it was like old-home week at our table and our service was attentive and on-the-spot throughout our delicious dinner.
And delicious it certainly was! An amuse bouche was brought to us right away, and it was a tiny portion of salmon tartar in a spicy sauce. It was so great, we wondered if anyone had ever ordered it as a full appetizer. We tried 2 of their signature starters, the cold carpaccio with the fried poached egg and caviar and the hot seared scallops with corn relish, and both were absolutely perfect. In the former, the raw beef was sliced so thin we could not figure out how they did it -- however in the world did they do the slicing so fine, and then manage to transfer the slices so perfectly to the plate? On top of that, as literally on top of the slices of beef, was the lightly fried, perfectly oval-shaped poached egg, still runny on the inside, with a small spoonful of caviar as the icing on the cake. So how do you poach and egg and then fry it -- and still have the yolk be liquid? It was a complete mystery. Big Man said, "You know it's a terrific dish if you have no idea how they did it." The scallops were golden brown on both sides and yet still translucent on the the inside.
For entrees, Big Man simply could not choose between the red fish and the filet with crabmeat and told Jessica, our server, to just surprise him. I ordered the slow-roasted duck breast. Jess picked the filet for the Big Man (he looked like a beef-eater to her) and it was superb, with giant lumps of fresh crabmeat over a nice-sized filet, perfectly grilled to medium rare, with grilled asparagus. My duck breast was roasted also to medium rare, and served over a polenta concoction -- it all melted in my mouth and was so delicious! We oohed and aahed, and traded our plates back and forth, til everything was gone. (Our other waiter came over and, looking at the scrubbed plates, inquired with a straight face, "Are you done with that?")
Since portions had been been nicely calibrated we decided we did have room for dessert. Big Man ordered the goat cheese cake with home-made graham cracker crumb crust, and I got the chocolate mousse something-or-other with an eensy dollop of passion fruit sorbet on the side, with cappucinos. Simply put, both desserts were like eating heaven.
With the restaurant thoughtfully comping one of our desserts for our anniversary, me having 2 gingery cocktails (a house specialty), and the great food and great service, our bill came to under $150. We think such a 5-star meal was worth every single penny, and we will definitely recommend Méson 923 to all our family and friends with an occasion to celebrate. Remember this chef: Mr. Baruch Rabasa -- you are gonna hear a lot about him very soon!
On Saturday, after the wedding rehearsal, we decided, a little last minute, to go out to dinner for our anniversary. We thought of a couple of places that would be delicious and impressive and romantic, and made a couple of calls. No dice. There must have been some kind of big convention in town or something, because every place we called was either all booked up or would seat us at or after 9:30 pm. We were looking to eat at around 8-ish, so that was out.
Using my iPhone's Zagat app (and thanks again, Steve Jobs!), I found a place in the Warehouse District about 6 or so blocks from our house. It was called Méson 923, at 923 South Peters Street. It had extraordinary reviews online, and the restaurant website made everything look heavenly. What the hey, I thought, and even though I had never heard of it before I booked us a table for 8 pm, and made sure to say it was our wedding anniversary. (Look, you have to tell a restaurant when it's your special day or a special occasion; they love that and they'll always make a special fuss over you and comp something.)
It being a lovely breezy evening, Big Man and I strolled over, taking our time and talking the whole way. We arrived and found the place with its elegant gas-lit sign and door on the corner. As you enter, you are in the tiny bar with its high stools and a few scattered high tables with stools set around. (On the bar was a small red notice that the restaurant had been chosen as one of the Zagat Top Ten Restaurants in America in 2010 -- What?? Why have I never heard of them?)
They have the ubiquitous flat-screen TV over the bar but the volume was muted, so there was no disturbance. To the left, over a pony wall, is the little dining room, which has one showplace booth that seats about 6, and then about 6 or 7 other tables (yes, it's a tiny place). The walls of the bar and dining room are a soft muted and mottled silver, faintly metallic but not shiny or tacky. There's a long high horizontal window into the kitchen, which gives a partial, and thus mysterious, view into the goings-on in there. Everything you could see in the kitchen, however, was spotless; I told Big Man, cleaner than our kitchen at home by far. He said, "I hope so!"
Our table for two had a view of everything, and we had two waitpersons -- one, seeming familiar to Big Man, turned out to have worked in the past at the old J'Anita's on Magazine Street (which I've blogged about before) and she is even friends with Craig and Kimmie. So it was like old-home week at our table and our service was attentive and on-the-spot throughout our delicious dinner.
And delicious it certainly was! An amuse bouche was brought to us right away, and it was a tiny portion of salmon tartar in a spicy sauce. It was so great, we wondered if anyone had ever ordered it as a full appetizer. We tried 2 of their signature starters, the cold carpaccio with the fried poached egg and caviar and the hot seared scallops with corn relish, and both were absolutely perfect. In the former, the raw beef was sliced so thin we could not figure out how they did it -- however in the world did they do the slicing so fine, and then manage to transfer the slices so perfectly to the plate? On top of that, as literally on top of the slices of beef, was the lightly fried, perfectly oval-shaped poached egg, still runny on the inside, with a small spoonful of caviar as the icing on the cake. So how do you poach and egg and then fry it -- and still have the yolk be liquid? It was a complete mystery. Big Man said, "You know it's a terrific dish if you have no idea how they did it." The scallops were golden brown on both sides and yet still translucent on the the inside.
For entrees, Big Man simply could not choose between the red fish and the filet with crabmeat and told Jessica, our server, to just surprise him. I ordered the slow-roasted duck breast. Jess picked the filet for the Big Man (he looked like a beef-eater to her) and it was superb, with giant lumps of fresh crabmeat over a nice-sized filet, perfectly grilled to medium rare, with grilled asparagus. My duck breast was roasted also to medium rare, and served over a polenta concoction -- it all melted in my mouth and was so delicious! We oohed and aahed, and traded our plates back and forth, til everything was gone. (Our other waiter came over and, looking at the scrubbed plates, inquired with a straight face, "Are you done with that?")
Since portions had been been nicely calibrated we decided we did have room for dessert. Big Man ordered the goat cheese cake with home-made graham cracker crumb crust, and I got the chocolate mousse something-or-other with an eensy dollop of passion fruit sorbet on the side, with cappucinos. Simply put, both desserts were like eating heaven.
With the restaurant thoughtfully comping one of our desserts for our anniversary, me having 2 gingery cocktails (a house specialty), and the great food and great service, our bill came to under $150. We think such a 5-star meal was worth every single penny, and we will definitely recommend Méson 923 to all our family and friends with an occasion to celebrate. Remember this chef: Mr. Baruch Rabasa -- you are gonna hear a lot about him very soon!
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Remembering Steve Jobs
First thing I thought of when I heard Steve Jobs had died was how my son S would take the news. S has been an Apple fan and a Mac techie since he was small, and so Steve Jobs has been his hero, almost his idol, ever since. I soon found out that S had taken the news hard, almost as though he had lost a friend, almost a family member.
My second thought was of that damn Tandy computer that was the first computer I ever had to deal with. It was grossly ugly -- and I know that shouldn't have mattered, but it was offensively unattractive -- and there was no way a normal person could memorize all the commands to get it to do anything with a word processor or a database. I had to keep a 8x11 "cheat sheet" under the keyboard -- well, actually, while I was using the computer, the sheet had to be out on the desk all the time -- with every single gobbledy-gook command on it. Computers would have gone nowhere without Steve Jobs. Do you really think people would want them in their homes and carry them everywhere if they stayed like that?
I remember the very first Mac I bought. We brought the box home in the afternoon, and I had a paper due in a seminary class that evening. We unpacked it and set it up, using the clear line drawing diagram, no directions or special instructions or anything. We hooked it up, plugged it in, turned it on, loaded in the application disks that came with it, and there it was. I sat down -- again, no instructions of any kind -- and wrote the paper from my notes, edited it, and printed it out. Slam-bang, it was done. That's all there was to it. Nothing to learn or memorize or cheat sheets to print out and keep handy.
That was the computer that S as a toddler first played with, and countless seminary and legal papers were completed on it. From there we graduated to even better computers, and later to iBooks and PowerBooks and the great colored iMacs and then the big screen iMac, and even the Mac Mini at the church office. When I got my first iPhone, Big Man gave me hell, telling people they would remove the iPhone from my "cold, dead hand." When he later got his own iPhone, I discreetly refrained from saying, "Told ya!" (Do not even ask me how many iPhone apps I have, I'd be embarrassed to say.) The iPad is so amazing we fight over it. ("Gimme! It's my turn!" "No, I'm not done!" Give it back!") Can't wait to get my own.
I read in the New York Times on Sunday -- and sent to my son S -- an essay about how Apple products fire up the same area of the brain as beloved family members or partners. It's like we LOVE our Apples stuff. The writer also said that as an experiment, he gave Blackberries to a group of babies between the ages of 14 and 22 months, and every single one of them tried to scrape their little fingers across the screens, like an iPhone, instead of trying to use those stupid teensy keys. Steve Jobs has changed everything.
We send our sympathy to the Jobs family and to the Apple family as well, which includes my son S at the Apple Store in Atlanta. Steve Jobs changed the lives of all of us, even those benighted people who haven't yet purchased an Apple product. (Although, please, what the heck are they waiting for??) Because of his innovations and creativity, every single tech company in the world had to change what they did and how they did it. Deny it all they want, all the other computer companies attempt to copy Apple's ease of use, intuitive processes, and try -- and fail -- to copy Apple's elegance and design savvy. We're all changed now.
I am grateful for how Apple products have improved my life, made lots of things more enjoyable, connected me with family and friends near and far, helped me do all my work better, brought more creativity and fun into my life, helped me to hold onto and savor precious memories, and gave me my favorite music to bring wherever I go.
Thank you, Steve Jobs, for everything, and I can't wait for my new iPhone and iPad.
My second thought was of that damn Tandy computer that was the first computer I ever had to deal with. It was grossly ugly -- and I know that shouldn't have mattered, but it was offensively unattractive -- and there was no way a normal person could memorize all the commands to get it to do anything with a word processor or a database. I had to keep a 8x11 "cheat sheet" under the keyboard -- well, actually, while I was using the computer, the sheet had to be out on the desk all the time -- with every single gobbledy-gook command on it. Computers would have gone nowhere without Steve Jobs. Do you really think people would want them in their homes and carry them everywhere if they stayed like that?
I remember the very first Mac I bought. We brought the box home in the afternoon, and I had a paper due in a seminary class that evening. We unpacked it and set it up, using the clear line drawing diagram, no directions or special instructions or anything. We hooked it up, plugged it in, turned it on, loaded in the application disks that came with it, and there it was. I sat down -- again, no instructions of any kind -- and wrote the paper from my notes, edited it, and printed it out. Slam-bang, it was done. That's all there was to it. Nothing to learn or memorize or cheat sheets to print out and keep handy.
That was the computer that S as a toddler first played with, and countless seminary and legal papers were completed on it. From there we graduated to even better computers, and later to iBooks and PowerBooks and the great colored iMacs and then the big screen iMac, and even the Mac Mini at the church office. When I got my first iPhone, Big Man gave me hell, telling people they would remove the iPhone from my "cold, dead hand." When he later got his own iPhone, I discreetly refrained from saying, "Told ya!" (Do not even ask me how many iPhone apps I have, I'd be embarrassed to say.) The iPad is so amazing we fight over it. ("Gimme! It's my turn!" "No, I'm not done!" Give it back!") Can't wait to get my own.
I read in the New York Times on Sunday -- and sent to my son S -- an essay about how Apple products fire up the same area of the brain as beloved family members or partners. It's like we LOVE our Apples stuff. The writer also said that as an experiment, he gave Blackberries to a group of babies between the ages of 14 and 22 months, and every single one of them tried to scrape their little fingers across the screens, like an iPhone, instead of trying to use those stupid teensy keys. Steve Jobs has changed everything.
We send our sympathy to the Jobs family and to the Apple family as well, which includes my son S at the Apple Store in Atlanta. Steve Jobs changed the lives of all of us, even those benighted people who haven't yet purchased an Apple product. (Although, please, what the heck are they waiting for??) Because of his innovations and creativity, every single tech company in the world had to change what they did and how they did it. Deny it all they want, all the other computer companies attempt to copy Apple's ease of use, intuitive processes, and try -- and fail -- to copy Apple's elegance and design savvy. We're all changed now.
I am grateful for how Apple products have improved my life, made lots of things more enjoyable, connected me with family and friends near and far, helped me do all my work better, brought more creativity and fun into my life, helped me to hold onto and savor precious memories, and gave me my favorite music to bring wherever I go.
Thank you, Steve Jobs, for everything, and I can't wait for my new iPhone and iPad.
Festival Season Arrives
Finally, the weather has turned in belle NOLA and it is Fall and the festival season is full upon us. Thank God for both!
Of course, fall weather is relative. When we New Orleanians say that, we mean the high temperature only goes up to maybe 80 degrees (only!), and it cools down at night to the low 60s (high 50s across the Lake). Don't even write in to tell me -- we already know that it would not be considered fall anywhere else, but for us it's a sweet relief. You get to lower your air conditioning usage or even turn it off altogether. You get to walk around without sweltering. You get to break out of storage your long-sleeved clothing. (Although the young person in line in front of me this morning at Village Coffee on Freret Street (recommended!) made quite a contrast to me, with their long-sleeved sweater-hoddie pulled up over their head -- and me in a sleeveless dress! C'mon, it's not cold yet! (I do have a light shawl on hand for tonight's Harvest the Music concert with Soul Queen Irma Thomas at Lafayette Square. It's reasonable to expect a slight chill after the sun goes down, but a hoodie?? That young person must have been born in equatorial realms to find this morning cold.)
Just as the barometer and thermometer turned to Fall, so did the festival calendar. We have entered the crazy season of competing festivals. Towards the end of September, folks had to choose between the Downtown Music Festival at Lafayette Square, the Alligator Festival (in Luling, under the bridge -- see the post from 2008 and just *double it*), the Magnolia Mound Cajun Festival (in Baton Rouge), the Swamp Pop Festival in Covington, the annual St. Augustine High School Fair, and various church fairs with fabulous food and entertainment. Big Man and I made the decision to go to the Gator Fest, 'cause we love it and adore the food (and they've done a great job upgrading the festival grounds and simplifying the parking); we tried to squeeze in the Gospel Soul Children at the Downtown Fest the same day but didn't have the energy (the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak). And may the Force of the Universe please forgive me for eating the absolutely fabulous and sinful chicken-fried bacon sprinkled with powdered sugar and served with spicy home-made pear chutney. OMG.
As October came upon us, there was Art for Art's Sake up and down Magazine Street (with free shuttles!), and several festivals worth driving to in small Cajun towns. This upcoming weekend is another jam-up. Every fall Wednesday is Harvest the Music at Lafayette Square to benefit Second Harvest for local hungry and homeless people. (And if you're thinking that Lafayette Square is becoming free music central, you'd be right!) Then starting on Friday, there's the Gretna Heritage Festival, this year with actual ethnic categories for music (in a good way, y'all!), the Bridge City Gumbo Festival (OMG), Voice of the Wetlands in Houma, Japan Fest at the Museum (they didn't have much food last year, hope that changes), Carnaval Latino at Mardi Gras World, and Gentilly Fest. Plus, the new Oktoberfest in the Deutshes Haus temporary location starts up. I'm exhausted just looking at the list.
Nothing to be done about it, except get enough sleep, eat lightly when you're not festing, and get out there and pass yourself a good time, yeah!
Of course, fall weather is relative. When we New Orleanians say that, we mean the high temperature only goes up to maybe 80 degrees (only!), and it cools down at night to the low 60s (high 50s across the Lake). Don't even write in to tell me -- we already know that it would not be considered fall anywhere else, but for us it's a sweet relief. You get to lower your air conditioning usage or even turn it off altogether. You get to walk around without sweltering. You get to break out of storage your long-sleeved clothing. (Although the young person in line in front of me this morning at Village Coffee on Freret Street (recommended!) made quite a contrast to me, with their long-sleeved sweater-hoddie pulled up over their head -- and me in a sleeveless dress! C'mon, it's not cold yet! (I do have a light shawl on hand for tonight's Harvest the Music concert with Soul Queen Irma Thomas at Lafayette Square. It's reasonable to expect a slight chill after the sun goes down, but a hoodie?? That young person must have been born in equatorial realms to find this morning cold.)
Just as the barometer and thermometer turned to Fall, so did the festival calendar. We have entered the crazy season of competing festivals. Towards the end of September, folks had to choose between the Downtown Music Festival at Lafayette Square, the Alligator Festival (in Luling, under the bridge -- see the post from 2008 and just *double it*), the Magnolia Mound Cajun Festival (in Baton Rouge), the Swamp Pop Festival in Covington, the annual St. Augustine High School Fair, and various church fairs with fabulous food and entertainment. Big Man and I made the decision to go to the Gator Fest, 'cause we love it and adore the food (and they've done a great job upgrading the festival grounds and simplifying the parking); we tried to squeeze in the Gospel Soul Children at the Downtown Fest the same day but didn't have the energy (the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak). And may the Force of the Universe please forgive me for eating the absolutely fabulous and sinful chicken-fried bacon sprinkled with powdered sugar and served with spicy home-made pear chutney. OMG.
As October came upon us, there was Art for Art's Sake up and down Magazine Street (with free shuttles!), and several festivals worth driving to in small Cajun towns. This upcoming weekend is another jam-up. Every fall Wednesday is Harvest the Music at Lafayette Square to benefit Second Harvest for local hungry and homeless people. (And if you're thinking that Lafayette Square is becoming free music central, you'd be right!) Then starting on Friday, there's the Gretna Heritage Festival, this year with actual ethnic categories for music (in a good way, y'all!), the Bridge City Gumbo Festival (OMG), Voice of the Wetlands in Houma, Japan Fest at the Museum (they didn't have much food last year, hope that changes), Carnaval Latino at Mardi Gras World, and Gentilly Fest. Plus, the new Oktoberfest in the Deutshes Haus temporary location starts up. I'm exhausted just looking at the list.
Nothing to be done about it, except get enough sleep, eat lightly when you're not festing, and get out there and pass yourself a good time, yeah!
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