NOLA Rev -- Random thoughts and reflections on living in a great but wounded city.

Tour of Truth with the Congreso de Jornaleros

2011-10-25T17:33:00.000-05:00

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.

Trombone Shorty at Harvest the Music

2011-10-17T11:40:00.002-05:00

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!

Our Anniversary Dinner at Méson 923

2011-10-12T14:59:00.002-05:00

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!

Remembering Steve Jobs

2011-10-05T22:38:00.002-05:00

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.

Festival Season Arrives

2011-10-05T14:39:00.002-05:00

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!

Remembering Wardell Quezergue

2011-09-22T17:12:00.003-05:00

I tried several times to write about the great Wardell Quezergue (and nobody should EVER say or write his name ever again without putting "the great" in front of it) after learning of his death on September 6, but found myself stymied by having far too much to say. Let's just stipulate that if you love New Orleans rhythm & blues of the 1940s, '50s, and '60s, especially the slew of hits churned out by Cosimo Matassa's J & M Studios, then you already are a fan of Wardell Quezergue (pronounced, for you outlanders, as "kuh-zhair") and you didn't even know it. If truth is told in the history of rock'n'roll, then someday Wardell will get credit for putting horns in rock.

Whenever some musician or other artist dies, people always say, "This was a genius" but it was really true in Wardell's case. He started off on trumpet, and played his first professional gigs as a teenager, but his real talents lay elsewhere. He was a composer and arranger par excellence, and apparently he heard music in his head all the time. Here's the kicker: he wrote all his songs and his Creole Mass and his horn charts and song arrangements using a tuning fork. I kid you not, he used a tuning fork, it's well known. Amazing.

If you seek a list of his credits, that won't be possible, because so many times back in the day he wasn't credited. But even what is available to be marveled at is more than impressive. One online discography put his output (albums, singles, and compilations) at over 200; for comparison, the list for another famous "Q" Quincy Jones is 157. The list of great bands and vocalist who worked with him sounds like a who's who of New Orleans -- and national -- music. (Indeed, at his funeral at Corpus Christi Catholic Church on September 12th, Big Man whispered to me that if anything untoward happened, music would be wiped out in the city and much of the country.)

Of the famous non-family members who were present at his service, Dr. John seemed the most choked up. Deacon John offered a sweet and funny remembrance. Many of us felt that the Neville Brothers and Allen Toussaint were conspicuous by their absence. (However, Cyrille Neville and his nephew Ivan Neville were there.) Since Big Man and I were sitting (with songwriter and poet Ron Cuccia, my son's parain, and the immortal author of "My Darlin' New Orleans") about the middle of the church, I couldn't see everyone, since it would have been rude for me to turn all the around and see who's sitting behind me, here's a partial list of the talent present at the service:

Dave Bartholemew (older even than Wardell and from his wheelchair, he actually played his trumpet for one tribute song)
Coco Robichaux (who performed some kind of voodoo ritual over the casket with an eagle wing)
Dave Torchinowski
Amasa Miller
Holley Bendtsen of the Pfister Sisters
Davell Crawford
Jo "Cool" Davis (who contributed several gospel tunes to the musical tribute)
Kermit Ruffins
Jean Knight
Dorothy Moore
Doc Paulin
Dooky Chase
Dooky Chase Jr.
Greg Kline of Bonerama

It was a beautiful, moving service, and we were glad to be there. (Big Man has all kinds of regrets that he never got a chance to work with Wardell.) Wardell's final opus will be released later this year, and I recommend everyone go out and buy it.

A nephew of Wardell's wrote a poem about his uncle, who in later years lost his eyesight due to complications from diabetes. It was called, "Close your eyes and see." So close your eyes, listen to some of Wardell's great recordings, and see what real genius sounds like.

We miss you already, Wardell.

After the Storm

2011-09-07T15:24:00.004-05:00

Today is second day after Tropical Storm Lee blew through here, in a ragged series of bands that left open spaces of hours at a time when you could see sunshine and a bit of blue sky through all the grey clouds. Today, like yesterday, is a beautiful day, clear blue skies, no clouds, low humidity, sunshine, and temperatures in the 70s. Everyone is saying if every storm brought this kind of weather, we'd gladly have more storms. (Not really, but it's the kind of thing that folks say.)

It started raining on Thursday morning. I thought the rain and the coming storm would mean the cancellation -- once again -- of the Army Corps of Engineers New Orleans clergy tour of the improved flood system, but apparently the Corps was just as tired of canceling and rescheduling as clergy were. So we all climbed into the bus in the drizzle, and were driven first way out into New Orleans East, to view the new fortifications on Bayou Bienvenu. This involved climbing up a steep new levee, so new it had only grass seeds and no grass and, with all the rain, it was basically a mud levee. Everyone got back on the bus with caked-on river mud on their shoes. And if you've ever dealt with river mud, you know that stuff's not coming off, not any time soon, not without a LOT of effort. Pretty soon, that bus was looking pretty sorry.

The next stop was the gigantic hole in the waterway being worked on under the Seabrook Bridge. They evidently had to pump out millions and millions of gallons of water to get down under there. When they are finished constructing the underwater gate system, they will let the water back in by pulling up the temporary metal wall they sank in to hold it back while the work was going on. I sure would like to be there *that* day!

As the tour went on, the rain kept on coming down. At 4:30 pm, when they dropped us off back at the Lakeview Community Center, it was still lightly raining. (Not enough to clean off my shoes, I can tell you that.) That evening I attended an event for the Human Rights Coalition at Tulane University, and the story was the same -- steady, if somewhat light, rain fell the whole time. While I was there, I got an alert on my phone about Tropical Storm Lee and went home to discuss with Big Man our possible preparations.

Friday morning, it was raining pretty hard, and had rained all Thursday night. Big Man declined to move the patio furniture, thinking it wasn't that big of a deal wind-wise, but agreed to get emergency groceries to supplement our supplies. Yeah, us, and the rest of New Orleans. The Walmart parking lot was packed; it looked like they were giving stuff away, which of course they weren't. We continued on to Rouse's where the scene was somewhat better, but we found out why when we entered, dripping wet from the soaking we got.

Many of the shelves of storm-staples were already picked clean. White bread was nearly all gone -- luckily, we don't eat white bread, so there was still plenty of the whole-wheat, heavy-fiber stuff we eat. The battery aisle was picked clean; good thing I had already stocked up, mainly because our new battery storage cabinet makes me feel bad if there are too many empty spaces. Rouse's had just restocked the gallon water jugs, so we were OK there too, picking up another 3 to go with the one left over from the last storm stock-up. To get to the tuna fish cans that were left you had to reach back into the shelf, but we did find some there. We decided on 2 big bags of ice in case electricity went out and we needed to keep things cold. We also got some rawhide chews to help calm Keely our dog. (Storms make her nervous and nervous makes her chewy.)

It rained all of Friday, sometimes very hard indeed. Church leaders began discussions of whether or not to cancel services on Sunday. After all, our corner floods during heavy regular rains, let alone days and days of tropical storm. It rained all Friday night and was raining when we woke up on Saturday. Big Man made some phone calls as soon as he was up, fearing that the shrimp boil he was scheduled to pay for had been cancelled, but no, the house owner had decided it was Tropical Storm Lee and Labor Day Weekend Shrimp Boil, so it was still on. (Maybe he figured he had already bought the shrimp and all, so...) Meanwhile, I frantically made phone calls and emails, to alert church members and the public that the Sunday service was definitely cancelled.

The party was a strange affair. It was held in a recently renovated shotgun off Freret Street, with a makeshift deck covered with a tarp. The renovation was clearly done by a man, for men. For one thing, there were not enough electric outlets, the floor had been highly polyurethaned, like a gym floor (which I guess was helpful, because they had all the windows on the yard house open, and the floor was soaking wet), and the kitchen had a high eat-on counter made of recycled wood that had 2 things wrong with it: it was too high to prep on and it was unfinished on the underside (I know, 'cause I got a nasty splinter from it). Another sign of careless masculine-flavored renovation was the bathroom, with its shiny corrugated metal wall on one side, the multi-toned slate tile on the other walls and floor, the fancy bowl-type sink -- and the plain old regulation rub. And there was no lock on the bathroom door, really. (Really?)

The resident(s), whoever they were (it was never clear to me), had moved nearly all the living room furniture into the back bedroom to make room for the band, and so that's where they set up. It rained on and off all day (with the sun weirdly breaking through at one point as another one of the bands of Lee made it was across the city), but folks kept coming in and out, the windows wide open. The band got a break just as the first batch was done, and I have to say they were some of the biggest boiled shrimp I've ever had, even in a restaurant. They were well-seasoned too, and the boil included Manda's hot sausage (LOVE Manda's!), giant heads of garlic, lots of halved onions, stalks of celery, lemon halves, and corn on the cob (no new potatoes, though).

The band played from about 12:30 to a little after 5 pm (Big Man said that the horn was REALLY going to need cleaning after that, and it was TMI for me, UGH). The rain went back to hard teeming rain that evening, and pretty much rained all night, and all the next day, Sunday. Good thing we cancelled church. It then proceeded to rain all day Labor Day Monday as well.

We did not suffer. Except for a little blown rain around the upstairs dormer window, nothing leaked; our street didn't even flood as it sometimes does, and our electricity never went off. We were well-stocked, safe, and cozy, and we sure ate well. (I made stuffed merliton casserole with hot sausage, a meaty spaghetti sauce over angel hair pasta, and a beef and turkey meatloaf to try to work on that full freezer.) Some folks had more trouble than we did -- water on first floors in parts of Jefferson and Plaquemines Parishes, as well as on Madeville's lakefront; street flooding around the city in low-lying neighborhoods, and lots and lots of trees got "trimmed"by the storm, and some trees got knocked over. But all in all, all of us were lucky. Could've been a lot worse.

When Tuesday came up cool and beautiful, it was like a gift. And then today as well.

Fire in the Marshes

2011-08-31T15:15:00.002-05:00

For several days now, everyone in the greater New Orleans area has been dealing with the smoke from the marsh fire way out in New Orleans East. Several things are working against us here -- one, it has been a drier than normal August; it seems like it's hardly rained at all since July (when it rained nearly every day). Two, the wind, whether influenced by Hurricane Irene or not, has been out of the northeast or east. And three, there's been a so-called "cold front" (don't you believe it) that has been pressing down on the city.

Thus, even though the brush fires (sparked, it is said, by lightning deep in the marsh) are far into the undeveloped area of New Orleans East, the smoke is being pushed over the whole city. In fact, Big Man and I went shopping on Monday out near Elmwood, which you might call New Orleans West, and the smoke was as dense and thick as if there were fires in Metairie. A parishioner of mine who went out on Tuesday morning to get her newspaper in her Uptown neighborhood (far to the south and west of the fires), at first thought one of her neighbors on Magazine Street might be burning, til she realized what it was.

Yesterday, it was so pervasive that I got a headache from working inside the church building. Several of my parishioners are coping with aggravated allergies, coughing and hacking. The local news media are full of stories urging all those respiratory ailments, the elderly and the very young to stay indoors for the duration. And the mayor called out the Air National Guard to water-bomb the fires, since downtown New Orleans had the visibility of like a foot in front of your face.

It's a little better today. We're all hoping for a big rainstorm, which they're predicting for this weekend. Keep your fingers crossed!

Kermit vs. Irwin

2011-08-31T14:19:00.002-05:00

Last week Irvin Mayfield's Jazz Playhouse at the Royal Sonesta Hotel on Bourbon Street hosted a series of trumpet challenges to benefit local charities. The one to raise money for UNITY, the local umbrella organization for the homeless, was held on Wednesday evening. I promoted the event within the two congregations I serve, and Big Man and I made plans to attend, along with my sister L and her husband B.

We found free parking (with Big Man in the car, natch) only a few blocks away, though in the heat and humidity even just from Chartres to Bourbon seemed like a hike. We arrived in the lobby of the Sonesta at or near the time that had been advertised as when the doors would open, but of course everything was late. This is the kind of thing that used to drive Big Man absolutely nuts about New Orleans. (Once on his very first visit to the city, we waited more than an hour past the stated start time at Irma Thomas's old club in the pre-Katrina days. What really got to him was how nobody at the club seemed especially exercised about being so late.) My brother-in-law kept asking, 'Didn't they SAY they'd be open by now?" Well, yes, B, they did, but it doesn't mean anything.

About a half-hour past the "doors open" time, the doors did actually open. I asked the young man at the door about the seating policy, and he told me it was first-come, first-served for the available seating behind the reserved-only section in the very front that was for the folks who had paid $350 for the VIP tickets. I gave him my ticket and scooted past him to snag seats at the back corner banquette that faced the stage. The four of us ensconced ourselves there quite comfortably. As I've said before, I'm too old to stand the *the whole time* for a musical event.

We ordered drinks and B and L ordered from the surprisingly extensive and inexpensive (for the venue) menu (who knew?). L got the alligator sliders with thin onion rings and B got the bananas foster cheesecake. They shared these goodies with Big Man and I, and we all gave 'em a big thumbs-up.

Well, we're sitting there and sitting there and of course the show doesn't start at 8 pm. The place is really filling up, which is a good thing for UNITY, but it is tiresome waiting and not knowing when things will begin. (For those of you reading this, this is not meant to be representative of everything that goes on at Irvin Mayfield's Jazz Playhouse -- for all I know, they start strictly on time every single evening except for this one night. I don't really know, this was my first time there.)

Around 8:30 pm, Irvin and his band came out and they played a good set. If there were folks who thought it was simply going to be a trumpet battle, with Irvin and Kermit duking it out at the same time on the stage, then those folks were disappointed. Irvin and his combo did what seemed like a full set, with fast numbers and some ballads and some fine playing by Irvin, and also with Irvin doing some vocals. He seemed very relaxed and comfortable, which it seems he has gained over time, since there were certainly times in years past when he seemed technically great but very stiff and uncomfortable interacting with audiences.

Somewhere close to hour into Irvin's set, we saw from our vantage point near the door Kermit arriving, so obviously he hadn't been there earlier. Irvin called Troy Andrews, better known as Trombone Shorty, to the stage, and Shorty blew soulfully for a tune or two. Then Irvin came back on, and the set ended without Kermit taking the stage, and Irvin announcing there would be a break before Kermit came on. That just about did it for L and B, who are not late-night people, and who had thought they'd be seeing both trumpeters on-stage together from the git-go. (Plus, they said they would have enjoyed it more if Irvin had just blew and not sung. I enjoyed Irvin's vocals myself. Different strokes...) So they started calling for the check and asking me directions back to their car. (Geez, you go out the door of the Sonesta, turn left, take the first left, and go 2 blocks to Chartres and there you are. How hard is that?)

Big Man excused himself and came back a few minutes later from the Men's Room with a full report -- he had run into Kermit in there, and had asked him if he was still playing a Jupiter. (Jupiter was a company that used to make student horns almost exclusively, but had recently been manufacturing professional models. We had seen Kermit playing one in the recent past.) Kermit told Big Man someone had stolen his Jupiter, and that he had just gotten this new trumpet -- which he held out to Big Man to look at. To Big Man's utter amazement, it was a Harrelson trumpet. This is a super custom-made horn, with extra-heavy brackets and supposedly "ergonomic" finger rings. Damn things cost a veritable fortune, though not as much as a Monette (which custom brand both Irvin and Trombone Shorty usually play). Big Man said that Kermit was acting like he didn't know what he had, but who knows? Maybe he was just putting on a show for the trumpet groupie in the men's room. In any case, Kermit told Big Man he'd had it for all of like a half-hour, and had just had about 5 minutes worth of practice on it.

As a side light, just as a weird coincidence, Big Man ran into Tom Harrelson in the French Quarter during the Louis Armstrong Trumpet Fest, who told him he was delivering a trumpet to "some guy." Could it be??

If completely true, then Kermit's performance in the next few minutes was astounding. He blew that thing like he had had it for years, and put on a great show. The fact is, as any true New Orleans trumpet buff knows, in any trumpet contest between them, Irvin is going to be the better technical player, with triple-tonguing and trills and so on and so forth, and Kermit is going to be -- by far and away -- the better entertainer and crowd-pleaser. And so it was this evening. Kermit drew us like iron filings to a magnet, off our comfortable seats in the back, to come stand by the bar in the crowd and gawk at the stage. The man is a born entertainer. He just makes you happy, make you smile, makes you sing along -- which we all did, on the chorus of his famous Pops-tribute tune "The Viper."

Kermit called up a young woman singer from NOCCA (New Orleans Center for Creative Arts, a public school that one has to test to get into), who did a bang-up job on several standards. I wish I remembered her name, because I'm sure we'll all be hearing from her in the future. Judging from this girl and Sasha Masachowski, a recent grad, NOCCA does a helluva job on teaching jazz vocals.

Big Man and I stayed til about midnight, and Kermit was still going on, razzing Irvin occasionally where he was sitting stageside, but we still had not seen them both onstage at the same time. Dunno if they got to that later.

In terms of the contest, we give to Irvin on trumpet points, and to Kermit for giving us a good time. And we hope lots and lots of money was raised for UNITY.

Mayor Mitch on 60 Minutes

2011-07-24T18:39:00.002-05:00

We New Orleanians have had a hard time over the past few years with television viewing. First it was all the Katrina news reports in 2005-6, then it was the Katrina follow-ups in 2006-7. Then there was Spike Lee's "When The Levees Broke" and its sequel, "God Willing and The Creek Don't Rise." Then there was the first season of HBO's locally-set "Tremé" series, which had us tearing up and crying almost every episode. (And you couldn't even leave town to get away from it -- in Wyoming, Big Man and I had to comfort a woman in an art gallery, sobbing over John Goodman's character's suicide).

Now, just when you thought it was safe to watch TV without tears, there's this emotional interview with New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu on CBS's "60 Minutes." Mayor Mitch stoutly took up for us, his city, in the face of outside criticism, declared he couldn't do his job without the people of the city doing theirs, and was filmed doing a creditable secondline dance.

Near the end of the interview, the reporter commented, "It sounds like you almost feel, well, like romantic about New Orleans..." and Mitch interrupted him. "Of course I do," he said, "it IS romantic!" Try watching your mayor declare his unashamed romantic love for his (lost, wounded, recovering, beautiful, fascinating) city, and not tear up.

Here it is on the "60 Minutes" website:
http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504803_162-20075126-10391709.html?tag=cbsnewsMainColumnArea.1

Braxton's Restaurant in Gretna

2011-07-12T18:19:00.002-05:00

Wow! Big Man and I want to urge everyone to make an extra effort, cross the river to Franklin Street in Gretna, and eat at this fabulous Creole restaurant, Braxton's. Located at 636 Franklin, in this converted and expanded shotgun house that has been transformed into a spacious double dining room and large elegant bar.

On the outside, there is a large covered front and side porch with ceiling fans, which I'm sure will be more usable and more used when the weather breaks sometime in the fall. Inside, the dining rooms go off to the left as you enter, and have comfortable chairs, white tablecloths, and attractive African-American-themed poster art hung on the walls. In one corner, there's a small stage where we were told they had a DJ once a week (but Big Man has certainly played on stages smaller than that). The bar is large and L-shaped, with a nice seating area in one corner, more of the art (I spotted a Josephine Baker art poster hung near the entrance), and lots and lots of padded bar stools. Playing at a comfortable audio level was some classic R&B from the 1960's ("Precious Baby, You're Mine" played while we were there).

We had read about their special, the Stormy Monday Blues Buffet, in the Gambit. It was advertised at $7.95 -- so we figured, not much to lose if we weren't crazy about it. So we drove over. It's easy to find, and there is some off-street parking available outside, including a reserved handicapped space. An attractive hostess seated us, offered us a menu, and when we said we wanted the buffet, took our drink order. We were a late for the regular lunch hour, and so there were only a few other tables with people eating, folks both black and white.

Braxton's uses stylish rectangular white plates, generously sized for a buffet -- which is both a good and bad thing, since their food is delicious. This past Monday, there was red beans and rice with *lots* of meat (just the way Big Man likes 'em!), turnip greens cooked with little ham hocks and big chunks of sweet turnips, perfectly fried chicken, slow-roasted chicken falling off the bone in an incredible sauce made of lemon, garlic, herbs, and I think olive oil, sweet white cornbread, and home-made bread pudding. We tried everything except the bread pudding (we were *trying* to be good!), and everything was wonderful. Despite skipping dessert, we still ate too much, and we loved everything we ate.

Braxton's has only been open for about 2 years, and they seem to be trying to find that all-important steady regular customer base. They have Monday through Friday drink specials with free food, and a steak special on Thursdays (when they also have a DJ). They would also be great for private parties.

Big Man and I say: cross the Bridge, get over to Franklin Street, and eat yourself happy at Braxton's. You won't be sorry you did.

Catfish Festival in Des Allemands

2011-07-09T18:12:00.006-05:00

Big Man has been very busy this hot summer, piecing together different gigs in different places to make up for the regular nightclub gig he lost when the club closed this spring. But it also means that he has nights off that he otherwise might have had to work, and so we very happily made plans to attend the annual Catfish Festival in Des Allemands, about 35 miles from our house, in a small spit of land set among swamps and lakes and bayous that eventually make their way to the Gulf.

Des Allemands boldly bills itself as the Catfish Capital of the Universe, and they may well be. As the name suggests, the little Cajun village was first settled by German immigrants, who nestled themselves among the French Acadians/Cajuns already there. The area now has black and white French Cajuns and German Cajuns, and a goodly number of Vietnamese fisherfolk as well. They are mostly Catholic, with some Baptists and Evangelicals. In addition to the ubiquitous oil field jobs that it seems no Cajun community can escape, folks there make their living shrimping, crawfishing, hunting, and of course, catfishing.

Every year, on the same weekend of July, on the extensive grounds of St. Gertrude the Great Catholic Church and elementary school, they throw the Catfish Festival. The fest has tons of food -- more ways to eat catfish than you might've thought (more on that later), hamburger and hot dogs for the unadventurous (though I have it on good authority that the homemade chili on the 'dogs was outasight), fried shrimp and softshell crab po boys, gumbo, and sauce piquante. There's also snow balls and funnel cakes and beer and soft drinks and frozen daiquiris. Off to the side, there are numerous crafts booths, including 2 in the name of small Cajun children who, sadly, have contracted some very rare, incurable, genetic diseases (all that intermarriage in small Cajun towns has led to a significant uptick in these kinds of illnesses and conditions that physicians almost never see), and one staffed by prisoners from the local St. Charles Parish prison, who learn leather-working as a craft while incarcerated. To the back of the grounds, near the railroad tracks (a train went by that night while we were there), giant carnival rides were set up.

Behind the school's frosty air-conditioned gym/cafeteria, a giant steel-framed, concrete floored pavilion has been set up, apparently for this and other festivals on the grounds. The pavilion is named in honor of a St. Gertrude priest, and, significantly, he had a Vietnamese surname. I liked the way the pavilion had been set up, with the floor painted to show clearly demarcated areas to put folding chairs, allowing for aisles, and leaving a giant dance floor in the center. There were enormous electric fans set up around the edges, facing the dance floor. Which was a good idea, because couples of all ages crowded in there, dancing up a storm. It's the kind of thing that makes me so happy to be a Louisianian -- all those people, old and young and middle-aged, black and white and Vietnamese, dancing together to the same music.

And the music was terrific! A guy we had never heard of before, Al "Lil Fats" Jackson, with a band of 3 saxes, bass, guitars, drummer, with him on keys, doing absolutely wonderful, swinging, versions of Fats Domino songs. Everyone was diggin' it like crazy. The band was really tight and they played like they had been playing this stuff like forever (even though they were all, of course, considerably younger than Fats himself). Al was quite the showman too, teasing the appreciative crowd several times by starting out, "I found my...." but then NOT going into "Blueberry Hill." By the time he deigned to do it, everyone was all hyped up and cheering. Big Man and I joined the dancers in the pavilion and a great moment. (Amazingly, the band played from the time we got there -- a little after 8 pm -- and was still playing with no break when we left, around 10 pm. When I mentioned this to Big Man, he burst out, "Are you kidding? South Louisiana is the No-Break Capital of the Universe!")

The three Catfish Queens were brought onstage to much applause and appreciation. There are three of them because there are three age divisions. They were all three sweet-faced, pretty girls, with towering rhinestone tiaras on their heads, but otherwise dressed in what was apparently the festival uniform of T-shirts, shorts, and flipflops. It made quite a contrast, I can tell you. Inside the gym/cafeteria, air-conditioned to a fare-thee-well, there were framed photos on all four walls of Catfish Queens going back to the early 1970s. They start off conventionally enough, with blondes in bouffant hairdos and standard Cajun surnames, but as the years and decades and eras go by, the pictures show girls with dark hair and swarthy skin, and even some Vietnamese girls. It was wonderful to see the Catfish Queens tradition evolve like that, like a sweet Cajun fairy tale.

So, back to the catfish. There was fried catfish filets served in platters, and on po boys. There was catfish, shrimp, and crawfish gumbo, which, while a little thin, sort of like a courtbouillion, was beautifully seasoned and totally chockfull of the aforementioned seafoods. There was a deep red sauce piquante, studded with big chunks of catfish, and with cute little cocktail onions in it instead of chopped onions; I wondered if the cook had run out of fresh onions and just found the jar of pickled cocktail onions in the fridge and decided on a whim to go in that direction, or if this was an intentional, stylistic choice. Either way, it was fantastic.

There was also something called Catfish Boullettes. Now anywhere else in America they might be called Catfish Fritters or, to be playful, maybe Catfish Balls; in New Orleans, they might be Catfish Beignets. But we're in Cajun Country, so they're Catfish Boullettes (little balls). Chopped up raw catfish is mixed in a thick seasoned batter with little snippets of green onion in it, and then mushed up by hand into balls that are roughly between a golf ball and a tennis ball, and then deep fried (of course). Oh my these were *wonderful*! We ate more of them than we should have, all the time speculating about making them at home and then serving them with home made tartar or remoulade sauce. (The festival was serving them with simple ketchup.)

We saw flyers at the festival for the Des Allemands Catfish Cookbook, which listed an intriguing dish called Catfish Cacciatore on the front. Believe me, if they had had that at the fest, wed've eaten it.

After about 2 hours, we were stuffed. However, we still had food tickets left over, so we scouted for a little while and gave our tickets to a young family with several children on our way out of the fest. It was a lovely if hot night, the people-watching was great fun, the music great and the food fantastic, but we'd had enough. If you haven't been or haven't been in a while, you should go.

Rebuilding My Church

2011-06-16T15:20:00.004-05:00

People ask me all the time about my church's recovery from Katrina, and it's a hard question to answer succinctly. Our denomination went in a different direction from most, and made the decision early on after the Storm to divide the funds and give away 2/3 of what was donated by generous members of my faith tradition to local community groups, especially those led by people of color. The remaining 1/3, which amounted to a little over $1 million, was dedicated to ALL the churches of our denomination that were damaged, as well as to the Baton Rouge congregation that was coordinating the first volunteer efforts.

The upshot of that decision was that our churches of Greater New Orleans were left largely unrecovered. My church building alone sustained over $1 million worth of damage, so you can imagine that our share of a divided fund did not go far. We have been careful stewards, and diligent in our creative efforts to get things done at the lowest possible cost, but the thing is, here it is, nearing the 6th anniversary of Katrina, and we still are operating on a Temporary Certificate of Occupancy, with large areas of the building with scarred concrete floors, unfinished walls and ceilings, a limping elderly HVAC system, a leaky roof, no working church kitchen, broken and dangerous entryway, and not a handicapped accessible restroom in the place. As if all that were not enough and more than enough, in addition to Storm damage, we're under new building codes that were enacted by the state legislature after the Storm.

For those of you who like details, here's the list I'm bringing to our denominational meeting next week to seek more help from my co-religionists:

Replace/upgrade HVAC system ruined by flood $12,600.00
Fire Alarm for new Community Kitchen 4,000.00
Iron work for new Community Kitchen 3,200.00
Plumbing replace/upgrade 20,000.00
Kitchen vent for new Community Kitchen 7,000.00
Fire Sprinkler System Pump Room (new requirement) 19,000.00
Installation of Fire Pump (new requirement) 48,500.00
Arch Finishes for Fire Exits (new requirement) 35,000.00
Fire Alarm for Building (other than kitchen – new requirement)) 19,000.00
Fire Doors (new requirement) 1,500.00
Fire Damper (new requirement) 3,000.00
Repair of Entranceway Damaged by Flood Waters 6,200.00
Repair of Leak & Plaster Work at Stained Glass Window 2,800.00
FUUNO SUB-TOTAL: $181,800.00
MINUS AMOUNT ON HAND IN FUUNO’s BUILDING FUND: -77,000.00
AMOUNT TO BE RAISED: $104,800.00

Note that the above figures DO NOT include finishing of walls and ceilings and installing new floors -- we'll continue along as we have been, doing that kind of work with volunteers, our own and those wonderful folks coming from out of town. We'll also have to figure out how to afford some kind of post-construction elevator system, so that our second floor is accessible. The list above just gets us a Permanent Certificate of Occupancy, and allows us to open the longed-for Community Kitchen, getting us on the way to wholeness and resuming our full-time urban, "food ministry."

If any of you reading this have funds of any amount to donate, or if you'd like to have the new Fire Pump named after you, be sure to contact me. The church would be exceedingly grateful, and so would I.

Deacon John's 70th Birthday @ Rock'n'Bowl

2011-06-16T14:33:00.004-05:00

Here's the thing: If Deac is 70, that means that all of us who danced to Deacon John and the Ivories at our high school proms and sock hops are pretty much old too. What's up with that? Why don't we feel old?

I am writing this on Saturday night, June 11 from Rock'n'Bowl. The place is packed. The Fortier High School graduating class of 1956 (!!) is here, and most of 'em are out on the floor, smoothly dancing. There's a good many of my nostalgic aging Baby Boomer generation here too, singing along with the familiar lyrics.

But if it were only us "old folks" here, it wouldn't be near as crowded. The adult children of the Baby Boomers are also here, some of them bowling but still rockin' out to Deac's patented jump blues. (In case I forget to mention it, Big Man is playing 2nd trumpet in Deac's amazing big 16-piece band. He's loving it.)

Deac sounds terrific, his voice only a little rougher than the old days. The crowd is eating it up, and in some ways the familiar R&B beat and horn lines bring it all back. You can tell some of the old couples are dreamily reliving some good old times as they sway and dance.

Since Rock'n'Bowl is an actual working bowling alley, and serves food beside, unlike a normal nightclub, there's no minimum age. And so on top of -- or underneath -- the 3 generations mentioned above, the place is also full of kids, including Deac's grandchildren/grand-nieces, whatever). But some young parents have actually, god love them, rolled in a couple of strollers (starting 'em young!).

In true Louisiana fashion, people keep gesturing Deac to the edge of the stage so they can pin dollar bills on him for his birthday. (Next to me, a woman nearly panicked, saying plaintively, "I didn't bring a PIN!" so I handed her a safety pin. I'm always prepared, you never know when you're gonna need one.) From where I sit, looks like he's up to about $50 now, and the first set hasn't ended. He and his brother Charlie (it's his birthday week too) should really rake it in tonight.

Black, white, old, young, grands and kids, Uptown and Downtown (and Chalmette and Metry), sharp dressers and slobs, we're all here at Rock'n'Bowl havin' a wonderful time. Only in New Orleans.

Happy Birthday, Deacon John, and many many more!!

The Heat (redux)

2011-06-12T00:52:00.005-05:00

This post is not for tourist or Chamber of Commerce consumption, but it is the truth.

It is hot as hell here, in fact I'm pretty sure hell is cooler, or at least less humid. Termites are swarming, and the other half of the double that Big Man and I live in is infested, requiring TONS of noisy reconstruction, carpenters banging and sawing away starting very early in the morning. Despite the weirdness of it, on our side there's only nasty bothersome flying/swarming termites this and no apparent -- or according to the pest control guy who has a vested interest in finding *something* -- no un-apparent active termites or damage either. How strange and lucky for us. But all the construction work on the other half of the house has our cat Smokey and dog Keely all in a dither.

It's so hot out that really, I can't breathe and I can't think. You sweat just getting your paper or the mail. Walking the dog? Fuggedaboutit -- we wait til after dark. I literally -- I'm not kidding -- sit in the living room with a bag of ice to supplement the air conditioning, because who can afford to lower the thermostat to where you'd really be comfortable? (Big Man and I visited the lovely Latter Library the other day to pile up summer reading, and we were both thrilled at the level of air conditioning there. it reminded me of my childhood summers, when my mother would throw me out of the house, and I would escape to the St. Bernard Parish Library, which was also heavily -- and heavenly! -- air conditioned.)

Both our cars have lost air conditioning (wouldn't you know it?), and the van -- which we hate with a passion -- is too expensive to fix, and while the Mazda *might* be fixable, we're too scared right now to check, since we don't presently have the funds that our wonderful and honest but cash-or-check only mechanic would require to fix. So I rented a car for us to drive to our denominational General Assembly next week. Believe you me, it has air conditioning.

Other than all this complainin', things are fine. No tropical storms in the Gulf, the River level is going down, they're closing the spillways, and we've just celebrated the triple festival of Creole tomatoes, seafood, and Cajun/zydeco music in the French Market, and so life is good (if hot).

The River

2011-05-18T14:45:00.002-05:00

Since Jazz Fest, like everyone else in South Louisiana, we've been keeping an eye on the River. We go to the Fly at Audubon Park and walk over to the edge, noting how much further the brown water is from the last time we visited. We look over when crossing the River on one of the ferries or the bridge. We've watched as the levels rise and rise.

On the Monday after Jazz Fest, Big Man and I drove to Baton Rouge to shop at our favorite Cajun charcuterie, Bergeron's in West Baton Rouge (don't get me started on them right now! well worth a trip!), and decided to drive home the long way along River Road. We saw behind LSU how the seepage from the levee had formed huge puddles along the road (despite the recent lack of rain). As we drove along, at one point downriver from Baton Rouge, Big Man parked at the foot of the levee and walked up to survey the situation. He hollered to me, back in the car, standing about 5 or 6 feet from the top of the levee, "This is where the water is on the other side!" It was a good 16-17 feet over the car and the road.

Lake Pontchartrain is turning brown from the River water pouring in, chasing the lake fish out and bringing in catfish from the Mississippi -- and once again ruining the oyster beds. (Seems like the poor oystermen just can't catch a break.) Even with all the water pouring through the Bonné Carré Spillway above New Orleans, it wasn't enough, and this week the Morganza Spillway above Baton Rouge was also opened, pouring Mississippi River water into the basin of the Atchafalaya, endangering Morgan City and even smaller villages in Cajun country. God help those people.

A few days ago, Big Man and I took Keely our dog and returned to the Fly, and found there dozens and dozens of other New Orleanians fixated, staring at the swollen river. The brown water was riding high, the current visibly speeding past us to the Gulf, like it was late or something. Barges and tugboats rode unbelievably high in the water, and those traveling upstream had a helluva time of it, making very little headway, as the River strained and pushed in the opposite direction, causing giant wakes. No wonder the Corps of Engineers shut down river traffic for while -- it didn't look safe at all to us.

The city is safe, thank God, barring some unforeseen disaster like a barge breaking free and hitting the levee (the City Council threatened to scuttle any barge not properly tied down). And our hearts go out to all the people and places and farms and businesses in the Atchafalaya Basin. May the flooding not be as bad as predicted for you, and may you all be safe and sound. We thank you for your sacrifice.

Freedom Riders Make It to New Orleans!

2011-05-17T17:52:00.005-05:00

(And only 50 years late!)

Yesterday Big Man and I attended a special rally at the Ashé Cultural Center on Oretha Castle Haley Blvd. to mark the 50th anniversary of the Freedom Rides in the Spring of 1961 -- which ended, of course (as the older among you already knew and the younger among you were taught in last night's excellent documentary on PBS), with the Freedom Riders being badly beaten, almost killed and jailed. Only a few ever made it to New Orleans in 1961, and then by plane. (And even so, only after Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy's aide, John Seigenthaler, himself injured in the melee in Jackson, intervened and directly called the airline.)

A large crowd was gathered on this gorgeous sunny and cool day, mostly black but quite a few whites like us (no question that there should have been more, though). Some vendors had set up under the canopy of the Ashé Center's awning, and Big Man and I bought a copy of the book on Congo Square that we had looked at while at Jazz Fest. We were glad we had waited, because we got to have the book signed and dedicated by the author. I told her the story of Bog Man's emotional reaction to Congo Square on his first visit to New Orleans back in 2004, exclaiming, "And he's not even from here!" and she graciously invited him to the drumming circle on Sunday afternoons at 3 pm. (Drumming at Congo Square on Sunday afternoons? You bet we'll be there!)

I also purchased an Ashé handkerchief, correctly surmising that I might need one. I had been feeling teary and tender all day about the anniversary and the event, remembering what I had seen on the TV news back then (when I was about 8 years old) and the conversations I had had with my parents at that time (my parents were local white civil rights activists back in the day), talking about it with Big Man (who, younger than I, remembered none of it), and thinking about the PBS tagline to promote the documentary, "Could you get on the bus?"

Could YOU get on the bus, knowing what those young people knew at the time? That it meant jeopardizing one's chances for graduation from college, the threat of danger, having a police record, possibly being physically hurt, maybe even losing your life? (John Seigenthaler quoted a young and beautiful Diane Nash saying to him on the phone, "Last night we all signed our last will and testaments -- we know what we are up against" and him being struck speechless.) Would you have risked everything to establish the right to travel between states on a bus or train, and to sit and wait or sit and eat in the station? Could you have had the courage to do it all nonviolently, no matter what was said to you, no matter what was done to you? Would you have had the courage to get on the bus?

The crowd was filled with a sense of happy anticipation. A crate of lovely pure white doves was waiting to be released at the right moment, and several people carried signs to welcome the long-delayed Freedom Riders. There were cameras and microphones from various media outlets -- although none seemingly from local news. We saw a representative from the mayor's office who was holding a framed proclamation to give the riders, but we were disappointed the Mayor himself did not attend. Many people had brought small children to witness this historic event.

The crowd roared its approval as the bus, "wrapped" in a graphic that transformed this modern-day conveyance into an old-fashioned Greyhound bus, pulled up in front of the Ashé Center. A young band from Behrman School across the river struck up some tunes, and we all applauded wildly. The elderly Freedom Riders gingerly disembarked into the bright sunshine, blinking in the glare, waving gamely. They were followed by students wearing the bright yellow Freedom Rider T-shirts from WGBH Boston. There was a short little procession down the street, the band in front, the Freedom Riders walking slowly with canes or walkers or holding onto the arms of younger folks, the rest of us falling in behind them, everyone cheering and clapping. My heart just swelled up -- they made it! They finally made it! I really used that handkerchief, believe you me!

There were speeches (not very audible with the terrible sound system being used) and prayers and hymns sung, and the white doves were released, one by one, flying up and over the street and into the setting sun to home. The Freedom Riders were gamely signing autographs onto T-shirts and posters and copies of the Freedom Riders book being sold. They posed for photos by themselves and with others. (I got my picture taken with Ms. Joan Trumpauer Mulholland, whose moving story of her experiences can be found at http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/freedomriders/people/joan-trumpauer-mulholland) "Thank you, thank you!" I said to her, my hands covering hers. All around me in the crowd, I could hear the same thing being said over and over, "Thank you, thank you so much, thank you for what you did."

And all I could think was, it took 50 years, but they made it to their stated destination. All of us involved in social justice work should be inspired, and learn from this. The things you do, the choices you make, all make a difference. Just not right away.

Our Favorite Jazz Fest Moments

2011-05-10T20:18:00.002-05:00

Every year at Jazz Fest, there are moments that surprise you, that stick in your memory, things you'll remember forever for whatever reason. This year was no exception. Here's a few of Big Man's and my favorite Jazz Fest moments:

•Tom Jones singing "Hey Pocky Way" as one of his encores. (See last post.)

•Dr. John calling the 91-year-old Dave Bartholomew onstage, and Dave being brought out in a wheelchair, waving his trumpet to the crowd. We were prepared to cheer him for everything he's done in the past, but the guy proceeded to blow and blow, making the horn talk and squeal and wail. On "The Monkey Speaks His Mind" (one of my favorites), Dave went crazy on the trumpet, wah-wahing behind Mack Rebennack's vocals. It was unbelievable! We screamed our heads off.

•Hearing an unmistakable Louisiana piano sound coming from Fais Do Do as we were walking the track, and feeling drawn to it like a magnet. Thus we got to hear the wonderful Roddie Romero and his fabulous pianist Eddie Adcock play swamp pop-Cajun-Zydeco to an appreciative crowd. Never heard of these guys, but they were terrific. At Jazz Fest, you have to let your ears do the picking sometimes, and just go where you're drawn.

•Kid Rock singing a song on the Acura Stage about growing older, with a lyric referencing a prostate exam -- almost certainly the very first time that's ever been done in a rock song. We were both pleasantly surprised by Kid Rock's set -- he's very talented, playing guitar, piano, and drums during his set, and he was self-deprecating and witty in his song lyrics and in his remarks. If he hadn't been the set right before the Neville Brothers, we might never have seen him, but we really enjoyed him. (He also called Trombone Shorty onstage to play -- we think Shorty might win the prize as the musician with the highest number of guest appearances at the Fest this year.)

•Speaking of Shorty, who can forget the Midnite Disturbers, what another new fan called "the most expensive brass band in history"? And how the Jazz Fest crowds were completely turned form the traffic flow hearing that jazzy, funky, brassy sound from the Jazz & Heritage Stage? OMG. What a memory!

•Yvette Voelker celebrating her birthday near the end of the Pfister Sisters' great set at the Economy Hall Tent, with fans bringing up old-fashioned bundles of a dozen red roses wrapped in cello, so many that she couldn't hold them all, her neck stained bright red with her furious blushes.

•Allen Toussaint's too-short set at Acura, zipping through just a few of his many, many hits, backed up by Rénard Poché on guitar, Big Sam on trombone, and Grace Darling on sax and background vocals, and Elaine from ELS in a fabulous white Voodoo queen outfit also on background vocals. He brought out Trombone Shorty (see above) and Irvin Mayfield, and then, crazily, announced a song called "Hanging With Jimmy Buffet" -- and he brought Buffet out (whose set was to follow) to sing background on it! It was funny and sweet and amazing. (I wanna know. When did Allen write that tune??)

•Meeting a guy at a food tent who said he worked at Ralph's at The Park, who was swearing by the Crawfish Strudel, which somehow Big Man and I had never ever tasted. So I held our seats and Big Man went back for a serving, while our new friend from Ralph's waited to see our reaction. Wow! Heavenly! I will certainly try to reproduce that at home.

•The final-final set of Jazz Fest with the Neville Brothers bringing up nearly every one of the nephews and grandsons as guests, with the ubiquitous Troy Andrews and Irvin Mayfield as well. We hate to think about it, but some day in the future (the FAR future, we hope), it'll be The Neville Family and not the Brothers. They ran through all the favorites, showed us some new stuff the younger generation is working on, and at the end, after we hollered ourselves hoarse, came back out for the traditional encore of Aaron singing "Amazing Grace" a capella. A group of young people behind us began harmonizing sweetly with Aaron as Big Man and I held each other, trying not to cry. And then Cyril "Nevillized" us all and it was time to go home and Jazz Fest was over for another year.

First Weekend of Jazz Fest 2011

2011-05-03T21:31:00.003-05:00

Well, it was a terrific start to this year's Jazz Fest! We enjoyed beautiful weather with sunshine: Friday was a perfect clear blue sky, Saturday and Sunday both had some clouds, which we like because it grants some occasional shade. Temperatures stayed mild, climbing to the mid-80s by Sunday, but with cooling breezes all 3 days. Humidity stayed fairly low throughout. We had Big Man's niece with us from Pennsylvania, her second Jazz Fest, and together we had a wonderful time.

Here are some highlights of the first weekend:

Friday, April 29
The very first thing we had to do was get us some Trout Bacquet -- *now* we're festing!! Then it was off to the Acura Stage, where we planned to set up our chairs, to hear the ever-reliable George Porter & his Runnin' Pardners. There is no better bass guitar player in the world than George, and we got funky for several tunes before leaving our chairs in the good spot we found, and walking over to the Blues Tent to catch some of the Joe Krown Trio (Joe, Russell Batiste on drums, and Walter "Wolfman" Washington on bass guitar). This is a group Big Man has sat in with at the Maple Leaf lots of times, and we like them a lot. Apparently so do a lot of folks, because the guys had totally *packed* the tent, but to enjoy the music, we strolled around a while as though looking for a seat. They were really hot, and the crowd was more than appreciative.

At the far back of the Gentilly Stage, which was as close as we could get, we laid down the wool Army blanket to groove on the subdudes with my old friend Johnny Magnie. The crowd was so tight along the left side of the stage that it took real skill to get through it. (Won't make that mistake again during Fest, and will take the track from here on in.) I do so love the harmonies of the 'dudes and we stayed for close to half the set, but there was the usual Jazz Fest scheduling of act upon act, and we had to move on to catch more bands on our list.

We walked through the Native American area so Big Man could get his annual Maque Choux fix on our way to listen to Donald Harrison at the Congo Square Stage. Donald was some smooth in his white suit, almost *glowing* on stage, his playing just as smooth and sophisticated. We passed a couple tunes in bliss here, and then we were on to Acura to catch us some great Jon Cleary on piano. Despite his lingering English accent, Jon could pass as a New Orleans-born piano man, and he's just as good as a raconteur. Totally enjoyable.

We got more food on our way to the Economy Hall Tent, to hear trad trumpeter Connie Jones, but we were early, and so caught Doreen's Jazz New Orleans band. We hadn't know who she is, until we saw her -- she's the black woman who play incredible clarinet on the street in the French Quarter. Every single time we've ever seen and heard her, we've been blown away by this woman's talent and musicality. So *that's* Doreen! We were delighted and cheered our heads off after every single solo.

We stayed for only a couple tunes with Connie Jones & his Crescent City Allstars -- the sound was awful, Connie's mike needed amplifying, and we were so replete after Doreen's hot set, that we ended up leaving. We had a destination in mind: the little Lagniappe Stage in the middle of the Grandstand, where Miss Meschiya Lake & her Little Big Horns were holding court and wowing the crowd. We had been going on and on about Meschiya to our niece -- her tattoos, her retro dress and hairdos, her amazing voice, her band's faithful and loving and lively recreation of jazz from the 1920s and 30s. They are *such* an experience, it's like you've gotten into a time machine and are actually experiencing the music of that era. They really belong in Economy Hall, but I suspect that the Jazz Fest powers-that-be fear that the older folks in that tent wouldn't appreciate all those "tats." Maybe next year they'll put her where she deserves to be.

We walked across the fest to get us some funk over at Congo Square with Ivan Neville & Dumpstaphunk. We spread out the Army blanket again and laid ourselves down under the sun, the sky like blue dome over us, and the music fell down on us from above, and I swear, felt like it was rising up from the earth itself, the vibrations entering our bodies from the ground. Especially loved "Put It in the Dumpster" and "Fight the Power."

Of course, it was useless to try to get into the Blues Tent to see Keb' Mo' -- the ushers were stopping people from entering, saying there were absolutely no seats at all left. But we stayed outside and got glimpses through the tent flaps. Wow! Keb' Mo' and his band were amazing, and seemed to be totally enjoying himself, grinning and dancing across the stage. We were glued to the spot, along with hundreds of other fans who couldn't get in, but we left satisfied.

We returned to our seats at Acura in time for former Led Zeppelin lead singer Robert Plant & this Band of Joy. Let's face it, Robert Plant does not have the voice he used to have, but now and again you heard a glimpse of it. He sure looks like an advertisement for how NOT to live -- as my sister L would say, he looked rode hard and put up wet. He had a good band with him -- one band member played acoustic, electric, dobro, and mandolin -- but we were somewhat sunstruck, and mindful of the days ahead. So we headed back to our car to party another day.

Saturday, April 30
A *very* early start on this day, as Big Man was playing with Rénard Poché and his band as the opening act on the Acura Stage. (The Jazz fest shuttle driver who picked us up in the musicians' parking lot said, all impressed, "Oh, the big stage!") Rénard is something of a stickler, so he required his band members to arrive a full hour or more before the scheduled start. The backstage trailers were VERY nice, with comfortable furniture, like white leather sofas and chairs, and glass-topped coffee tables, with a good spread of catering sandwiches and an ice chest filled with water, cold drinks and beer (!). Unfortunately, since Bon Jovi and his band were closing out the Fest later in the day, they were not giving out ANY Acura guest passes, for fear folks would try to use them later to get backstage. Bummer.

It was a great set -- Rénard is *crazy* talented, playing trombone, drums, recorder (actually, TWO recorders at one time!!), flute, and guitar, and his arrangements of familiar tunes (like "Eleanor Rigby") are totally amazing. Unlike many New Orleans musicians, the band had had several rehearsals in the run-up to the fest, and they were *tight* and hot (if I do say so myself, prejudiced as I am with Big Man playing). Keiko on keyboards all ladylike while her hands went crazy across the keys; Leslie Smith's voice all husky and sexy, her stage moves confident. The horns were great, everything went well. The crowd grew and grew as the set wore on, and they cheered and jumped and waved.

After the great set, the band headed back to the trailer and the Jazz Fest staff went out of their way to make us comfortable, maybe feeling guilty that we had to clear out by 1 pm, and not getting our backstage passes. They made us coffee and we ate ore of the catered sandwiches. Big Man got paid, Rénard congratulated and thanked everyone and we took the shuttle back to the car to get rid of all the horns (Big Man played both trombone and trumpet for the show), and Big Man changed out of the required black to a more fest-appropriate garb.

It was well into the set when we got back to the Acura Stage for the Dixie Cups, so we missed "Chapel of Love" (featured on our wedding invitations), but we did enjoy the rest of it. (Except for that part when they brought *Councilwoman Jackie Clarkson* onstage to sing with them -- ew.) Interestingly, the gals sang "America the Beautiful" and nearly the whole crowd stood up and some of the men took their hats off, as if it were the national anthem! We left our chairs there for later and took a walk.

As we walked by the Blues Tent J. Monque'D was holding forth, and once again, it was too full to get in. We kept on going, and were drawn into the Gospel Tent where the Gospel Soul Children were totally rocking out. We managed to find 3 seats, pretty close to the front, and man, did we get the spirit!! A lot of gospel groups will do something with high energy and then will alternate it with something slower, so they (and the audience) can catch their breath, but not the GSC. They went from one rockin' number to the next, and when you thought things couldn't get any more excited or high spirited, they topped it. I tell you the truth, we were almost exhausted when we left.

Needing to hear something much more mellow, we ambled over to Economy Hall and caught jazz banjoist Don Vappie & his Creole Jazz Serenaders. Great classics of the trad style, including tunes associated with Don, like "Salé Dame" (which could loosely translated as "Dirty Girl"). As always, the Economy Hall crowd was well and truly into it, getting into spontaneous secondlines and strutting around the tent. (Note: you can;t hardly go to Economy Hall if you don't have an umbrella, decorated or not, or at the very least a handkerchief to wave as you secondline through the tent.) The dance floor had couples gracefully going through their paces, and a very good time was had by all.

We were hungry again, and made our way to the middle food area, so that Big Man could get his second favorite dish, the absolutely fabulous Quail, Pheasant, and Andouille Gumbo from Prejean's. (That stuff is off-the-charts good!) While sitting on the soft green grass to savor the food, I could hear an almost unearthly good trumpet blowing from the direction of the Jazz & Heritage Stage. "Who is that?," I wondered.

I scanned my iPhone Jazz Fest app, and found an unknown band (to me) called the Midnite Disturbers was there. Big Man came back from the food booth, laughing, and sat down next to me. "Just had a funny trumpet player conversation," he reported. He said he was standing by the gumbo booth when two other older New Orleans trumpeters came over, and they were all grousing, in a friendly fashion, about the trumpeter I was admiring -- who was none other than Trombone Shorty!!! (Of course I loved that trumpet!) The older guys were saying stuff like, "How old were you when you first hit that high note?" and "Good thing he's not good-looking too -- oh wait, he is" and "Can you believe he's that good on 'bone AND trumpet?" and "Does he have to play keyboard too?" and "At least he's a nice guy, we can't even hate him." Funny.

So we rushed over to the Jazz & Heritage Stage, drawn like iron filings to a magnet, and caught the rest of *the completely fantastic and off-the-hook* set by the nearly-secret Midnite Disturbers. This crazy-good band had Shamarr Allen, as well as Troy Andrews, otherwise known as Trombone Shorty, on trumpet, three trombonists, including Cory Henry AND Big Sam of the Funky Nation, two or three saxes, and two funky tubas. Wowee-zowie! It was fantastic, completely and utterly fantastic. (I later discovered that the OffBeat had alerted fans that Shorty would likely be there, but I only read that afterwards.) It was a real, major Jazz Fest moment that I'll remember for a long long time. Wish you could have all been there. (Note to Jazz Fest: next year, the Midnite Disturbers need to be on a much bigger stage.)

Feeling all tingly with the Midnite Disturbers music -- and the roaring cheers of the fans -- still in our ears, we went back to our chairs at Acura for Irma Thomas. Irma's voice has deepened and roughened over the years, but in a really good way, and she puts on a great show with her big band. (Since it was Jazz Fest, they skipped that part where the band plays the first tune without her and then calls her up, and she just came on right away.) She sang some of her new stuff from the two post-K albums, brought up Marcia Ball as her guest for one duet (calling her "my sister from another mother"), and then ran through the golden oldies like "It's Raining," "Time Is My Side," "Breakaway," and of course "You Can Have My Husband But Please Don't Mess With My Man." She ended as she always does, with all of us with our "backfield in motion" for "Pocky-Way." Great satisfying set.

We stayed put as they finished setting up the stage for Bon Jovi (they had actually begun the preparations for Bon Jovi during *Rénard's set* at the beginning of the day!). The crowd grew and grew, but did not get as bad as it had been 2 years ago when Bon Jovi came to Jazz Fest (see my old Blog post from JF 2009). We stayed for several of Jon Bon Jovi's big hits, "Dead or Alive," "You Give Love a Bad Name" and a couple more, then we packed up our chairs and walked over to Gentilly to catch our niece's pick, Jason Mraz, who Big Man and I had never heard of (we don't listen to commercial radio, just 'OZ). Turns out he's a handsome young man playing Latin-tinged pop to a giant appreciative crowd. Very good, but we were tired from getting there so very early, and so we began the trek back to the musicians' lot. On the way, we paused at the Jazz Tent to hear some of Ahmad Jamal's set among the hundreds of fans listening from the outside. Great stuff, lots of passion and energy.

Sunday, May 1
Our last day of the first weekend of Jazz Fest also began early, as Big Man was playing the opening act at the Gospel Tent with Jo "Cool" Davis (who back in the day was the bouncer/doorman at Tipitinia's but who now is a double amputee in a wheelchair). Jo always does his own personal versions of traditional gospel tunes, with a horn line of 2 saxes and Big Man on trumpet. The tent filled quickly, Jo being a long-time local favorite, and things were going along swimmingly, when Jo called up his guest vocalist. The crowd really went wild when James "Sugarboy" Crawford was introduced, all slender and dapper in a natty sport coat and straw fedora. The man who in his salad days gave us the original definitive version of "Jockomo" now sings only gospel but is remembered and revered for his place in the New Orleans musical pantheon. He did a gospel number that was sung to the tune of "Danny Boy" with Big Man doing some really sweet blowing behind him. When the set was over, the crowd stood and stamped and hollered.

As soon as Big Man got paid and congratulated for the gig (and after I had the honor of meeting Sugarboy Crawford and conveying my long-time admiration), we went straightaway to Economy Hall to get good seat for New Leviathan, a perennial favorite beloved by many. This gave us the unexpected chance to hear The Last Straws trad jazz band celebrate their 50th anniversary playing together. These old guys (and they were all, believe you me, old guys) in their old-fashioned striped rep ties and straw boaters played exactly like musicians who'd been playing with each other for a half-century -- that is, almost like they could read each other's minds. They were terrific in their way, and they had lots of fans in the tent.

Almost no one left (and in fact, members of The Last Straws eagerly took seats saved for them in the audience) anticipating the New Leviathan Oriental Foxtrot Orchestra. After a long set-up (they're a BIG group), they launched into some of their treasure-trove of novelty songs from the early 20th century (my personal fave this set: "My Mariucci Does the Hoochie-Ma-Cooch"). What's so wonderful about New Leviathan is that the musicians take the music VERY seriously and don't make fun of it, no matter how silly the lyrics or premise of the songs (another good one was titled "You Heifer"!). And you gotta absolutely love the modern-day theremin they always wait to play at the end of the set, with its crazy, other-worldly sound. I've loved NLOFO since the old days in the atrium lobby of the old Hyatt Hotel, when they used to play the Friday Tea Dances, and it's great to get to hear them every year at Jazz Fest. (And thank god George Schmidt has returned to NOLA from his painting days in Italy!)

We took the long way back to our chairs at Gentilly, and caught a hot set by Li'l Malcolm & the House Rockers at the Fais Do-Do Stage (and yes, Big Man could not go past the Maque Choux booth without getting another bowlful!). We sat down in time to hear the end part of the Classic New Orleans R&B Revue with Frankie Ford & Jeanie Knight & the Blue-Eyed Soul Band. Big Man had been referred to the Fais Do-Do Stage to check out the Honey Island Swamp Band (they might want/need a trumpet player who can also do trombone), and we strolled over there to watch. They were great -- and they do need a trumpet, if I do say so myself -- but the sun was beating down mercilessly, and so we headed to the Grandstand for some relief. On the way, we watched some of the Storyville Stompers brass band on the Jazz & Heritage Stage; they must've invited everyone who'd ever played with them, for the stage was crowded with horns, must've been 16 guys on stage. Sounded great, though.

It had to be about 20 degrees cooler, no kidding, inside the Grandstand, and we were delighted by the set of pianist Tom McDermott with clarinetist Evan Christopher. Who knew those 2 pieces could be so satisfying and sweet? Very enjoyable and unexpected.

Once we were cooled off, we went back to the chairs at Gentilly for the end of Deacon John's Big Band's set. (They had old-fashioned bandstands and everything!). Wish we could've seen the whole set. We ran into Deac later on at Fest and told how great we thought he had been (and secretly said to ourselves that Deac needs to give Big Man a chance in his band -- Big Man is a natural for R&B-type playing).

Carrying the Army blanket for seating, we rushed over across the field to Acura for Dr. John & the Lower 911. The crowd was of course gynormous, but I spotted a parishioner sitting on the grass by herself, and offered a spot on the blanket. We all sat together and had a great time as Mack went through all my favorite tunes, just as though he had taken my requests. His medley of "Golden Splinters" with "Night Tripper" was terrific. Then he called out for his guest, the great trumpeter/arranger/ composer/producer Dave Bartholomew, who rolled out in a wheelchair. The main next to me checked his iPhone and announced, "91 on his next birthday!" and we all aahed and oohed. (And I told Big Man, whose birthday is next week, "See, darlin, 40 more years of blowing trumpet!") To our absolute amazement, Dave did indeed have his horn and not only blew it, he tore the place up, making his trumpet talk and squeal with a mute, and soaring notes heavenward. Good Lord, that was incredible! Another Jazz Fest moment to be savored and treasured.

Even though we knew the tent would packed like a sardine can, we hurried over to Economy Hall to at least listen from the outside to Pete Fountain's set, for who knows how many sets the old guy has in him. Tim Laughlin was sort of backing him up, but Pete was really playing his "licorice stick" and doing a helluva job. Among the mob massed outside we ran into and exchanged hugs and kisses with several friends, including the lovely Yvette Voelker of the Pfister Sisters (they play the Fest next wekeend). She and Bog Man had to spend some time praising the Finale music app for Macs and iPads. We left after Peter blew the tent down with "Basin Street Blues."

We returned to our chairs and waited for Tom Jones to come to the Gentilly Stage. Big Man and I talked, and we agreed that if all he did was a Vegas-type revue of all or most of his hits, it would be a satisfying show. We sat back and enjoyed the breeze, and blessedly the sun went behind some clouds and it was more than comfortable. Without our noticing, the band must have taken the stage, and suddenly our chairs began to vibrate with a heavy bass beat. We looked up, and there was nothing but a trio -- bass, guitar, and drums -- on the stage, hitting a heavy blues beat, and then Tom Jones (looking fabulous) took the stage to cheers and screams. He proceeded to do 3 old-time gospel songs in a row, including a shiver-inducing "God Almighty Gonna Cut "Em Down." Big Man and I exchanged looks. This was not at al what we expected, but this was *terrific."

Then, Tom introduced another song, and 2 really attractive (no, HOT) female back-up singers came out and they did a couple numbers with him. And then, a pianist came out and they did more tunes. We finally got it -- he was slowly and dramatically building up the band onstage, and at each point, you were completely happy, not thinking anything was missing. And then a full horn line came out and they blasted into a classic version of "Delilah" with the whole crowd joining in on the familiar chorus ("Why, why, why, Delilah...").

Each tune was introduced by Tom telling a story about how he got the tune, his conversations with the writer or with someone who had recorded it before him (like Elvis!). He was informative and interesting and gracious. His voice was fine, almost as if no time had passed. He had also grown into his looks and was, if anything, even better looking than he was when younger. There was hardly a woman of any age or orientation who wouldn't given him some. (And yes, if you have to ask, there was indeed underwear thrown up on stage!)

When the horn line broke into the familiar intro to Randy Newman's salty "You Can Leave Your Hat On" we screamed our approval. Tom's cover was so smoking hot it was surprising that any clothes remained on in the audience at all. The set was over before we knew it, the sun hanging low to our left, the sky turning all rosy, the crowd shouting and screaming for more. After we were almost hoarse, they came back out and to our gobsmacked surprise, they launched into "Pocky-Way"! (Really, I'm serious!!) Tom said, "I sing this lots of places, and people just don't get it -- they don't understand this song. But I know you will and I hope you'll join me in singing it." Well, who could stop us?? So we all backed up Tom Jones in singing our very own Mardi Gras Indian song. Amazing and wonderful.

Just as I was losing hope, Tom went into Prince's "Kiss" as his final encore, and while I have a beef with the Jazz Fest cameraman (and I KNOW it was a man, and straight at that!) who focused on the gorgeous back-up instead of Tom, for pete's sake, it was a completely satisfying end to an incredibly satisfying and unexpected set.

As the sun went down, we walked to our car, satiated, tired, excited, and happy. And thus ended the first weekend of Jazz Festival 2011.

Irvin Mayfield at Wednesday at the Square

2011-04-28T21:21:00.002-05:00

Despite tremendous winds -- so strong that nearly all the booths at the Lafayette Square concert were NOT set up, for fear of blowing away, so strong that every gust brought handfuls of dust and grit from all over into your face and eyes and mouth -- the Wednesday at the Square Concert went on as scheduled. Big Man and I met up with my sister D and we three found a good spot in front of what would have been the sound booth but was this week just a sound table. I do believe the crowd was dampened a bit by the extreme wind, so it wasn't as packed as one might have expected. But that just means it as easier to find a good spot to sit, and there were no lines for food (which also was just tables, and not booths, due to the wind).

Irvin Mayfield needed no warm-up group, and just took over the whole two hours. A big band, with Kid Chocolate Brown as the second trumpet, Shannon Powell on drums, David Torkanowsky on the piano, a sax player, and a bassist. Big surprise: Creole jazz banjoist Don Vappie -- nice! They started with some classics, and frankly, I've never seen Irvin so relaxed and comfortable onstage. His playing was smooth and sharp at the same time, and he gave lots of encouragement to his bandmates.

Sitting in the back of the stage were three young women dressed in burlesque-type outfits, and we could not figure out why they were there (though they did seem to be enjoying themselves to the music). Big Man commented, "I think Irvin's been on Bourbon Street too long!" But it became clear in the second half of the show.

The second set began with a tune by some kids that Irvin's is teaching music to, what he called his "Saddy students." (Didja ever notice that working class New Orleanians try to drop and compress syllables, and upper crust New Orleanians stretch them out?) These kids were absolutely terrific, especially this tiny trumpeter, who couldn't have been any more than 8 years old, if he was that, who totally blew us all away with his skillful jazz solo. Irvin said into the mike, "Y'all give him a big hand, this boy tryin' to steal my gig!" We screamed and hollered. I wish I had caught his name, 'cause I feel like years from now, we will want to say, "Oh yeah, I first saw him when he was just a little kid, one of Irvin's students, playing at a Wednesday at the Square concert, back in the day."

After the students left, Irvin led the band through some local favorite tunes, and then called up his next guest -- who was none other than "Trombone Shorty" Troy Andrews!! Wow! Irvin handed Troy his horn, and Troy blew a great version of "Do What You Wanna." With no horn to blow, Irvin was left to vocalize, and to our amazement, he began exhorting the crowd to "shake what yo' mama gave ya" and "c'mon, mama, shake yo' ass." He doesn't sound like THAT when he plays up North!

Irvin himself seemed to emphasize his at-homeness, telling the crowd, "You don't find THIS in Houston, you don't find this in Los Angeles, you don't find this in New York, you don't find this in Chicago" and so on, the crowd appropriately hollering, "NO!" to each iteration of another city.

After Shorty left -- with the crowds screams and applause in his ears, no doubt -- leaving the fancy matte Monette horn to Irvin, Irvin called up another guest, this time Sasha Masakowski. Little Sasha, daughter of jazz guitarist Steve Masakowski, who I last saw opening for Aaron Neville at the House of Blues last December, has really grown into her voice and persona -- she was hot as fire, doing an incredible smoky version of "St. James Infirmary." Whew.

And then when SHE left, Irvin called up Miss Trixie Minx, of the burlesque troupe that appears every Friday night at midnight at Irvin's Bourbon Street club, and one of the three burly-Q ladies that had been adorning the stage all during the first set. Trixie preened and pranced and flirted with giant white feather fans to Vappie's rendition of Blue Lu Barker's steamy classic "Don't You Feel My Leg." It was pretty hot, though, as such things go, it was pretty tame. I mean, you can see more skin on most beaches. It's not like she was actually stripping and showing body parts or anything. Still and all, it's hard to believe this would be public-park, family-friendly fare anywhere but New Orleans. (And indeed, Irvin started up again with his, "They're not doing THAT in Houston, etc." You bet they're not.)

The party was still going on, with Irvin threatening to hold a second line from Lafayette Square to his club on Bourbon as Big Man and I left to see if we had gotten a parking ticket. (Our luck held -- we hadn't.) As we walked, we tried to decide why Irvin seemed so different tonight than the ways we had seen him in Philadelphia and Cape May and Wilmington when we lived up North. Part of it might be just the passage of years -- Irvin has matured as a man and as a player, and that surely contributes to it. But it was not just maturity and confidence that we noticed -- it was also the looseness, the sense of playfulness that Irvin brought to this show. (And all those shout-outs to the crowd.) It has to be his feeling so at home in this special place -- it was New Orleans helping him to be that way. A wonderful thing. Probably the best Wednesday at the Square we've ever attended.

Maundy Thursday at Dooky Chase -- But Without RJH

2011-04-21T15:13:00.002-05:00

Another Holy Thursday rolls around, and again it is time to go to Dooky Chase restaurant in Treme and eat the superb gumbo dez'herbes. This is a traditional Creole Lenten dish, especially for this particular day, made up of 7 different greens and 7 different meats, to fortify good Catholics for the fast that follows on Good Friday. Mrs. Leah Chase's version is probably definitive, and I've been enjoying this dish on this day with a select group in Dooky's Gold Room gathered by my dear friend, the late RJH, with only the hiatus of my years of living in exile from the city. (Although RJH used to include me every year in the email invitation, whether I was going to be in town or not, whether out of habit or as a goad to get to me, I'll never know now.)

RJH died this past January, and at his funeral repast at Dooky's, his family and close friends all agreed that we would continue the tradition he started. So that very evening, Jacques Morial, son of the late mayor (another good friend of RJH, and the reason he and I first met) booked the Gold Room for Maundy Thursday with Mrs. Leah, who teared up at the gesture.

So there we all were, once more passing by the enormous line at the door to enter the Gold Room to greet each other, and where it seemed strange indeed not to see RJH standing there to welcome us. One member of the group had brought a small framed photo of RJH, and we all took turns posing with it and having it on our table -- because, don't you know, RJH loved to work a room and could never stay at his own table for long. (The rest of you outside our group who have to wait in the line -- believe me, it's well worth it!)

Two of RJH's three sons were there (one lives in town, one is a professor in San Francisco, and the middle son lives in Switzerland), and at the prodding of RJH's long-time companion D, stood and addressed the crowd warmly, thanking everyone for coming, and reminding us all that RJH's work for social justice and equality for New Orleans and Louisiana remained unfinished. We cheered. Talk at the tables was the usual -- politics and gossip, and our memories of RJH. A local lawyer, long a friend and ally of RJH, but with whom RJH often disagreed, confessed that he was still having arguments with RJH in his mind, and that no matter what, apparently they still disagreed. I admitted to dreaming about RJH last night, and getting scolded by him, that I wasn't doing enough, or doing it "right."

Well, we ate the wonderful green gumbo, and fried chicken, and the sweet corn bread that's almost like dessert, and drank iced tea and Dooky's strong hot coffee. We laughed and we talked and we remembered -- and when Mrs. Leah stepped into the room to greet us, we all applauded loud and long.

Miss you, RJH, always will. But we're keepin' the faith, and keepin' up with the sacred rituals and traditions that were important to you.

Perino's Boiling Pot

2011-04-16T22:14:00.003-05:00

We were in the midst of Saturday chores, me writing away for Sunday on the laptop, and jumping up to do laundry, and Big Man diligently practicing trumpet when late day hunger pangs rolled around. "What do you want to do for lunch?" Big Man asked me. I think he was thinking something quick and cheap and close-by, like Please You or something, but instead I replied, "I feel like a big ol' mess of boiled seafood."

We consulted on where to go and I held out for Perino's Boiling Pot, a local favorite in Marrero on the West Bank. I had heard great things about it, about how it was almost like West End in the old days, with spicy fresh boiled seafood served hot from the pot at family-style tables (only air conditioned and inside, instead of hot and outside like out at the Lake back in the day). And I had heard they were inexpensive.

Today was another beautiful day, clear blue sky, warm mild temperatures, and we enjoyed our little drive across the River and over the West Bank Expressway to Barataria. We exited, crossed over, and found Perino's, a large brick hall with ample parking in front and behind. Being as we woke late and were now having a late lunch, it was not very crowded.

Inside, it was the typical old-fashioned arrangement with a bar as you come in, gaming area to your right, and the dining room with the long tables (to be shared if things get crowded) to the left, seat yourself. It's telling that there is a big sign over the bar marking where folks who've phoned in their orders can pick up their big sacks of "berled" seafood to eat at home or take on a picnic.

As I say, it was not crowded -- there an older white lady sitting by herself, an African-American couple, a white dad with lots of tattoos and his two teenage children, and a Latino couple. Every single person there was scarfing down big round trays of crawfish, crabs, shrimp, and oysters. We took our seats at the end of a long table and told the waitress what we wanted. (There are menus to be looked at, but there's also signs posted up on the walls.)

We got three pounds of boiled crawfish (to give you an idea, they advertise 5 pounds of crawfish for $19.99, but we knew we didn't need that much), 1 pound boiled shrimp, an order of boiled new potatoes, 2 ears of corn boiled with the seafood, and one large hot sausage ditto. We also got 2 diet Barq's in bottles (but if you order fountain drinks or iced tea, there's unlimited refills). They have these cool metal thingys on the tables, sort of like in a pizza joint, so that they can layer the tray for the shells and waste under the tray with the seafood on it -- very convenient.

Everything was beautifully spiced -- after a while, my lips got that tingly, almost swollen feeling that is desired by all true New Orleanians when eating boiled seafood. The new potatoes were tiny, almost one-bite sized, and had soaked the perfect amount of the pot spice. The corn was sweet and spicy at the same time, and the sausage was long enough to split evenly and generously for two. The shrimp were large and perfectly cooked, and very easy to peel. Perino's makes its own delicious shrimp cocktail sauce, available on every table (along with three different bottles of hot sauce for the discerning diner). We ate and ate, sucking heads, squeezing tails, and getting delight and satisfaction form every single bite. Big Man said, "Where's this place been all my life?"

We'll even give a positive review to the restrooms, which have deep stainless steel sinks and those neat Dyson hand dryers that take like 10 seconds to dry your hands completely. (That guy is amazing! What will he think of next?) I noticed that every woman on her way into the Ladies Room held her messy hands up stiffly and awkwardly, like surgeons on their way into the OR.

We were fully satisfied and perfectly happy on leaving, paying a mere grand total of $40. You can be assured that we've added the Boiling Pot to our list of "return often" local restaurants. We recommend you go too.

The Old Coffeepot

2011-04-15T16:17:00.003-05:00

Last night, Big Man was asked by Gypsy Elise to join her and her husband at a little gig they had at The Old Coffeepot Cafe on St. Peter Street in the Quarter, just past Preservation Hall and Pat O's. Way way back in the day, this used to be called Macxy's Coffeepot, and was renowned for its grillades and grits traditional Creole breakfast, but is now just The Coffeepot and does bigger business for lunch and late dinner. It consists of a small indoor dining room with a bar, and a side and back courtyard, where one assumes the original carriageway was, which has lovely local murals painted on the walls.

I have taken folks from out of town here before, and I was not aware that live music had been added. But with Big Man getting the invite to blow with them, and having a ministerial colleague in from out of town, we decided to combine it all for one fun evening.

After finding a lucky legal space to park on Canal, Street, we walked my friend down Bourbon, both so Big Man could check on possible progress on getting his nightclub open (no dice), and so our out-of-towner could get the full effect of the street. Arriving at The Coffeepot (we were unable to short-cut through Pat O'Brien's Courtyard, as it was host to a private party -- too bad!), we found a table available in the courtyard near the musicians, and we sat there as Big Man and his horn were called on stage.

We sat there and we sat there. After we were seated by the hostess, who assured us she was getting our waiter right away, we got nothing. No water, no menus, no drink orders, no nothing. We did see a waiter and a waitress, but they completely ignored us in serving other tables. (Admittedly, all the other tables around us were full, but we weren't even acknowledged.) Good thing the music was so good.

After like 10 minutes, I went back to the hostess and told her, "Look, I'm local, and I understand how things get sometimes, but i've got a friend with me from out of town, and this is ridiculous. We need our waiter." She apologized and said she was going to go get him. I went back to the table and we sat and we sat and we sat. The hostess finally came by and dropped off menus. We waited some more, and after a while, the hostess came back with our three ice waters. She kept saying the waiter was coming.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime but was more like 20 minutes, our waiter showed up, apologized, and said (unconvincingly) that he hadn't known we were there, and/or that he hadn't known he was responsible for us. He took our drink orders and left. Then he came back and told me they were all out of fresh mint for the Louisiana mojito I ordered, and said he'd make me a "great hurricane, the best I ever drank." I'm sorry, I had to grab his shirt sleeve. "I'm a native," I said to him clearly, "I haven't had a hurricane in over 40 years and I'm not gonna start up again now. I hate the things -- DO NOT bring me a hurricane." He apologized again and took my order for a classic martini. (I mean, REALLY, I haven't had a hurricane since I was 17 years old and as far as I'm concerned, that's who they're designed for -- for people too young and inexperienced to drink real drinks.)

He finally brought the drinks, and I ordered food for myself and Big Man, and then he walked off, *without* getting the order for my friend from out of town! I had to chase him down and bring him back! Imagine! And then when the food came, he got it all wrong and we had to switch plates round and round on the table.

Luckily, all the food was very very good -- the two different gumbos were dark and smoky and chock full of chicken and andouille and seafood, respectively; the crawfish and crab balls were well-fried, golden brown and yummy; the nice-size barbeque shrimp in its unusual thick and spicy sauce; the really wonderful parmesan crusted redfish over creamy risotto topped with steamed asparagus (NOT grilled, as the menu had said, but still, good). So we were happy with all the food, and of course, the music was terrific. But really, the service!

Since I've raved about restaurants on this blog before, it seems only fair to be honest and forthright when something goes wrong. If you go to The Old Coffeepot, be ready for good food and the occasional great music but bad service. And look out for the brassy and entertaining Gypsy Elise, you might get lucky and hear Big Man singing and blowing trumpet with her!

Kermit at the Square

2011-04-15T15:55:00.002-05:00

Who doesn't love Kermit Ruffins? The Wednesday at the Square Concert on April 13 featured the hugely popular trumpet player/vocalist/entertainer as the headliner, and the Square was nearly as full as it had been the week before for Trombone Shorty. The YLC was prepared for this, and had arranged for all the food booths to move off the square to the street to make more room. (However, interestingly, the video screen we had noticed last week for the overflow crowd seemed to be gone this week.)

At my suggestion, some volunteers from a church in Nevada cancelled their dinner at our church's Volunteer Center in order to enjoy the food and fun at Lafayette Square. I got lots of kudos on that score!

We tried some new dishes we'd like to recommend: the excellent and tender and perfectly spiced chicken confit po-boy with spicy cole slaw on a fresh pistolet roll from the Brennan's Cafe Adelaide (Orlando, the sous chef was there, touting his wares in friendly fashion), and the *wonderful* fresh mixed seafood ceviche in mango and pineapple salsa. And we'd like to give a shout-out to the new addition of Luzianne iced tea at the Square, including the several flavors of diet iced tea on hand. Way better than having to choose between plain water and sodium-laced diet sodas for those not wanting alcohol.

A big intergenerational and interracial crowd gathered in the square to hear Kermit regale us with his version of jazz standards ("Ain't Misbehavin' "), cult hits ("if You're a Viper"), New Orleans classics ("Hey Pocky Way"), and older pop tunes done Kermit style ("More Than Yesterday"). Kermit was nattily dressed, in white shirt (untucked) over white pants, debonair navy blazer, white kerchief topped with a Meyer the Hatter white straw fedora. (At one point during his show, the brisk wind blew his hat off and Tambourine Green had to chase it across the stage. Kermit didn't miss a note and just kept blowing.)

As always, Kermit put on a great show. He is such a gifted entertainer. He is not by any means the best trumpeter player in town, but he doesn't need to be -- his show is all about giving the "music lovers" (Kermit's favorite way to address his fans a great show, and he does that, every time. Late in his set, he called up James Witfield "The Sleeping Giant" onstage for some killer vocals and great stage presence, but he didn't need to. We were all psyched up for Kermit, and he didn't disappoint.

Coming soon -- Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

2011-04-13T21:20:00.004-05:00

Latest in a long series of movies being filmed in belle NOLA is the crazy mash-up "Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter,", based on a recent best-selling book. Two blocks of Julia Street downtown, with elegant 19th century buildings and storefronts, have been transformed into a movie set, complete with extras in historic costume, period advertisements and signs, and lovely old wagons and carriages parked curbside -- and wind machines blowing picturesque dust all around. We have not yet spotted any of the principal actors, including a villain vampire who looks seriously sexy in publicity shots, but we're keeping our eyes out.

The Wednesday crowds for the Concert at the Square (see next posting) were really enjoying rubber-necking the movie production on their way to Lafayette Square. We will enjoy checking out the movie once it's released, as we can never resist a movie filmed in our beloved city. (We even saw that awful action movie, just 'cause it was filmed in our neighborhood!)

Interesting shot: two women extras sitting on a bench newly placed on Julia for the shoot, dressed in 19th century garb, but apparently not in the take being filmed. Their legs were crossed anachronistically (look it up -- women didn't cross their legs while sitting until the 20th century), and they had hiked up their skirts above their knees to catch the breeze in the heat. Kind of amusing.

A Wedding, a Funeral, & French Quarter Festival

2011-04-12T18:05:00.002-05:00

What a busy weekend! My sister H was in town briefly from Minneapolis; I performed an informal wedding ceremony in a beautiful courtyard at a guesthouse in Treme on the edge of the Quarter; I did a funeral for a friend's mother on Saturday; it was the French Quarter festival; and our monthly family dinner, instead of being a cooking competition, was held at the Star Steak & Lobster Restaurant on Decatur. On top of everything else, Sunday was the big celebration worship service at our sister church to dedicate their brand-new post-Katrina building. Oh my! It was just run from one to thing to another. I was sure glad when Monday rolled around.

Thursday night we took my sister H out to Frenchman Street, and it was quite the smorgasbord of musical selections -- a great combo with horns playing the Spotted Cat, Shamarr Allen and his Big Dawgs at DBA, a street band of what Big Man calls "waifs," the Boom-Boom Room hosting the HBO "Treme" filming, and the Balcony Club with the Mardi Gras Indian Rhythm group and a Big Chief. Big Man played with them and it was the bomb! H was totally blown away by the amount and quality of live music on Frenchman on a Thursday (of course, it was FQF, but still and all ...)

The weekend's weather was, once again, Tourist commission perfect. If you wanted to quibble, I guess you could have said it was a little too hot for the season, but it was mild and sunny, with blue skies, a few fluffy clouds, and a wonderful, cooling breeze off the River. Just wonderful. I made a big mistake by not wearing sunblock to the little wedding ceremony on Friday, and I ended up with mild sunburn on my shoulders. I learned my lesson and was lathered up for the funeral on Saturday afternoon, prepatory to hitting the festival right after.

Of course we enjoyed the people-watching, and there were lots of people to watch. It does seem that the FQF gets more and more popular every single year. The crowds were huge! But still, it was always possible to find a good place to stand or sit and enjoy the music, sometimes even with shade, and we never had to stand in a line once, for food or drink, or for Portalets. So while there were lots and lots of people there -- of all kinds, of all ages, of every ethnicity -- it was not a problem.

Music we enjoyed: Swingaroux, Gal Holiday, Bone Tone, Irene Sage, Coco Robichaux, the Pinettes, Walter "Wolfman" Washington, Joe Krown, Russell Batiste, and so many more! Plus there were the delights that were off the FQF schedule -- Big Man pulling out his horn and blowing along with a drummer and guitarist in front of the Cathedral, to the great appreciation of both crowd and musicians; and the unknown young black soprano who stood on an iron lace balcony on Chartres and regaled a stunned audience below on the sidewalk in front of the W Hotel with aria after aria. It was like a dream.

Food was great also, as always. Loved the smoked turkey legs, the char-grilled oysters, and a special shout-out to the Praline Connection festival plate of grilled marinated chicken livers with hot pepper jelly, grilled zucchini and onions, and traditional mess of greens served over rice. Yum!

Another fantastic FQF and now it's on to the countdown for Jazz Fest!

Wednesday at the Square

2011-04-07T15:19:00.002-05:00

Unfortunately, I was down with very very bad cold and allergy symptoms last week (just awful! I actually stayed home sick from the church), so I had to miss the first of the weekly Lafayette Square concerts, which featured The Rads in yet another of their farewell appearances. But really, I'd've had to have been hospitalized to miss this week, with Trombone Shorty.

Yesterday was a gorgeous day, just what the Tourist Commission orders up for April -- blue skies, mild temperatures, sunshine, and low humidity -- and so Big Man and I decided to walk to the Square from our house in the lower Lower Garden District, a distance of a little over a mile each way. This is not something I would advise in, say, August, but it's perfectly feasible and even pleasant to do it in April. We carried our folding chairs and took our time about it, and arrived just the warm-up group, the Soul Rebels, were setting up.

We found a good spot near the middle and set up chairs up and then walked away to enjoy the people and the dogs, to check out whatever differences there were with the arrangements of the Square this year, and to decide on something to eat. It was still early yet, and so things hadn't gotten as crowded as they would get later, as the downtown offices shut down and more folks arrived. Everyone was in good spirits, and there was all the usual visiting and mingling and strangers passing the time of day with each other. Big Man and a black man in a sharp hat exchanged compliments with each other on their choices of headgear and on the high merits of the famous Meyer the Hatter store on St. Charles, and I got a nice word from a friend who hadn't seen me since my haircut.

We settled on chaurice on a stick from the New Orleans Sausage Company for Big Man -- however, when somebody came by and snapped a picture, it was ME taking a bite off of it. I'm sure *that* will be a very flattering photo! And I couldn't resist the duck po boy with spicy cole slaw at the Atchafalaya booth. Yummy!

The Soul Rebels were fun and very good. The crowd seemed to especially like the "504" song, celebrating, of course, the familiar and beloved NOLA area code. By the time the Rebels broke around 6-ish, the crowd had increased considerably, and it took patience, ingenuity, and courtesy to navigate one's way around and through. Still, everyone was in a jovial mood, filled with pleasant expectation.

Well, I've blogged about Shorty/Troy Andrews before, and if I gush too much, readers will think I have a crush on him. Let's just say his set was amazing, his band tight and talented, the tunes coming fast and furious and sometimes smoothly seguéing from one to another (to another). It seems there's nothing Shorty can't do -- he's great on trombone, amazing on his gorgeous Monette trumpet, serious on the keyboards, great on vocals. His stage presence just knocks you out, and -- let's face it -- he is one good-looking young man.

What a concert! It was amazing. Everyone staggering away when it was over, the last notes fading out form the surrounding buildings, was talking about how far Troy has come as a musician and as a performer, and each person tried to outdo all the others in using superlatives in describing what we all had just heard and seen. We were blessed to have been there,

The Mad Whirl of Carnival...

2011-03-17T16:22:00.002-05:00

...is officially over, but with St. Patrick's Day parades on the Saturday after Mardi Gras (and more of 'em today on the actual saint's day), PLUS the St. Joseph's day celebrations starting tomorrow and parades and altars this weekend -- well, it's just too much. A late Mardi Gras can be terrific, especially in terms of weather, but having Mardi Gras Day and St. Pat's parades in the *same week* is overwhelming.

It was indeed a beautiful, exciting, warm, luscious, mad whirl of Carnival. There were only 2 days when it was sort of cool, and only one day of rain. Mardi Gras Day threatened rain, but didn't deliver til the parades and festivities were all done -- how considerate!

The most lovely and artistic krewes were of course the old-line traditional, with special recognition going to Hermes and especially Proteus (good on ya, Royal Artists!) The satirical krewes of Chaos, Muses, and d'Etat (and to a certain extent Thoth, with their slain boef gras upside down with its hooves in the air!) did great jobs, and were sharp and funny. But I have to say that having so many thought-and-speech balloons is really distracting and off-putting. When you think back to the very first satiric parade, Comus, in the 1800s, they did not need captions for folks to get the joke and their floats were quite beautiful despite their "bite." And that in an age when images were not nearly as ubiquitous as they are now. I wish the satiric krewes would cut back on the words and give us more images.

The so-called super krewes, Bacchus and Endymion, OK, and just that. You'd think with the extra expanse of square footage, the krewes could be more creative, but whether for monetary reasons or lack of imagination, it just didn't happen. They plunk an expensive headpiece or figure on the front, another on the back, and in the middle a whole lotta nothin'. It's sad and disappointing.

Speaking of disappointing, Orpheus was a bust this year. When I think back to the floats of Orpheus in 2005, with the theme of "The Dance of the Hours," and how the floats were so completely lovely and elegant, they actually brought *tears* to my eyes, I feel let down by this year's Orpheus floats. Yes, there were some nice figures and great lighting, especially on the fronts, but along the sides they just slapped on giant flowers or flower-like crystal shapes, or flower-like explosion shapes. C'mon! That's just plain LAZY! (However, Orpheus does get props for great cups this year.)

Special shout-out to the rental krewes who all (with the normal exception of Zulu) seemed to make an extra effort and paid for front figures on generic and slightly less cheesy rental floats this year. Nice job, y'all! (Zulu does not need to make that expense, as nobody goes to Zulu to look at floats.)

We all look forward to watching the second season of "Tremé" on HBO, as we watched the crew and principal actors filming a Mardi Gras episode right across the street from our favored parade spot during Muses. Melissa Leo and the young actress who plays her daughter looked like they were having a great time.

Big Man played in bands in several parades this year, ending with Rex on Mardi Gras Day -- a BIG honor my father would've been so proud of! (Rex was pretty this year, nice theme celebrating everything England in "This Sceptered Isle.") On our way back to the parade route, after dropping off Big Man at the start of Rex, my son and I were delighted to run across the Wild Magnolia Mardi Gras Indian tribe coming through the Calliope, wind blowing their feathers. We rolled down the windows and hollered "Pretty-pretty!" to them in tribute.

All in all, this year's Mardi Gras Day crowds were heavy, and friendly, and lots and lots of people put some effort into their costumes and outfits. A lot of walking (my bad ankle required special babying on Ash Wednesday!), a lot of parade food eating, and a lot of eating. A lot of curbside booty-shaking, a lot of laughing, a lot of gossiping. It was tremendous fun, and thank God it's over.

Jefferson Variety

2011-03-02T12:23:00.003-06:00

There are just a few small things I needed to do to finish my costume, which I will wear for both MOMs and Mardi Gras day, and so on our day off together, Big Man and I headed after brunch to Jefferson Variety on Iris Street in Jefferson just off River Road. This is a complete Carnival store, which, while not nearly as fancy as Plush Appeal in Mid-City (2811 Toulouse St. just off Carrollton), has a very good selection of Carnival fabrics and trims, including plumes and feathers and beads for sewing onto costumes (they also carry beads for throwing, but they were VERY picked over by this time, as was the selection of plush animals, not nearly as extensive as Plush Appeal).

While there, we had to tour the whole store, and we found some small second-line type umbrellas, undecorated, for less than $2 a piece. I still think that would be a good fundraiser for the church, but I'd need to organize folks to do the decorating. I think we could charge around $25 for the finished parasols, and the decorating could be fun. Hmm. Will have to think more about it.

When we entered the back room, where the fabric and costume accessories and trims are kept,we found an actual line of people waiting to be served. Yikes! And because most of the people in line were still deliberating over details of their costumes, each person took longer than you would have wanted. But in typical New Orleans style, everyone conversed and gathered opinions from everyone else. "Do you like this stretch sequin trim, or this mirrored braid better?" "Does this color go with print?" (The answer to that is always YES, but only at Carnival.) "Do you think I need a hat with this, or is a headband like this OK?" and so on.

Big Man took special interest in the two husky back men dressed in work clothes (one in a construction vest and the other in a mechanic's overalls) who were perusing colored brocades and satins with careful deliberation. One even got on his phone to describe a certain pattern to the listener on the other end. When they got into the line to wait for service, they were heard discussing exactly how many pounds of feathers they would need. I assumed they were Mardi Gras Indians, but I thought it awfully late for them to be finishing up their shopping to complete their "suits" for Carnival Day. Big Man was fascinated and commented later that only in New Orleans would such obviously masculine black men be so concerned with things like rhinestones, sequins, and pounds of dyed ostrich feathers.

I got a purple satin mask, the eyeholes of which I'll have to carefully enlarge, 2 yards of hot pink sequin trim, and two large beautiful hot pink ostrich feathers. This will complete my costume (more on that later, don't want to spill the beans too early), and two large plastic Mardi Gras mask house decorations to add to the lights, fabric drape, toy display, and wreath decorating the front of our house. (Interestingly, in the week that the decorations have been up, not a single thing, not a frisbee or a football, has disappeared. I'm almost disappointed, as I have back-ups that I was going to put out as soon as these got picked up. I may have to resort to actually giving them away, or putting them all into the box for our grandson.)

That was an enjoyable trip for both of us, and I only spent about $20. Now, all I have to do is make the time to work on the mask and my headpiece.

First Parade Weekend

2011-03-02T10:57:00.004-06:00

Well, last weekend was the first real parade weekend of the 2011 Carnival Season. (Readers know that while I love Krewe du Vieux, I do not consider it a "real" parade. However, I do agree with the general feeling that so-called Mardi Gras expert Arthur Hardy ought to be including KDV and Barkus to his vaunted Mardi Gras Guide. Marching groups are part of Mardi Gras too.)

The kick-off parade is Oshun on Friday. It is our tradition to start off with raw oysters at Pascal's before the parade, and so a group of us converged there about 5:15 pm. Thomas, who has been touted far and wide as "the best oyster shucker in the city" was on hand to do the honors. His title is well-deserved, and we complained that his press clippings and Internet raves were not framed behind him at the oyster bar. He modestly said it wasn't his place to promote himself, but L was insistent (and she can be both insistent and persuasive). In fact, she cornered the restaurant manager and asked about it, and he assured us that if we brought in the framed clipping, he would hang it. (L promptly assigned the research and the framing to me. After Carnival, of course.)

It was amazing how short a time it takes for Thomas to shuck 36 oysters, and perhaps just as amazing how short a time it took us to scarf them down. Showering Thomas with praise and our usual extravagant tip, we left, promising to come back for another parade. (We also ascertained that Pascal's would be open for Bacchus Sunday, though they are dark on normal Sundays.)

We gathered on the neutral ground side of Napoleon, roughly between Pitt and Prytania. The weather was great -- warm with just a light breeze. Oshun was really pretty, with a rental float theme of "The Best of Broadway," but we noticed a new trend: generic rental floats decorated just in the front with a large figure or emblem to illustrate the theme. What a great improvement! As the weekend wore on, it turned out to be a real trend with other krewes too poor to own their own floats. We totally approve. The male and female riders were generous, but unfortunately I did not catch a cup. (Can't wait for my son to arrive, that champion cup catcher!)

Saturday had three parades, and started with Pontchartrain at 2 pm in the afternoon (an unusually late start, for whatever reason), which Big Man and I caught on St. Charles in our neighborhood, which allowed Big Man to get some studio work done beforehand. We enjoyed the krewe's appropriate Big Fish emblem, and their theme was cute too. "Can You Name That Ball?" which translated into floats whose title signs were mostly blank, so that the crowd had to figure it out for themselves -- a Carnival first, I think. A float with an oil rig on it depicted "T-a-r B-a-l-l-s;" one with a big redhead on the front was "L-u-c-i-l-l-e B-a-l-l" and so on, with meatballs, football and beach balls, among the others shown. Very clever. We caught a lot of stuff, but alas, none of the little plush fish for our grandson R in Jersey, who gets a well-stuffed post-Carnival box every year.

There were two evening parades Saturday, Sparta and Pygmalion. These I caught at our family crowd's usual parade spot on a Napoleon corner in front of a local agency that trains developmentally disabled adults. This is a very good parade spot, and riders are generally liberal with throws here, and bands almost always begin to play at or near here. (Which is why I'm being circumspect about its exact location. Sorry.) It's also mere blocks away from the lovely little house of L's friend D, who holds an annual party on the first Saturday.

Sparta's theme was another rental-type: "I Write the Songs." Once again, the floats were pretty generic, but decorated just enough in the front to illustrate the singers and songs for each float. We do love this trend -- it makes the "lesser" parades way more enjoyable. They were followed by Pygmalion, whose theme was, naturally, "It's All Greek to Me" which gave the opportunity to tip their hats to several Carnival organizations, since so many are named for Greek mythology. (I have to say, though, in loving critique, that the float for Sparta has to step up the game, as that was the ugliest Aphrodite I had ever seen. And no bosom either.)

The party at D's sweet house, with its shiny polished cement floors, its French doors out to the front courtyard (lined with ice chests full of booze), and its two en suite bathrooms, was absolutely packed with revelers, and you had to squeeze past people to get to the food on the dining room table, the wine on the kitchen counter, or one of the two bathrooms. The crowd included lots of folks who are in or who attend the infamous MOMs Ball, not to mention this year's king Fred, who was loudly hailed by the crowd on his arrival from the parade route. Conversations centered on costumes, on who still needed MOMs tickets (such folks are mostly out of luck by now), on how would future MOMs be without the Rads, and on plans for upcoming parades. As we departed for the longish walk back to L's house, we all agreed to meet back at Pascal's for more succulent salty raw oysters for Druids on Wednesday.

More later as Carnival rolls on....

Beautiful Longue Vue Gardens

2011-03-02T10:11:00.005-06:00

Last Friday, a beautiful windy spring day, my sister L and I met in the late afternoon at Longue Vue Gardens, on Bamboo Road at the very edge of Orleans Parish near the 17th Street Canal border with Jefferson. This tiny enclave of private mansions was developed in the late 1930's for wealthy New Orleanians of the non-elite class (that is, non-St. Charles Avenue types). Here Edgar and Edith Stern built their dream home with all the modern conveniences of the early 1940's, and laid out an extensive series of formal gardens and fountains. Since Edith's death in the late '70's, it has been a private museum, available for tours and sometimes private events. (You can read all about it and see photos at their website: http://www.longuevue.com/ )

Both L and I had visited Longue Vue before, but years and years before, so it felt fresh to us. The day was lovely, sunny, with fluffy clouds scudding by quickly in the wind that tossed our hair every which way. Since we had just missed a house tour (and there's only one at a time going), we strolled the Yellow Garden, the Terrace, the Sunken Garden, the Canal Garden and pavillon, the Herb Garden, the alley of oaks that led to the front door, and even the Children's Garden. We peeked into the Playhouse (which, contrary to the name, was built for adults, not kids, to accommodate large parties such as weddings) and viewed the old tennis court. It was all so lovely, even to the small details such as the way the river stones were laid along the fountain allee. Flowers that were blooming were mostly bulbs, such as narcissus, parrot tulips, crocus, and iris -- colorful and sweet-smelling. We felt our spirits lifting at all these tangible signs of spring.

We went back to the beautiful curved lower front door for the house tour to begin. Ours was a small group, just L and I plus two couples who said they were relocating from Pittsburgh. We welcomed them to the city and teased them about the weather. ("Just as nice as home, eh?" and like that.)

Either new things had been added to the tour since we had been there last, or the guide was feeling expansive as our little group was the last one of the day, because we saw details we had never seen before. We saw (but did not use) the hidden elevator, and were given a glimpse through a false door that revealed the house's inner construction. When shown the little well-fitted flower room on the first floor, the guide opened the curved drawers, showing how they pivoted outward, making them more accessible. In the formal dining room, we were shown private label wine bottles from the house's still extensive cellar (parts of the cellar will be added to the tour for the first time ever later this year -- we'll have to go back), with the Stern's name on them, to avoid the import tax. (And they say the rich pay their full share of taxes!) As always, we loved the strange multi-bud vase holders of brass and wood spread throughout the house to display specimens from the gardens (you can purchase reproductions in the gift shop.)

In the sleeping porch on the second floor, we admired the three murphy-style beds that could be raised and then rotated back into the wall when not in use. (Imagine being so wealthy that you need a separate room for napping, so you don't mess up your real bed!) While we liked Mrs. Stern's lovely French-papered and mirrored bathroom and closet, we really *loved* Mr. Stern's black marble bathroom with large corner shower. Despite its age, it looked so contemporary. We giggled at the elaborate air exchange that had been set up so that Edgar's cigars in his study would not bother Edith in the master bedroom, and we gasped in admiration at the cunning little reading light hidden in a faux stack of books on the shelf in that study, shining a tightly focused beam right in the lap of anyone sitting in the seat nearby.

The Henri Schindler Mardi Gras accessories exhibit in what had been once the mansion's kitchen on the ground floor was something of an anticlimax, and you really can't get all the way into it, as the guide is standing right there, wanting to move you onwards to finish the tour. And to tell you the truth, L and I enjoyed the little package wrapping and receiving room, with its rolls of wrapping paper and vintage hatboxes, just as much if not more. (Who doesn't want a wrapping room? I hear both New Orleans socialite and philanthropist Louella Berger and mega-millionaire Oprah have one.)

We made a big show of tipping the guide -- to prompt the out-of-towners to do the same -- and left as the group went from the main house to the Carriage House and Playhouse, since we had already done those ourselves earlier. We departed very happy, vowing to return when they open the cellar, and to bring our spouses. Big Man is a big believer in opulence and will get a big kick out of it, I know.

A lovely time. We recommend you go.

Sunday Night Big Band

2011-02-23T14:22:00.004-06:00

Big Man is generally off on Sunday nights, but when he was called and asked to sub for another trumpet player at the regular Sunday evening Big Band Night at a large reception hall near Causeway, he jumped at it -- and not just 'cause we need the money. He loves playing those classic tunes, and he knew the gig would help polish up his reading chops.

I decided to go, both to "spend time" with Big Man (kind of relative since he'd be on stage for most of it) and to check out the scene for myself. I don't always get a full report on some of Big Man's more interesting gigs, since some of the time his head is burrowed in an unfamiliar band book and he can't pay attention to whatever else is going in around the band. (Like, he played last week at the Krewe of Thoth ball, and I barely could pry the parade theme -- "Thoth Goes to College" -- out of him.) So I wanted to see for myself, and possibly get to report to my faithful readers (if any of y'all are left).

Big Man dressed in the standard tuxedo, and I just wore what I had put on that morning to preach in (under my robe, of course), which I figured was good enough. But it almost wasn't. Turns out that the Big Band Night is quite the thing with the over-65 set, and the women especially dress up in a major way. Several of these older ladies were in formals, and most were in fancy cocktail attire. The men were in suits and ties, or at least sport coats and ties. God bless that generation! They know what's proper for a night of dancing to the good ol' music (which of course to them is the music of their youth and prime, kind of like how I feel about old New Orleans R&B and the Beatles and Motown).

The band IS indeed big, and Big Man's place was as third trumpet. There were also multiple 'bones and saxes, and a big rhythm section. Most of the band was older than Big Man, but some were just around our age. Among the audience, I was quite clearly the youngest person. (And without trying, became something of a draw, as several old gentlemen made their way to the far corner where I had established myself, hoping to be unobtrusive and unnoticed, and asked me to dance. But I only danced with Big Man, who got genially shoved from the stage about three times by the lead trumpeter, who said, "Oh go dance with your wife." But I guess I could have been the Belle of the Ball had I been so inclined.)

It was really touching to see these old couples, some looking pretty infirm, making their way around the dance floor. (I noticed the band kept all the selections pretty short, verse-chorus-verse-end, in deference to the capabilities of the attendees.) Some of the dancers had some pretty sharp moves, others just kind of shuffled around, but it was so clear how much they were enjoying themselves, how much it meant to them. It was really sweet to see some of those old couples, apparently married forever, still so devoted to each other. A few tables were celebrating birthdays, and cake was shared with the band members at the break.

I had figured Big Man would get no solos as third trumpet, but it turns out that since the lead trumpeter knows Big Man from his playing with the Bobby Lonero Band, he pitched him a few solos. On one, Big Man blew the roof off the place with this amazing drawn-out high A. Hot stuff!

The whole thing was over by 10 pm, which I assumed was actually *after* the usual bed-time of most of the dancers. On the way home, Big Man confessed it was so much fun he'd do that gig for free (oops, don't tell anyone!).

Krewe du Vieux

2011-02-22T16:53:00.003-06:00

It was the warmest Krewe du Vieux in years and years. As we readied ourselves for the procession (KDV being more of a "march" than an actual "parade"), we spoke of previous nights in bitter cold, eyes watering, feet turned to blocks of ice, as we waited for KDV to come by as the cold wind blew. (And of course I remembered nights at my late friend Russ's house, so close to the route, and the laughter and re-living of the satiric "floats" in Russ's warm living room.)

Since KDV is wildly popular -- with some proclaiming it their "favorite parade" though really I cannot see how that could be true -- I planned to avoid trying to find a scarce parking space by riding with my sister L and her husband. But unknown to L, the friends they were riding with had *also* promised rides to other friends. Thus it was on Saturday night that I found myself squeezed into an SUV with *8* other adults, and none of us skinny. Being so close together, we were a little hilarious in our piling in and our piling out, and more than one reference was made to circus clowns exiting a toy car.

A parking place was being held for us in front of the Vieux Carré apartment being leased by L's friends from Chicago (he's a builder who is bidding on the contract for the new Orleans Parish prison, which is kind of ironic since his brother is a well-known defense attorney in town). The apartment -- it's a house, really -- is on St. Phillip, a few blocks from Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, the historic old piano bar on Bourbon. The spot was held by L's friends parking their car in it, and then on spotting our arrival, moving their car to their rented gated parking lot. This being duly accomplished, we were given a tour of the house.

OMG it was gorgeous. The main house had been a traditional camelback double, but it had been opened up as a single, creating a large living-dining area with shuttered French doors all around. One of the original archways, that had been between the double parlors on each side, had been retained as a frame for the stairway to the loft area to the right. To the left was a sunken kitchen with bright blue ceramic tiles on the countertops and backsplash; through the kitchen on the right was a nice size en suite bedroom. Straight through the kitchen, through another French door, was the brick courtyard with comfortable patio furniture, a beer keg, a propane barbecue, and a small outdoor refrigerator.

On the other side of the courtyard was the old slave quarters that had been made into a guesthouse (rented by an employee of L's friends). The first level had an attractive if small living area open to the modern kitchen with a high counter for dining, with French doors facing the courtyard straight across. A rather steep staircase (don't try this while drunk!) led to a bedroom-sitting area, and a queer little bathroom on two levels, with the bathtub/shower being tiled in custom New Orleans-themed tiles (beautiful!). Across the whole floor was a balcony accessed by more French doors.

After oohing and aahing over the courtyard and guesthouse, we went back in to explore the upstairs area of the main house. The original camelback had been expanded by opening up the attic to the sloped roof, to create a good size sitting room with a full bath off it, and then up a few stairs to the large master bedroom area, with a loft-like view into the kitchen below from the stairs.

In case the reader, like me, is curious over what such a lovely living space in the French Quarter costs, I have to say I don't know for sure -- and certainly couldn't ask. But I do know that the couple pointed out a different apartment they had seen on their search, that they hadn't liked as much, and said in passing that the rejected apartment was $3500 per month. So that gives you an idea.

Anyway, it's a perfect spot for marshaling forces for a look at KDV -- not to mention a great place for Mardi Gras refueling!

KDV's ostensible theme this year was "25 Years Wasted" as it is their anniversary year, but of course, none of the subkrewes has the least responsibility to act on the overall theme. Each of the subkrewes goes with its own theme, and as you can imagine, these range widely. (For any of your readers out there who are not familiar with KDV, first, I am SO sorry for you, and second, you can read more at their website: )

Well, it was wild and woolly, with lots of genitalia made out of foam and fake fur, and lots and lots of skewering of local and national leaders. (The very first marching group, Krewe of L.E.W.D., proclaimed a new military policy of "Do Ass, Do Tail" and had a papier maché sculpture of a gay cowboy riding a donkey with the Commander-in-Chief's face.) The BP Oil Spill was attacked with biting sarcasm by several groups (C.R.U.D.E. titled its theme "New Oilins," Meshugge declared that "God Hates Shrimp" and Krewe of Underwear showed "Tales from the Silver Sheen") and a topless Sarah Palin sculpture decorated T.O.K.I.N.'s depiction of the Tea Party conservatives. The New Orleans Sewage & Water Board was slashed for its unconscionable "don't drink the water" announcement this winter, and one group portrayed TSA ("Don't touch my junk!") as serial molesters. (Marchers gleefully groped crowd members as they passed by.) Tremé creator David Simon was mocked for aspects of his generally-beloved HBO series, with marchers wearing costumes based on the sperm-headed KDV outfits portrayed in the show by John Goodman (which had never actually appeared in KDV before). Mondo reported from the year 2525 that the Saenger Theater was finally reopening, and that the Saints had once again won the Superbowl -- and that the Landrieu family was now officially in charge of the Universe.

We had friends in various of the subkrewes, so we were kissed and hugged and showered with KDV goodies as folks went by -- and I was surprised by several parishioners in costume, marching with subkrewes who also hugged and kissed me as they went by (one woman parishioner warning me in advance about the molesting "TSA" agents behind her group).

In a marked improvement over years past, every single group had a band, which really added to the festive scene (and brought more employment to New Orleans musicians, always a good thing -- and no, Big Man did not march this year, as he had already been booked with a gig by the time he was asked. You snooze, you lose. But he was sorry to miss it.)

When KDV was finally done, I made to go back to the St. Phillip house, but my sister L stopped me. "There's another one," she said mysteriously. It seems one of the subkrewes, Delusion, had quit KDV in a huff (who knows why? does it matter?), and was marching a good 6 or more blocks behind. They finally showed up, with young women in white corsets up in front (you can't knock that), and one backup band.

And then it was over for another year, time for us to go back to the house and talk over our favorite bits and drink some more -- and then to pile ourselves back into the SUV for the ride Uptown. A fine time was had by all.

More Signs of Spring

2011-02-17T13:01:00.002-06:00

More and more, the city of New Orleans is entering into Spring.

Sign: Today, crews from the city were mowing the grass on the St. Charles neutral ground (hey, y'all up North -- are you mowing your lawns yet?).

Sign: On the Jefferson Avenue neutral ground, and in front yard gardens all over Uptown and the Garden District, camellia bushes are in full, vivid bloom, their dark red and dark pink flowers vibrant against the glossy dark green foliage.

Sign: Baskets of bright geraniums on front porches on Dublin and Freret Streets.

It will be a warm Mardi Gras, and folks are more and more getting into the springtime Carnival season.

C U 4 Dinner

2011-02-16T13:30:00.002-06:00

My sister L belongs to a large group of friends who enjoy doing things together on a regular basis. One of their ploys for getting together and eating (and drinking!) is called "C U 4 Dinner."

What happens is, one member of the group volunteers to be the coordinator for an upcoming month, and is delegated to offer local restaurants a deal -- if the restaurant will provide a meal of appetizer, entrée and dessert and for $35 or under a person, the group will pledge to fill the place on a Tuesday evening with between 25-35 people. (Tuesdays are normally slow days here for restaurants.) Cafés and bistros thus approached usually can come up with a choice of 2 entrées, and maybe even a choice between 2 appetizers. It's a good deal for all parties -- the restaurant makes cash money on a usually slow night, and the group comes together, drinks heartily, and eats well, with lots and lots of talking and laughing and table-hopping.

Last night, the restaurant chosen by my sister was Atchafalaya on Louisiana Avenue, and they made the group an incredible deal: a choice of *4* appetizers (2 soups and 2 salads) and *4* entrées, each one more delectable sounding than the one before. Wow! (No one knows why they went to that much trouble, but no one complained.)

With all the delicious options, and with the venue being so charming, the group turned out in force. Big Man helped L count the cash, so I happen to know that the grand total of C U 4 Dinner diners was 32. We packed the place, and I must confess that the noise level got pretty high. (At one point, restaurant employees had to close the little windows between our private area and the main dining room.)

After the Happy Hour, during which time *a lot* of drink specials, beer, and wine was consumed, we were shown up into private rooms on the upper level to be served. (Atchafalya is in one of the city's traditional old commercial-plus-residences, with the corner-cut doorway facing 2 streets, and the old commercial area on the ground level, with what used to be the house a few steps up.)

Those who ordered the potato and bacon soup really liked it, and those having the traditional gumbo pronounced it excellent (it was really, really dark, like the color of semi-sweet chocolate and tasted rich and smoky). The house salad was a generous plate of mixed spring greens with house-made dressing, and the Caesar salad was refreshingly on the dry side (too many restaurants drown the romaine) with large shavings of cheese. Big Man and I both had the quail stuffed with boudin, wrapped in bacon and served in a nest of fried thin-shredded potatoes on top of savory mashed potatoes and tart bitter collard greens. OMG it was superb! (Other enticing entrées included whole redfish, pork roast with mango sauce, and shrimp and grits.) For dessert they brought us rich dark coffee and a smooth and creamy bread pudding.

Everyone was so completely happy with dinner that they tried to nominate my sister L to be the *permanent* coordinator of C U 4 Dinner! -- an honor she graciously declined.

A great time was had by all, and we recommend that you try Atchafalaya for lunch or dinner soon!

Spring is here!

2011-02-15T15:46:00.002-06:00

It was in the low 70s and beautifully sunny as I drove to the church this morning, and on my way I passed the first blooming Japanese magnolia tree of the season, bare branches flaunting large pink blooms. It's New Orleans springtime, and it feels like it's been a long time coming.

It was a difficult holiday season for me. Not only was the weather unusually cold and nasty, but in December, Russell, my friend of 35 years, was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer (that is, cancer that has spread to other major organs) and hospitalized with what some of his family members and friends thought was to be treatment but I knew (from bitter hard-won experience) was to be palliative care until his death. The holiday season was taken up with his slide into dying, and visiting with him for final good-byes (and one last Saints game on his hospital TV). He died on January 4, and his service -- a giant to-do with hundreds of people paying emotional and sometime humorous tribute to him, which he might have enjoyed if we had only done it while he was still here -- was January 7.

From early December when I first found out to his death in early January, I couldn't write. Then after he died, I still couldn't write. At first it seemed too frivolous to keep up with a blog while Russell fought this last losing battle. Then I was too sad to write. And then finally I couldn't write because I felt paralyzed, frozen.

And now, today, with the blue skies and warm sun and blooming flowers, I feel like something inside me has thawed or melted. I feel like I can write again. New Orleans is still here, still beautiful, still needing care, and the courage and commitment of the people who love her (just like Russell). So the Blog is back.

Finally, It's Cold

2010-12-07T15:55:00.002-06:00

Yes, friends, Big Man and I had to switch on our heating system this past Sunday for the first time, after a gorgeous Saturday with a high of over 75 degrees. Sunday dawned clear and sunny, but COLD (at least to a New Orleanian!), with temperatures in the 40s and 50s. And last night, with its fierce wind, was quite cold indeed.

Luckily, with the way that heat rises in a New Orleans home, our bedroom upstairs has been quite comfortable, not only with no heat turned on (and no extra blankets or comforters on the bed), but even with the little dormer window left open for ventilation.

Meanwhile, everyone in New Orleans has broken out all the serious winter clothing, gloves, scarves, heavy sweaters, big coats, and all of that, giving Big Man much amusement. While he allows it's been "pretty chilly" the last few days, he won't call this weather cold YET. The biggest concession he's made to the new temperatures is a sweatshirt.

We wait to see when we'll have to turn on the upstairs heat -- and when Big Man will think it's cold!

The Season of NO

2010-11-22T20:30:00.002-06:00

This is the best time of year, the season that comes to New Orleans twice every year, but is of varying duration. It is the season of NO -- no air conditioning, no heater. Some days you hardly need your ceiling fans. It is the season of enjoying the mild temperatures, and enjoying even more the lower utility bills. We all love this season, each time it comes, and wish it could last longer.

Today, though, tested my endurance, because although it is actually November 22, the temperature shot up to 80-something. I had to really stick to my resolution and not turn the a/c back on. It's late November! I'm NOT turning the air conditioning back on! I mean it! (OK, let me admit, no matter what day or what month it is, if it goes up to 90, I am darn well cranking the a/c up.)

I wonder what day will be the first day I have to turn on the heater? (Readers up North, if there are any, I'm sorry to have to brag like this.)

One of the Very Best Days EVER!

2010-11-22T19:20:00.002-06:00

Through the generosity of one of my parishioners, Big Man and I received a pair of tickets to yesterday's Saints game in the Superdome. Since this parishioner is a long-time season ticket holder, these were no ordinary tickets -- they were seats 1 and 2 on row 17, section 138 on the Saints side. Yes, that's right, 17 rows up from the field! To make a good thing even better, the tickets came with a parking pass on the top floor of the Superdome garage, simple easy walking distance from gates F and G (the gates closest to the seats).

We've been holding the tickets for about a month or so now, and the anticipation has been driving us crazy. Since our terrific parking place would allow us to have our own personal tailgate party, we thought long and hard about the food. After much discussion, we decided on alligator sliders on pistolets. We arranged to borrow my sister L's little propane stove, that she and her husband usually keep on their boat, to do the grilling in the back of the van. We got sugar-free creme soda and Italian bubble water (his favorite!) for Big Man, and Abita pecan ale for me, and of course Zapp's special Who Dat chips.

The trick was finding the gator burgers. We knew that the Boudin Shop outside of Cecilia, Louisiana, carried frozen full-size gator burgers, but that's quite a drive. Last Monday, our shared day off, we drove out to Cajun country to try to find gator burgers much closer to home. We enjoyed our day, and explored several really neat Cajun meat markets, buying shrimp boudin and white boudin and andouille, but no dice on the gator meat, ground or otherwise. After a long day of touring around, having fun being together and seeing new things together (completely new to Big Man, but a renewal for me), we finally, 30 minutes before closing time, ended up in West Baton Rouge in a place called Bergeron's. There, we hit the motherlode: andouille, boudin, meat pies, stuffed pork chops, boned and stuffed chickens, turduckens, cracklin's -- and alligator meat. At this point, we were so relieved to find gator at all, I just decided to use my meat grinder and make my own gator burgers.

On Saturday, I prepared our feast. I ground 2 pounds of tenderloin alligator meat along with one egg (next time I would add another egg to hold things together), about 3/4 cup fresh bread crumbs (I used whole wheat end slices I've been saving), about a 1/2 cup of chopped onion and red and green bell pepper, 3 or 4 garlic cloves, a hefty sprinkling of Chef Paul Prudhomme's lemon pepper seasoning, and about a tablespoon of Provencal herbs (from La Madeleine). I mixed this all up together, and then formed small football-shaped patties, wrapping them carefully in clear plastic wrap to keep them separate, and then covered the whole shebang with foil wrap. Then I made my own caper sauce: Creole Tomato Salad Dressing, Creole mustard, Blue Plate mayonnaise, and drained baby capers; and put it all in a small watertight plastic container. So far so good.

To our great good luck, Sunday dawned a beautiful sunny warm day with clear skies. (It was so warm, in fact, that we had to turn the air conditioner on at church to take the edge off.) I rushed home after services and coffeehour, determined to spend as much time as possible at the Dome enjoying the atmosphere. While I heated up the dozen pistolets, we packed up the ice chest with the foil-wrapped package of gator burgers, the caper sauce, the creme sodas, the bubble water, the beers, and the obligatory bag of official Saints ice. Into a canvas bag, I threw in 2 black-and-gold fleur de lis embroidered towels, a spatchula, a knife to spread the sauce, the Who Dat chips, 2 Mardi Gras cups, and a small pile of heavy-duty paper plates. One TV table and 2 chairs, and we're ready to roll.

After double and even triple checking to make sure we had the tickets and the parking pass, we took off. Everything was like a dream -- the happy people under their canopies, radios and boom boxes blaring, the bright sun, the blue sky, and us with these great tickets. Just as promised, there was our terrific parking spot on the roof on the Dome lot, surrounded by excited Saints fans. We lifted open the back of the van, creating a sunshade, and set up our chairs. I draped each chair with a personal Saints hand towel as a big napkin. Big Man popped open a couple of cold ones, and we set up the propane stove and got it going on high. When it was sizzling, I carefully laid out 6 gator burgers and sliced open the warm pistolets, slathering them with caper sauce. I scattered plates with the chips, and while the burger grilled, Big Man and I sat and surveyed the scene around us.

Under the clear sky and shining sun, all around, Saints fans were dressed in jerseys and variations on black-and-gold clothing (including one guy in wildly striped pants in the expected colors of black, white and gold), some with big crazy hats, and some with elaborate make-up and props to complete their looks. (Us too: Big Man wore his long-sleeve Saints T-shirt with black jeans with his leather vest over it, topped by his top hat with old-gold satin band; I wore black knit pants with my sister L's flashy black short-sleeved scoop-necked top, all sparkly with gold glitter -- which I am still trying to get out of everything. I wore my gold fleur de lis earrings -- present from Big Man last year -- and I wore big flashy black and gold fleur de lis beads around my neck. I topped off my outfit with the black feather and gold metallic boa, gift form my sister-in-law R. We looked GOOD.) Everyone was happy and smiling, enjoying the day and each other, eating up all kinds of good food, drinking (of course), calling to each other, lifting their faces up to the sun (I swear I got some sunburn!), just loving the whole experience.

When the burgers were ready, I scooped them into the prepared pistolets and we chowed down happily! Big Man congratulated me on the tailgate, and frankly, I was pretty pleased my own self.

It got on to after 2 pm, and we began the reverse process of packing everything back up. We again double-checked on the tickets, grabbed the bag of Zapp's, and began the stroll to the gates. The Dome security has 2 lines to get in, one for men and one for women. A woman security guard patted me down briskly, and another guard kind of "bounced" my purse to make sure I was not trying to bring in any alcohol. (Guess we could've sneaked in the chips if we hadn't already scarfed them down.) Big Man and I met back up again inside the Dome and it didn't take any time at all to find our seats, right on the aisle, so close to the field! (We were so close that during the game we could clearly see Drew Brees's frustration on the sidelines after throwing an interception down in the Red Zone. Poor fellow.)

We thoroughly enjoyed the game and everything about it -- all the foofaraw, the national anthem sung by the Imagination Movers (the crowd was really too old to appreciate them), Drew's big "Who Dat" chant to start things off, the people watching, the costumes, the hollers, the Wave, the Kiss Cam, the Fit Cam, the Saintsations, and of course the game itself. We got to stand up and get crunk several times, which was the most fun at all. We took pictures with our iPhones, and every now and then hugged and kissed, saying, "Isn't this the BEST?? Isn't this wonderful??"

In the 4th quarter, with the Saints way ahead, some folks began leaving early to beat the traffic, but Big Man said we were there for the duration and wouldn't leave til they shot off the smoke cannons to say the game was over. And that's just what we did, seeing the official end of the game and then joining the giant crowd leaving. We went into the restrooms (which were empty!), and then took our time getting back to the car. Out on the walkway around the perimeter of the Dome, we were part of the huge throng of happy excited people, taking pictures with the costumed characters, loudly chanting "Who Dat." An almost-full moon glowed down on us. Everyone was happy and so were we. We were in no hurry.

On our level of the parking lot, we could see a long line of cars waiting to leave, but we were not in a hurry at all, and live close enough to the Dome that it's not an issue, so we just sat in the car, with the radio playing, making some calls (bragging to people!), talking over and reliving the game's highlights. We were so happy.

Finally the line went down and we drove down all the ramps and headed home under the moon. We were two of the happiest people in the city, and we woke up that way this morning as well.

One of the best days EVER!

OMG! The Rads Are Breaking Up!

2010-11-10T15:55:00.002-06:00

Quite a shocker announcement in this morning's Times-Picayune, that the Radiators, the perennial funk-rock-R&B fusion band with a gigantic local following, was breaking up as of the summer of 2011. (See the story online at http://www.nola.com/music/index.ssf/2010/11/the_radiators_plan_to_disband.html)

New Orleans-area bloggers are having a field day, with comments ranging from "NOOOOOO!!!!" to "I can't bear it!" and "First the Beatles, now the Rads, what's next??" Thirty-three years is an awfully long time for a band to be together, but most of us just sort of assumed that the Rads would go on and on, for eternity.

Today's announcement assured fans that all upcoming gigs would honored (like MOMS and Jazz Fest) and that there would be a giant farewell concert in the city in June 2011. Small comfort, though, to those of us who just felt the Radiators were an eternal verity in our lives, one piece of continuity in a chaotic world.

What will MOMS be without the Rads' constant groove? Who knows?

To the Radiators from a big fan -- It's been great, guys, y'all are the absolute BEST. Wish each of you much success in whatever you do.

Fish head music forever!!

Another Accident at Annunciation Park

2010-11-09T14:34:00.003-06:00

I've blogged about this before, how many accidents there are at the corner of Annunciation and Race Streets, where Annunciation dead-ends at Annunciation Park. The accidents I've written about before have all occurred at night, or in the very early morning hours. I always thought they were a function of driving in an unfamiliar area at night, since the lights that run through the Park could trick someone into thinking that Annunciation Street continues straight through.

But the accident that occurred last week was in broad daylight. It was about 9 am on a weekday morning and I was in bed, contemplating getting up, when I heard the familiar thudding sound of a car hitting another car square on. (Big Man is always joking about how he's gonna start parking the van at Annunciation Park, so the next accident will wipe out a vehicle we should never have been gulled into buying.) I jumped out of bed, threw on a caftan and hurried downstairs.

I joined a small throng of neighbors who had gathered on the sidewalks and porches to view the scene -- a grey car that had just gone straight through the stop sign on the corner, smashing so hard perpendicularly into the brand-new tricked-out pimped-up pick-up truck owned by the family in the house on the corner that two of the wheels had snapped right off.

We heard later from the cops investigating the scene that the driver said he had fallen asleep at the wheel. Guess he's lucky to be alive. Hope for my neighbor's sake he had good insurance, for their truck is surely totalled.

Months ago, I wrote to complain about this corner and the many accidents there to TV's Action Reporter Bill Capo, but I guess it didn't ring his bell. he's never done a story on it, and the city has never installed stop-sign warnings earlier in the block, or a double-arrow caution sign at the dead end.

People who've lived in the neighborhood longer than we have say the accidents we've seen are not even the half of it. But apparently it's not enough for the city to do anything about.

Harvest the Music

2010-11-09T14:12:00.002-06:00

The free Wednesday-night concert series concluded last Wednesday with a tremendous triple-threat concert by bluesman Little Freddie King, the Krown-Batiste-Washington Trio (which usually plays the Maple leaf), and then the great Allen Toussaint with special guest trumpeter Nicholas Payton (whose father, musician and educator Walter Payton, had just died this week). An amazing display of the depth and breadth of talent in New Orleans, the closing concert was easily the best of a very, very fine lot.

"Harvest the Music" really outdid themselves this year in ensuring something for absolutely everyone in New Orleans who loves music. The series was kicked off back in September (when it was still hot) with Anders Osborne (who is a great musician but really needs a haircut and a shave!), moved into Cowboy Mouth with its fervent fanbase, then hit the high notes with Rebirth and then Dr. John and the Lower 911 (with the Treme Brass band to open).

As a special teaser to the excited -- and capacity! -- crowd, Allen Toussaint strolled onstage to play piano and sing while Mac played guitar withe vengeance, something he doesn't do that often. (You'd've thought that by billing it as "Dr. John and the Lower 911" that the set would've been all new, angry songs post-K and post-BP, but you'd've been wrong. Mac also played a lot of the old favorites that had the crowd singing along, and, memorably on "Gilded Splinters" the crowd added the appropriate "Oooohh"s at the exact right spots.)

The ever-popular Kermit Ruffins and his band the Barbecue Swingers followed Mac the next Wednesday. I love how Kermit is not afraid to really entertain an audience, and interact and joke with the folks. And now the HBO series "Treme" is bringing him a more national following, a good thing.

After Kermit, it was MOMS revisited with a 2-hour groovin' set by the Radiators. The Rads were, as always, completely into their own groove, and it was a kick to see so many people we know from the MOMS Ball out in the Square (only, with more clothes on than we usually see them!).

Then it was Ivan Neville (yes, Aaron's son) and the aptly named Dumpstafunk, great stuff -- especially Ivan's take on the "Sopranos" theme song "Got Yourself a Gun." Lots of Neville family guesting, which always happens in an Ivan set.

Appropriately, Allen Toussaint was set as the season's closing act, and as always, he did not disappoint. The classics, the beloved old R&B numbers he wrote for Lee Dorsey and Benny Spellman (Allen informed us that Benny is still alive, and living now in Pensacola! Wow! Who knew!), the song that grew into a post-Katrina anthem "Yes We Can Can" (even though it was written years before It happened), and as a special favor to me, "Fortune Teller." I tell you, I sang along with every single word.

I also want to send a shout-out to the great food at Harvest the Music, with special kudos to the fried softshell crab and the char-grilled oysters. Yum and double-yum! The pulled pork over the creamy grits was nothing to sniff at either. Prices were extremely reasonable and two people could eat and drink for about $30.

As Allen closed out the festival and his set, he said how wonderful it was to live "in the greatest city in the world!" and then he started to walk away form the mike, but caught himself, came back and added, "And everybody, come home." Yes, indeed.

All Saints & All Souls

2010-11-02T17:42:00.003-05:00

While we New Orleanians certainly can be a hide-bound, stick-with-tradition bunch, one beloved old tradition seems to be slipping a little, if not actually fading. The custom of visiting and decorating the graves of the beloved dead, the "ancestors," for All Saints Day just doesn't seem as big a deal as it once was. (Big Man says I have to get over it, that all traditions evolve and some of them even die off, but this was sad to me.)

There was time, pre-Katrina and before, when All Saints Day was a school holiday, and when you'd arrive at the cemetery, there'd be crowds of people. There'd even be some kind of a vendor outside the gates, selling hot dogs or cotton candy. There would be almost a strange carnival-like atmosphere, as folks arrived by the carload, arms laden with potted chrysanthemums to adorn the graves of loved ones. When I used to make the trip to the family tomb at St. Vincent's Cemetery in the Upper Ninth Ward with my father and my son, back about 15-20 years ago, we would meet people from his old neighborhood around Bunny Friend Playground, and there would be a lot of hugging and back-slapping and "How the heck are ya?" talk.

Back in those days, it was supremely easy to obtain your mums for the cemetery trip, because every large grocery store in town had potted mums to sell. Some even set up tents in the parking lot to sell you the mums the easiest way possible. And near almost every cemetery, there'd be a large or small florist, providing flowers for those who arrived without. It's sure not like that anymore!

Big Man and I had a hell of a time finding mums, and wasted a considerable amount of time and gas looking. And when we got to the cemeteries that were on our list, we were often the only people there. The graves at Cypress Grove, through the giant neo-Egyptian pylons of the entrance, where we visited the founding minister of our church from the 1800s, were sadly neglected. We saw only tourists with maps and cameras, no families. A few tombs had fresh roses, but it was a poor showing.

At Lakelawn, where we honored Louis Prima with a bouquet (and thanked him for, in a way, bringing us together), we did see a small family gathering in front of the Sons of Italy group tomb, with folding chairs like they were going to stay for a while. That did my heart good -- that was more like it! We rolled down the car windows and wished them a Happy All Saints and they did the same to us. Before we drove away, we peeked into the Hyams tomb with the superb sculpture of the angel prostrate with grief, with the blue light from the back stained glass window pouring down. I pushed my iPhone through the gap in the door, and took what I think is a very good picture. (The door was locked and chained, while it had been open last year; apparently -- sadly! -- there had been some vandalism.)

When we arrived at St. Louis No. 1, a good 5 or more minutes ahead of scheduled closing time, we found the gates chained shut, with frantic tourists trapped inside. They closed the cemetery early on All Saints Day, for heaven's sake! I couldn't get over it, and the thought of leaving there without putting our hard-won floral tributes on the graves of 19th century Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau and New Orleans's first black mayor (and my friend) Dutch Morial had me practically beside myself. I tried to thrust the bouquets toward the tourists inside, begging them to put them on Dutch and the Lady's graves -- and they disclaimed all knowledge of these two famous side-by-side tombs. I nearly wept with frustration.

The cemetery caretaker showed up with a key, to let the tourists out, and I begged to go in, just for a minute, to complete my errand. He relented, reluctantly, and I slipped past him, nearly running to their tombs (which, after all, are close to the entrance). I laid a bouquet at Dutch's grave and whispered to him that while the Landrieu family were not his personal favorites, I still thought Mitch was doing a good job as mayor. Then I made a few steps to the right and put the flowers at the base of the Lady's tomb. I did not have time to make the ritual circuit around the tomb, or make any X's (and anyway, I had no requests to make, only gratitude), so I just laid my head on her marker and made silent thanks for past favors granted, and for our life in New Orleans. Big Man took his hat off, and placed his hand on the side of the tomb, and then we kept our promise and left, thanking the caretaker on our way out. (But really, why was he locking up so early on ALL SAINTS DAY??)

That left 2 cemeteries to go, and no time to do it, so we resolved to complete the ritual on All Souls. Of course, then it had to rain on All Souls, so we did those last 2 in the drizzle. First, we headed to my father's family tomb at St. Vincent's. It seemed to me that the condition of the cemetery had not improved since last year -- there was still a LOT of tombs needing repair. But what did make me happy was that there were many many bouquets and pots of mums in that cemetery. At some point, possibly yesterday, there had been quite a few families there. I was sorry to have missed them, but felt good about their showing up.

Our last stop was Holt Cemetery, the old potter's field behind City Park, to leave flowers for Buddy Bolden, the city's first innovative, famous cornet player. The rain was falling pretty hard by now, so Big Man held the big golf umbrella over me as I arranged the flowers in the glass vase on the ledge of the granite monument for King Bolden. (Readers of this Blog may remember that Bolden's actual grave has been lost and a group of fans a few years before Katrina paid for a large granite memorial a few yards from the entrance, just on the shell driveway.) Also left on Buddy's monument were a handful of jujube candy, and leopard-print key, and another bouquet, sans vase. We stood by as the rain poured, and thanked Buddy for the music and assured him he was remembered. We had to follow the shell drive all the way around to get out, and noticed lots of decorations and loving attention to the graves. Interesting that here at Holt it seems the traditions were being observed.

There was no point being that close to the original Bud's Broiler without eating, so we ended our All Saints/Our Souls ritual there.

Rainbow

2010-10-28T14:56:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, I was looking out my window at the church office, and saw the trees bending and swaying with the cold front that was moving through. There were dark clouds that portended rain, but it wasn't raining yet in the church neighborhood. Stuff -- leaves, small twigs, loose papers and débris -- was blowing around, and the movement caught my eye.

It was late afternoon, the sun sinking down somewhere behind the church. As I watched, to my amazement and delight, a full and clear arch of a rainbow appeared in the sky in front of me. Full color spectrum, full arch. You hardly ever get to see that.

Thanks, God, I needed that. (Now, please let that cold front bring cooler temperature and lower humidity for good this time. I'm looking to turn that air conditioner OFF.)

Anniversary Lunch

2010-10-13T19:44:00.005-05:00

Recently, Big Man and I celebrated our wedding anniversary. With Big Man's regular gig on Bourbon Street every night, we couldn't do dinner, so we planned on lunch. Big Man laid down the decree: "Hundred dollar lunch! Really celebrate!" So we ran down the list of restaurants to see where we wanted to enjoy our anniversary lunch. (Of course we have a list! Doesn't everyone in New Orleans have a list of the restaurants they've heard about but haven't eaten in yet?) We toyed with several possibilities, read a bunch of online reviews, and finally decided to go to Boucherie on Jeannette off Carrollton. Trying to describe it to Big Man, I said, "It's like they take typical South Louisiana cooking and then bring it up a level" and he came back with, "South Louisiana cooking is already regular cooking that's been brought up a couple levels!" So I replied, "Think of this then as cooking several levels up!"

I had eaten at Boucherie about a year or so ago with my sister D, as a pre-theater dinner before we saw a production of "Member of the Wedding" at the Bean Theater at St. Matthew's on Carrollton. We had been super-impressed with the menu and the food, and I had mentioned the place to Big Man back then, and even brought him a menu, but we had not yet had a chance for the two of us to go. Since then, however, the place had really taken off, and has been written up favorably in several national publications. The online reviews were off-the-charts positive, with the worst thing anyone said being that the service at night was awful and the place packed. Tells you something.

So we made a reservation and off to lunch we went. We got a table right away, in the main room inside. (Tables were available on the front porch, but it's still too hot in New Orleans for that.) We began perusing the October menu (offerings change seasonally at Boucherie) and trying to make decisions. But Boucherie makes things easier for you by having "small plates" and "large plates." While a few of the large plates looked tempting, the idea of ordering a lot of small plates really grabbed us -- because, as Big Man likes to say, more is more.

While we worked on our choices, we savored their delicious strong coffee -- really, some of the best coffee I've had in a New Orleans restaurant. They serve it with a few lumps of raw sugar, which is not only a nice touch, but is less sweet than regular sugar. Good thing we don't keep that stuff around the house, or I'd be putting sugar in more things. I mean, I don't even put sweetener in my coffee, and I liked the taste of that.

In the end, this is the list we came up with, splitting everything: grilled romaine caesar salad (sounds crazy, but was still crispy and cool, with a great smoky flavor); French Market pumpkin stew with rashers [of their own smoked bacon] (this was totally amazing! chunks of pumpkin in an amazing broth that turned out to be *duck broth* -- OMG -- with big thick slices of bacon -- I will so totally be trying to duplicate this for Thanksgiving!); the steamed mussels over collard greens with crispy crackers made of *grits* (tender sweet mussels, vinegary spicy greens and *oh wow* those crackers!!); grilled shrimp over grits cakes (yes I know that's two kinds of grits in one lunch, but still); duck confit (this was the hardest small plate to split, as it was just one good-sized duck leg with crispy skin on the outside and tender-as-butter meat on the inside -- but as it was our anniversary, Big Man got the bone to gnaw on); fried boudin balls with a creamy horseradish dipping sauce (they make their own boudin, so it was meatier than expected and less rice than expected).

By the time the boudin balls came around, we were nearly satiated. In fact, to be truthful, we had to ask them to package up the last three boudin balls and the sauce to take home. But please don't think we skipped dessert altogether! We do not have that kind of self-control. Big Man ordered the warm bacon-brownie (yes, that's right!) and I had to try the Krispy Kreme Donut Bread Pudding ('nuff said).

We had let it slip to our waitress that it was our wedding anniversary, and so both desserts arrived with lit candles. We blew them out to general applause and took little nibbles of our desserts. OK, that's when we started groaning, as in, "Oh my God, this is SO incredible." We had to ask them to package up the rest of the desserts to take home to moan over later. The bill came, and with our usual generous 20% tip, it came to $85.

So we ate like royalty til we were stuffed at a 4-star level place, and it didn't even come to $100. Y'all be sure and go.

Where to Eat in Perfect Weather

2010-09-30T12:23:00.002-05:00

Do not let yourself be trapped indoors while the weather is this gorgeous! Go out and enjoy yourself! Lift your face to sun! Let the breezes mess up your hair!

Here are my recommendations for dining al fresco during these lovely fall days:

For those flush with cash, Commander's Palace courtyard.

For everyone else, the courtyard at Café Rani on Magazine Street (the best combo ever thought of -- New Orleans and Indian), or the porch at the Audubon Clubhouse. The Courtyard Grill on Magazine Street, front or back, where the Turkish food is off the charts good. For a light lunch, the outdoor tables at the Village Coffee at the corner of Freret and Jefferson Uptown.

For those across the Lake, the front porch at Rip's on the Lake in Old Mandeville, with its fabulous view of the lake and the great lake breezes.

Of course, this being New Orleans, this is only a partial and prejudiced list. Readers are invited to send in their favorite New Orleans-area outdoor eating spot.

Birthday Weather

2010-09-30T12:06:00.002-05:00

(or, How to Write a Week's Worth of Perfect Weather Forecasts)

I got home late on Monday from a trip to Atlanta to perform a wedding ceremony for friends of my son's, so I didn't realize that the weather had changed until Tuesday morning -- my birthday. I've written before how I developed this magical-thinking notion when I was a little kid, about how the weather would change to fall for my birthday. (Of course it's not logically true, and yes, of course, I do know that, but it's how it felt and still feels to me.) And so here it was, my classic birthday weather: perfectly clear blue skies, lower temperatures (even if only slightly), low humidity, and soft breezes. I can tell you, it put me in a great mood.

Tuesday morning I had a business meeting (the only one I had scheduled all day) at the Mojo Coffee House, and it was a pleasure to walk there from the house. While getting my cup of coffee, I overheard one young woman tell the barrista to read the weather page on the back of the Living section of the Times-Picayune. The girl behind the counter said she had read it, but the first girl urged her to look at it again. I was intrigued, and looked over their shoulders.

As faithful readers of the T-P know, the weather takes up a half-page at the back of the Living section and is printed in full color, with a close-up map of the Gulf Coast region, with whatever relevant weather patterns shown in symbols across the map. Tuesday's map showed the region clearly, with no clouds or arrows over it, and dotted with sun-circles from Galveston, Texas, all the way to Panama City, Florida.

Below that is the 5-day forecast, again, with a symbol for each day's weather and a brief word description of the weather predictions for those days. On Tuesday, the little boxes for Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday all held bright sun-balls. And for each, the Times-Picayune writer, apparently reluctant to repeat the same thing over and over, outdid him- or herself in describing the week's perfect weather:

Wednesday -- "beautiful with bright sun"
Thursday -- "mostly sunny and pleasant"
Friday -- "delightful with plenty of sun"
Saturday -- "Sunny, breezy and pleasant"
Sunday -- "plenty of sunshine and nice"

But don't believe it -- with humidity this low and temperatures in the low 80s during the day and the low 60s at night, lovely breezes, and no clouds in the sky -- they just should have written PERFECT across the whole week and been done with it.

Crazy Town: NFL Opener

2010-09-13T12:40:00.004-05:00

The NFL, in their wisdom, chose New Orleans and the Saints to officially open the 2010-2011 professional football season, and last Thursday, September 9, as the date. (I assume the NFL was trying to avoid the 9/11 anniversary weekend and so chose a weekday.) They planned a concert with nationally-known recording artists -- pretty little Taylor Swift and the perennial Dave Mathews. There were, of course, complaints that more local acts were not featured. We were told that the NFL made these particular choices so there would be "wide national appeal for their national audience"! Like our New Orleans musicians don't have "wide national appeal"! What a crock!

While their choice of this city and this team for this event was sensible, yes, even wise, then they dropped the ball by figuring that they could run the thing themselves. No matter what you can criticize New Orleans for, and of course there are many things, we know how to run musical festivals and, for God's sake, parades! But apparently nobody at the NFL saw fit to use our expertise in these areas.

The giant concert stage took several days to build, over the granite steps of Washington Artillery Park over Decatur Street looking toward Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral. It was high-tech to nth degree, with fancy lights and what looked like millions of miles of cables. It was very impressive. The thing was, the parade was also supposed to go right down Decatur Street -- how was that supposed to work?? In order to stand in front of the stage, there was a lottery ticket process, in addition to the VIP-only area. Because of the parade, extra police and security had to posted on the day of the parade so that the crowd could be efficiently moved away from the stage for the parade to pass -- because the NFL wanted the concert AND the parade to go on *at the exact time and place*. (I guess to save on TV cameras?) It was a crazy idea.

On the days leading up to Thursday, the city went crazy. Stores on Magazine Street, from swanky dress stores to erotic lingerie shops, had window displays of black and gold merchandise. Even the expensive bridal shop was showing wedding dresses topped with Saints jerseys!! Saints banners -- Two Dat, Bless You Boys, World Champions, Do It Again, Our City/Our Boys, and of course, dozens of Who Dats -- fluttered from homes and businesses. The best was the giant handmade banner on the fence of Eleanor McMain School, which, besides the inevitable Who Dat sign, had done a portrait of Vikings quarterback Brett Favre sitting splay-legged on the football field, with the legend, "I've fallen and can't get up." (Big Man said it was cruel, but I thought it was funny.)

To make things a little more crazy in terms of logistics, it rained Thursday afternoon, pretty much straight up to the time the parade was supposed to roll. Of course, this being New Orleans, the town had taken this very, very seriously. City Hall was closed; most schools closed by 12 noon; even some law firms shut early. (Yes, I'll confess now: I cancelled a church meeting on Thursday evening.) When the rain finally stopped about 4:45 pm, officials started the parade early to take advantage of the stoppage. But they needn't have worried -- the clouds sped past and blue skies reigned til the sun set. The rain didn't matter at all, because Who Dat Nation was out in force.

Big Man and I parked the car in the area where he usually would've parked for a night at his Bourbon Street gig (100 block of Carondelet or St. Charles are his usual spots) and walked to the nightclub for Big Man to store his horn case til needed. Then we walked over to Decatur, corner Iberville. Along the way, indeed, starting at Poydras as folks streamed to the Superdome, there were crowds and crowds of people dressed in Saints jerseys, black and gold outfits, and various kinds of costumes. (There were also a few brave Minnesota fans in purple and the occasional blonde Viking wig, but they were vastly outnumbered.) Many people had created Saints themed outfits for their babies and small children, and thus there were big and little Reggie Bushes and Drew Breeses and Jeremy Shockeys. In other cases, moms had gone all out and decked little bitty girls in black and gold tutus, studding their hair with shiny fleur de lis barrettes and/or giant lamé bows. Some people had treated it like a mini-Mardi Gras, with big shiny black and gold beads and even some costumes.

There was a real spirit of comaraderie and community among the Saints fans along the parade route. A family near us had brought their elderly paw-paw in his wheelchair (and with his oxygen tanks!), pushed to the front by the barricade so he wouldn't miss a thing. Despite the signs saying "No chairs along the parade route" (I'm sure an NFL rule -- which cruelly prevents the elderly and disabled not in wheelchairs from hanging), two pretty Creole girls across the street were standing dangerously on folding chairs, shaking their booties to the bands as they went by. (By the way, Big Man says he thinks saying "pretty Creole girls" is redundant, since it's his considered opinion that all Creole women are, by definition, attractive.)

But the end result of this excitement and craziness was a big dud. The NFL staged the parade and concert for the benefit of their TV audience (and sponsors) and we, the New Orleans Saints fans on the street, were mere props. It was the choppiest, cheesiest parade I have ever not seen the end of. For one thing, the NFL decreed the parade had to stop *for every commercial*. Second, the parade also had to stop for the concert -- and the crowd on the street for the parade carefully stage-managed in front, and then just as artificially, moved back out of the way for the parade to continue after number. For us poor peons on the street, this meant in practice that the damn parade ground to a halt like every five minutes. It was awful. It was worse than Bacchus on its worst night.

We might have been able to stand it if the parade itself had been anything good. But even the bands didn't play when they got stuck in front of you, and the floats were nothing special, all floats we had seen before, with no signs to let us know who was supposed to be on board. And each and every float was marred by disgusting corporate logos and signs and banners (and those corporations won't get a boost from ME by complaining about them by name), and the throws, such as they were, were all cheesy corporate beads (that didn't even light up!) and a few NFL visors. I tell you, it sure brought home why we never, ever, ever want to allow corporate sponsorship of Carnival. It would ruin it for good.

We could only stand a little of this stupid start-for-a-little-while-and-then-stop-for-a-much-longer-while parade. (High point to me: seeing Deuce Macalister hoofing it hard down Decatur, to get to the Dome on time, because of course, with all this stop and start, nobody at the parade was gonna make kick-off.) Big Man and I caught a handful of stuff which we promptly gave away, and then we walked back to the good ol' Country Flame, a marvelously inexpensive and delicious restaurant on the edge of the Quarter. We got them to turn on the game channel and watched the end of the pre-game festivities on TV, seeing Dave Mathews joined onstage by Trombone Shorty and Kermit (so they did allow a few locals, after all), just before the gigantic fireworks finale. (They were sure impressive, and we could hear them clearly on Iberville.)

The NFL loaded so many damn commercials at the start of the game that we missed the coin toss and the start of the new Who Dat chant tradition, but we were able to view the handshake of the team captains and quarterbacks and all the raised forefingers to symbolize "we're all unified" that Drew Brees devised (that sweet young man must really like ritual).

The game was almost TOO exciting, with all the back and forth, and wasn't particularly pretty (but there's no such thing as an ugly win!), but the Boys did pull it out. Bourbon Street, which had been empty during the game, erupted and the fun began. It was like a mini-Carnival or mini-Superbowl on Bourbon, and Big Man and the band at the Blues Club played til 2 am. (And I stayed the whole time! But I can't do *that* too often, not as young as I used to be.)

Sunday at Café Negril

2010-09-06T21:55:00.003-05:00

Lately Big Man's been gigging with John Lisi and Delta Funk from 7 to 10 pm (roughly, give or take) on Sunday nights at Café Negril on Frenchman Street. It's basically for tips, and it's big money or anything -- like we're not gonna pay the rent with it or go to the real Negril on it, but it's a fun, musically rewarding, low-stress gig. Big Man really enjoys it and so do I.

In terms of crowds, some Sundays are better than others (obviously) but since this is the Southern Decadence weekend, tonight is a good Sunday indeed -- a good number of folks, really enjoying the music, dancing, drinking, flirting. Good street traffic too. You could tell a lot of them were first-timers at Café Negril, 'cause they had no idea where the rest rooms were, and kept trying to walk across the raised seating area (where I am sitting) in front of the rest room area. (For the record, you can't get there from there, you have to walk around the railing-ed area to go to the rest room.) I'm starting to feel like the rest room traffic director.

Not many people smoking in the club tonight (thank God!), and so there's nothing to dilute the fantastic, mouth-watering aromas coming from the Taco Grill, operated by Ruben, same guy who has the taco truck at the gas station at the uptown-river corner of Louisiana and Claiborne. Ruben's from Honduras, and serves terrific cheap Hondurenos tacos, tamales, burritos, and quesadillas with your choice of beef, pineapple pork, chicken or veggies. (Ruben's occasional helper is an attractive young Latina with gold hoop earrings the size of bracelets.)

There's no cover at Café Negril on Sundays, and if you'd like a fun, inexpensive night out, with music and food, come hear Big Man and Delta Funk next Sunday. Maybe you'll see me there.

And if you go, remember: the band is playing for TIPS, so for heaven's sake, t'row a little somethin'-somethin' in the bucket.

The Fifth Anniversary

2010-09-01T11:31:00.003-05:00

It's hard to know what to say about the 5th anniversary of the federal levee failure after the landfall of Hurricane Katrina in 2005. New Orleanians were of two minds about it -- those who wanted to cocoon, stay home, turn off all media, and try to not to think about the whole thing; and those who with varying degrees of mixed feelings, felt that the occasion should be marked.

Accordingly, the variety of commemoration events was enormous, running from the religious (several interfaith/ecumenical worship services were held at congregations of different faiths, from St. Louis Cathedral to small neighborhood Baptist churches, to the grand St. Charles Ave. Presbyterian Church, where the Uptown Interfaith group held its service, in which I participated), to the cultural/spiritual (several secondlines starting at levee breaks and proceeding through recovering or struggling-to-recover neighborhoods, and at least one voodoo ceremony), to the educational (lectures and programs at Tulane, Loyola, UNO, and Xavier on different aspects of What Happened), to the entertaining (countless concerts and musical events and of course the play in St. Bernard I already posted about), to the cinematic (Spike Lee's 2-part follow-up to When the Levees Broke, entitled God Willin' and the Creek Don't Rise; Harry Shearer's angry movie The Big Uneasy). News media outlets were everywhere, every network and organization you can think of and probably several small ones you wouldn't.

Nearly everyone who is anyone at all got interviewed. (Even *I* got interviewed! by a small public radio station owned by a university Up North.) Some people got interviewed too many times -- Ms. Leah Chase grumbled to me and a friend that she was "sick of bein' interviewed," and added, "Wish there was nothin' to interview me about."

While I did watch the Spike Lee documentaries (and as always, he gets some things right and some things wrong, but his heart is in the right place), and did watch some of NBC's Brian Williams' reports (god bless him for not giving up on us!) and the Frontline on the NOPD criminal misconduct, I mainly tried to avoid Katrina overload. Some pictures and films just bring it all back to me, and I don't want to end up paralyzed with grief and rage as I was 5 years ago. (At one point, Big Man actually thought he'd have to put me in a hospital!)

Yes, things are better -- not as many as you would think/expect/hope for the so-called "greatest country in the world" but still things are better and getting mo' better all the time. Just not as quickly as you'd want.

And some things, some people, some parts of the city, are gone forever, though we will remember them always.

Here's the Prayer of Remembrance I shared at the Interfaith Katrina Commemoration Service on Sunday night:

We ask for the presence of the Spirit of God
as we come together in a spirit of prayer and remembrance:
We remember our old sense of invulnerability,
how we used to think, “Hurricanes always turn away,” or
“Hurricanes always lose strength as they come onto land,”
and we wonder, will we ever feel so safe again?
Keep us safe, we pray, O God.

We remember family members, friends, acquaintances,
neighbors, members of our religious communities,
some of whom have died directly or indirectly from the Storm,
and others who have had to make the hard decision to live elsewhere.
We miss them, each and every one, each and every day;
in our lives, in everything we do, we keep them in our hearts.
Keep them within your care, we pray, O God.

We remember the simple yet important landmarks of our lives,
the fabric of neighborhoods, the homes, schools, businesses,
places of worship, restaurants, places intimate to us,
and those we only knew from driving by,
washed away or demolished, irrevocably lost to the Storm.
The lost city of our memories will remain with us;
we will forever be saying “where this and that used to be.”
Keep our city from losing dear and familiar landmarks,
we pray, O God.

When our hearts were broken and we were near despair
we remember what it took for us to come this far –
courage, hard work, humor, the celebrations of our culture and heritage,
the kindness of many many strangers,
and most of all, faith.
Help us keep the faith, O God, and remember us
as we remember and remember.

The Somewhat True History of St. Bernard Parish

2010-08-28T22:19:00.004-05:00

(Abridged): A Love Story

As part of the Katrina Anniversary commemorations, I went with my sister and her husband, another sister, and several friends, to go see the premiere of this play at the Nunez Auditorium in Chalmette. The play was written and directed by a Chalmette High School English teacher, and performed with love and good will by a troupe of local amateurs. There were two acts, each with about six scenes, depicting different highlights of the history of St, Bernard Parish.

The play was alternately funny, silly, moving, angry, sad, and informative. Lots of jokes about St. Bernard accents and "cultcha" -- things like "berled" shrimp and Rocky and Carlo's baked macaroni. A particularly good line was made about a combination Betsy-Katrina Hurricane cocktail: you drink it and then 40 years later it knocks you on your ass.

There were things in the play that were educational. I actually learned several things I never knew before about the parish where I lived from birth to 17. I had never known about the all-male Fiipino village in the swamps, where they dried shrimp by "dancing" on them in the sun. I don't think I ever knew that Arabi was once in Orleans Parish (and the line was moved to accommodate an abattoir!). And I had never heard tales of the German U-boats in the Gulf and up the river during World War II.

But the story that really got to me was about Fazendeville, a tiny, all-black community between the Mississippi River and St. Bernard Highway that was originally located on part of the area where the Battle of New Orleans was fought in 1814. (The entire battlefield area that is not currently under the river comprises the present National Park and National Cemetery, and at least three industrial areas.) Apparently, at the time of the battle, there was a small rice plantation owned by a free man of color named Jean Pierre Fazende (interestingly, I've since learned that "fazenda" means "plantation" in Brazil).

What follows was inspired by what I heard in the play, with additional details gleaned form the Internet.

After the Civil War, the Fazende heirs sold small parcels to freed slaves, and a lane was developed through the skinny slice of property from the highway to the river. An old mill run became a sort of stream or ditch where kids in the little community could wade and play and crawfish, and nearby there was a pecan grove where residents gathered pecans for pies and pralines. Over time, about 50 close-knit families lived there, and there was a Baptist church, a dance hall, and a small store.

As the time of the 150th anniversary of the Battle of New Orleans approached, in the early 1960s, a movement developed to beautify and expand the little National Park dedicated to the battle, and to unify the park with the National Cemetery that was on the other side of Fazendeville. Petitions were made to the federal government, and one of the last things President Kennedy ever did was sign the legislation authorizing the eminent domain seizure of the private property involved -- the entire community of Fazendeville. The land was completely cleared -- even the pecan trees had to go! -- and incorporated into the park.

While at the time, residential property in general in St. Bernard Parish was valued around $16,000, the black families of Fazendeville received only $6,000 -- which would not have allowed to buy anything similar to what they were losing. And of course, it goes without saying that taking away that property would completely dilute a black voting bloc in St. Bernard Parish. Many of the folks moved over to Orleans, to the Lower Ninth Ward, where they re-established their church, still calling it the Battle Ground Baptist Church (and which, sadly, was destroyed twice, once in Betsy and then again in Katrina). [Some pictures of the community and the lives lived there can be found at http://www.doyouknowwhatitmeans.org/fazendeville.html]

I was 10 years old when this all happened -- old enough to have visited the park as part of a school group to learn about the battle, but too young to have heard about the destruction of the Fazendeville community.

I am disturbed and unsettled by this story. I feel the families of Fazendeville, if their descendants could be found, are owed compensation from the federal government, as recompense for the unfair treatment they received. I feel the pressure of my white privilege that kept me from knowing this story, and from, in a sense, my benefiting from their terrible loss.

This needs more thought.

Only in New Orleans, Part Whatever

2010-08-28T22:15:00.003-05:00

Walking in the rain today to go vote (earlier this morning, an Arab-American at a gas station Uptown told me it "always" rains on the Katrina weekend), I passed an open garage door on Euterpe Street and happened to glance inside. Stacked neatly against the wall inside the garage was a large double stack of sandbags.

I'm thinking that there aren't a lot of places where you'd see that -- or where else it might even be conceivable as a good idea.

Hiatus over (Finally!)

2010-08-27T22:37:00.003-05:00

Dear Readers (whoever you are, wherever you are),

I am sorry to have been away for so long. Part of the reason is that Big Man and I were away for 2 long trips this summer (we put over 8,000 miles on our van!), and since this Blog is oriented to tales of life in New Orleans, reporting on our travels didn't seem appropriate. The other part of the reason is that once you get out of the habit of blogging, it's hard to get back into it. (Approach-avoidance, don't you know.) There always seems to be something more pressing to get to first. But with the Katrina Anniversary hard on my heels, I knew I had to get back, and so here I am.

A few observations gleaned from our travels:

Everywhere we went this summer, west and east, during the 100 days of the BP oil spill, as soon as we said we were from New Orleans, people everywhere -- UU and non-UU, service personnel, hotel workers, guests at a B&B near Mount Rushmore, my sister's friends in Minneapolis -- they all acted like somebody had died, and we were the bereaved. "We're so sorry," they would say, sometimes laying a hand sympathetically on our arm or shoulder. Or they would ask us solicitously, "Are you folks OK?" We appreciated their concern, really we did, but it got old. I mean, if you're on vacation, you're trying to get away from everything that's worrying you or making you sad. And what were we supposed to say, "No, we're so NOT OK -- we're bloody sick and tired of being public victims, the nation's designated downtrodden."

And it was especially grating to have folks ask if we could smell the oil, for pete's sake, from our house or from our church or from the French Quarter. No, and we couldn't see it, either. Why do so many people around the country seem to think New Orleans is located right on the Gulf of Mexico? (Although, God forbid, if we keep on losing wetlands, we will eventually be on the damn coast1) I also hated the questions about whether I supported the deep-water drilling moratorium (I don't) and whether I am seeing any effects inside my congregation (I am, believe me, I am), and whether I would feel safe eating Louisiana seafood (geez, like I think either Louisiana or the Feds would allow us to sell our seafood if it wasn't safe -- what good would that do?). Let me just testify -- like almost every other non-allergic, non-vegetarian New Orleanian I know, I am eating Louisiana seafood literally like there was no tomorrow.

Another thing we noticed was how differently people from "away" (those not from New Orleans) think about food. Even relative foodies elsewhere don't think about food the way we do. Few people in other places think it's proper to discuss or reminisce about other meals while you are in the midst of a meal. Folks looked askance at us when we mentioned our ambition to eat as many cheap Maine lobsters as we could on one week's time (gee, not like we were trying to eat 'em all at one sitting!). Being particular about food was seen as strange or quaint, or maybe snobbish. Hot sauce was exotic. That we avoided chain restaurants and fast food while on the road was seen by many people as unnecessarily adding time and miles and expense to our trip (maybe so, but we sure ate better!). Our obsession with good food is one of those thing about New Orleans that I do already know, but these 2 trips really brought it to mind.

Anyway, it was good to get home, heat and humidity notwithstanding.

Bless You, Boys -- Again

2010-06-10T15:14:00.004-05:00

It's the off-week for the Saints summer training camp, and instead of the usual diversions coaches dream up to help the team cohere and stay together while not actually practicing (like team bowling, for example), Coach Peyton and team owners the Benson Family have come up with something quite different.

For the past few days, the Saints have gotten onto buses (one hopes air-conditioned!) and driven hours to the end of Plaquemines Parish and, the next day, down to Grand Isle, to meet with the folks most closely affected by the Gulf Oil Spill. They gather in a local community center with fishermen, oystermen, shrimpers, and oil workers and their families, and other folks like shop owners and catering workers and restaurant owners and their families, and listen to their stories. They shake hands with hundreds of people with work-hardened hands, get countless hugs from maw-maws, and ruffle the haircuts of hundreds of kids. It's like being politicians, only they're not running for anything.

And for good measure, they carry in the sacred Lombardi Trophy and everyone there gets a chance to touch it, to lay hands on it. (I picture Sean Peyton polishing the smudgy hand prints off the thing with a chamois on the bus on the way back home.) And everyone takes advantage of this, pressing forward with their hands out-stretched like supplicants to a shrine, like the Lombardi has a magic power to heal and restore.

All of this would have been enough and I would bless them for it and be grateful they're the kind of team they are, but they didn't stop there. The Saints are offering for raffle one of the "extra" Superbowl rings they will receive as 2009 Superbowl Champs (apparently, each winning team gets a few extra, to gift any way they want -- who knew??), with ALL proceeds going to Gulf Relief. The lucky fan who wins will get his or her ring at the season-opener game against Minnesota in September. The minimum order is 5 tickets for $10, but the more tickets you buy, the more they are discounted (like, 100 tickets are $75).

Of course, Big Man and I bought tickets right away, as did I'm sure, nearly every member of Who Dat Nation who could possibly squeeze together $10 or more. When I went online last night to check on it, I Googled "Saints Superbowl ring raffle" and discovered that there were close to 650,000 Google pages devoted to this topic. The Saints announced that they were hoping to raise $1 million from the raffle -- but I'll be sure surprised if they don't get more than that.

Once again, the Saints under Sean Peyton are showing that they are more than just a professional football team and that they "get it" about their role in the city's and area's recovery. All I can say is, Bless you, Boys, bless you.

The Kind of People We Are

2010-06-08T15:04:00.003-05:00

Months and months ago, possibly even last year, someone came up with the great idea to hold the first-ever New Orleans Oyster Festival on the first weekend of June, this year June 5-6, next to the House of Blues on the edge of the French Quarter. Of course, back then, no one could have dreamed that we would be facing the loss of America's best oyster beds, which have been giving folks the best-tasting oysters in this country since like the 1870s.

Perhaps in some more logical or sensible place, the Oyster Festival would have been canceled. But not here. The show must go on, and if we are to lose our precious and delicious oysters, then at least we'll go out swinging, with a big bang of a celebration. So the festival went on as scheduled. That's the kind of people we are. Hit us with a hurricane and a federal levee failure, and we will still hold our Mardi Gras and the critics be damned. Pour poison into our Gulf and threaten our oysterbeds for the next generation, we will throw an Oyster Festival to end all oyster festivals. Depressed and low down as I have been over this thing, I knew we had to go.

The ways to cook and eat oysters were uncountable, but I will list a few of the highlights that appealed to Big Man and me: oyster and shrimp (also endangered by the spill) eggrolls, oysters en brochette, oyster and spinach salad, oyster and eggplant casserole, fried oyster po boys, raw oysters (of course!), chargrilled oysters, buffalo oysters with bleu cheese sauce, oyster dressing (just like yo' Mama used to make), oysters with pepper jelly sauce, oyster gumbo, oyster soup, oyster sauce over crawfish cakes -- you get the picture, I'm sure. And I have to give a shout-out to the incredible Red Velvet Torte for dessert -- a large square of red velvet cake completely dipped in hard dark chocolate and then topped with fresh whipped cream. OMG f'sure.

There was a contest for the fastest oyster shucker, and another contest for the person who could eat the most raw oysters in the shortest period of time. (I've been known to eat *quite a lot* of raw oysters at one, er, standing, but I would hate to shovel them down fast. I like to savor my oysters, and enjoy a little sauce with 'em. I believe the winner vacuumed up something like 8 dozen in 5 minutes or some other ridiculous figure. Better him than me.

There were bands playing, of course -- what's a New Orleans festival of anything without music?? And the heat was mitigated by drizzles and gentle rains, hardly needing an umbrella to fend off, but really making it pleasant on that blacktop. (The festival ground was a parking lot so it could have been brutal.)

There was an Oyster Heritage Tent set up, where local craftsmen were making lovely artistic oyster knives, in case you shuck at home, and showed beautiful variations of ceramic oyster plates. Save the Gulf had a display, as did several other organizations, and there was a scroll to sign and send greetings to Louisiana's oystermen and their families. P & J, in business since 1875, had a display as well. Big Man and I signed the scroll ("We love y'all and would do anything we can to help.")

There were also posters of the event (what's a New Orleans festival without an artist-designed limited edition poster?), which had a large fleur de lis (of course) fashioned out of raw oysters (naturally) labeled hopefully as The First Annual New Orleans Oyster Festival. May that be so, may that truly be so!

Memorial Day on Grand Isle

2010-06-02T14:23:00.002-05:00

To regular readers of this blog, wherever you are --

I apologize for not posting lately. I have felt overwhelmed by all the emotions associated with the oil spill, and how many times can you write that you are sad, mad, scared, and helpless? And I have thought that posting about anything fun, like concerts or festivals, would seem like I was trivializing -- or, worse, forgetting about it. Believe me, whatever we are doing, however much fun we are having, the oil spill is never far from our thoughts and pervades our sleep.

But what can you do? After you get your hair salon and pet place to donate their cuttings to Matter of Trust, after you call/write your elected officials, there's really very little you can do. You can volunteer to help with clean up, but if you're not trained in animal/wild life rescue, they politely tell you you're not needed. And if you just want to do unskilled tar ball pick up or other such grunt work, you have to be very careful that you're not stealing what would have been paid day-labor for all the folks thrown out of work by the spill. So what's left?

Well, protest, for one thing. The first public Oil Spill Protest (the first of likely many to come, unless some unforeseen success takes place) was held in the pouring rain on Sunday, May 30, at 1 pm. (At least it wasn't hot.) There were lots and lots of signs, not all of them obscene (but some sure were!), with various ways of parsing the BP acronym (like "Bad People" and "Big Polluters" and even "Bitch Please!").

There were also lots of speakers, representatives of local organizations like Levees.org and Save the Wetlands and many others, and professors at Tulane and UNO and LSU, and leaders of the shrimpers and oystermen organizations -- when these latter speakers said their piece and mourned what was being lost, and how unlikely it was now that they'd be able to pass along their way of life to their children and grandchildren, they cried and so did much of the crowd. Even Dr. John, who's been a member of the Voices of the Wetlands group, spoke, in his inimitable style, angry, as he said, "That the criminals have been put in chawge of the crime scene!" He decried the blowout preventer (which term he couldn't recall and he said in frustration "that damn thing that shoulda stopped it but didn't "woik"), and demanded to know why there hadn't been a back-up plan.

It being New Orleans, the protest had a small pick-up brass band that punctuated what speakers said, played between speakers, and blatted out raspberries whenever BP's name was mentioned.

After all that, there didn't seem to be much else to do, but Big Man and I decided to spend Memorial Day driving to Grand Isle, where we could see first-hand what was happening, and where we could spend a few bucks eating lunch.

We felt so bad for them -- Memorial Day Weekend was supposed to be the big Grand Isle Speckled Trout Rodeo, and now no one was allowed to fish for speck off the island. Most people who had bought tickets in advance did not ask for a refund, and since the band had already been booked and paid, the party, such as it was, went on Saturday night.

The drive took us 2 1/2 hours, through Cajun Country that Big Man had never seen before and where I had not been in many years. Everywhere was evidence of the spill's widening ripples of influence -- boats docked that should have been out in the Gulf; protest signs in yards ("Mr. Obama, where are you?" said one); signs advertising "Disaster Work Catering Services" (at least somebody will be making money); closed roadside seafood markets, their signs listing everything they would have been carrying draped with sheets or tablecloths to cover them.

One unhapppy marshland resident went even further, and posed a mannequin dressed in a hazmat suit holding an oil-smeared plastic fish in an outstretched hand near the side of historic Louisiana Highway 1. Next to the adult mannequin was a small child mannequin in a small matching hazmat outfit, cupping its head in its two hands, as if sobbing. The figures had a big sign, "God Help Us." It was heart breaking.

There were media truck aplenty parked at the Grand Isle Marina, just as you cross over the bridge to the island, and we saw a lot of Army and Coast Guard vehicles as well. As we watched, two schoolbusses pulled up into the public beach area parking lot and unloaded scores of workers dressed in Tyvek suits. As we crossed over the dune to view the beach, we saw that a giant fat orange double-boom lay the length of the beach, and was backed-up by a small sand berm on the seaward side. (The bay side of the island is protected by booms marked "US Navy" floating in the water a few yards offshore.) Supervised by Coast Guard personnel, day laborers were scooping up tar balls on the beach and stuffing them into plastic sacks, and we could see workers on the Grand Isle Gulf beach as far as we could see in either direction.

We drove to one recommended Grand Isle restaurant, but it was closed -- although I had phoned there on Friday and been told it would be open. We ended up eating at the Starfish Restaurant, on the main road, and we asked to be served on the outside picnic table. There we enjoyed seafood gumbo, mini crabcakes, and platters of fried shrimp and oysters with onion rings (me) and a seafood platter with shrimp, oysters, catfish, and stuff crab with French fries (Big Man). (If you are gonna help an area by eating in one of their restaurants, then don't go there on a diet, for pete's sake, eat hearty!) The food was very good, and the servers thanked us for coming.

As we sat under the overhang and enjoyed both the food and the Gulf breeze, we watched as an enormous number of waste disposal trucks and military vehicles went by on the main road. Some young men in Army uniforms drove up in a military-camo jeep, and we were able to thank them in general for their service and in particular for being on Grand Isle right now helping with the spill.

Despite the pounding heat (it had rained earlier but the sun came out with a vengeance afterwards), we spent some time on the Grand Isle beach and we noted that the sand, while not sparkling white as in Alabama and Florida, was perfectly clean, and the beach was wide and empty. (The beach is closed to swimming -- obviously -- but the beach is OPEN for sun bathing and picnicking and whatever.) And there was no smell whatsoever of tar or gas or petroleum. None.

Driving off the island to go home, we noticed dozens and dozens of "for rent" signs on the raised beach cottages. I'm sure you could get quite a bargain renting a room or a cabin or a house for some time this summer on Grand Isle, and you would be doing the people of that beleagured island a big favor.

Coping with the Oil Spill -- A Rant

2010-05-12T16:54:00.003-05:00

I had a dream the other night in which my late colleague and best friend, SM, who died in January, appeared. She was angrily directing volunteer efforts for the Gulf oil spill from her sick bed, talking on the phone, sending angry emails. In my dream, she and I cried about it together. I woke up feeling sad and tired.

I find myself overwhelmed with competing emotions about the horrific disaster at the Deepwater Horizon rig in the Gulf of Mexico. I get enraged and scream at the radio and the TV when I hear reports of the testimony of officials from BP (which rented the rig that exploded), Halliburton (which did the work of cementing the rig -- or maybe I should say *didn't* do the work of cementing the rig), Cameron (the company that made the blowout preventer device for the rig that clearly didn't work), and Transocean (the company that owned the rig and employed the workers on it, who blew off basic procedures, thus either causing the blow-out or at least facilitating it). The four companies are all finger-pointing at each other, and, from what was said at the Congressional hearing, there was no governmental oversight at all -- just so-called "self-regulation." Self-regulation?? As far as I can see, self-regulation = NO regulation. My least-favorite quote was from the BP exec who said (of a giant, multi-million dollar containment device that turned out to be totally useless), "I won't say it failed, but it didn't work." Say what?? I am really working hard on the spiritual discipline of not hating them.

I am selfishly depressed at the thought of no more Louisiana seafood (or outrageously expensive seafood due to scarcity), and at the idea that I won't be able to just blithely get away any time I want to relax at a nearby pristine beach. I grieve over all the wildlife affected, even if the ones that are not edible. (My heart just about broke when I saw the aerial shot in the Times-Picayune of a shark appearing to bravely confront the huge oil slick all by himself -- it reminded me of the lone man bravely facing down the tank in Tiannenmen Square. See the photo at http://photos.nola.com/tpphotos/2010/05/oil_spill_gulf_of_mexico_2010_28.html.

The thought of the thick black goo on the edges of our fragile, disappearing marshland and coastal areas -- like we needed another insult to the Louisiana coast line! -- just sickens me. (To look at updated NASA satellite photos -- if you can bear it -- go to http://www.nasa.gov/topics/earth/features/oilspill/index.html.)

I worry about all the many, many people whose livelihoods and ways of life will be negatively impacted. Our friend the happy Shrimp Man on Claiborne Avenue is just one example of a whole class of people who have shrimped the Gulf waters for generations. Shrimpers, fisher folks, oyster folk, the restaurants all along South Louisiana who depend on that fresh catch, the oyster bars, the mom-and-pop po boy sandwich places, the little and big beach resort areas from Texas to Florida that are bracing for impact and facing cancellations of bookings, the private middle-class owners of non-luxurious beach houses that are paid for only through vacation rentals, the people whose businesses supply the boats that usually ply the Gulf waters -- the list of those affected goes on and on. All these people, all these families. Multi-generational ways of life threatened. It is too horrible to contemplate and yet we must think about it.

I'm mad at the federal government which is clearly complicit over several administrations -- and this new one gets no pass from us in Louisiana -- which is currently only offering *loans* to people whose small businesses are already marginal, and which are already carrying new loans post-Katrina. Loans? Is that the best we can do for all these folks??

I'm feeling betrayed by the markets and stores and restaurants in other states who are putting up signs bragging that they don't carry Louisiana seafood. Thanks so much for your support. I guess y'all thought we would purposely send out *bad* seafood for y'all to eat?? I'm still eating Louisiana crabmeat and shrimp, and if you care about us and our people, you'll eat it too.

I must admit I also feel implicated, guilty, responsible. Yes, I still drive my car, and sometimes, for convenience sake or just in order to save a few extra minutes, I confess I drive when I could have/should have walked. And believe me, I use air conditioning in my house, my car, and at the church, and I'm dependent on it. (It's only May, and it's already 90 degrees in New Orleans, for Pete's sake! I have trouble figuring out how people ever lived here without air conditioning.) Maybe I ought to be, but I am not yet prepared to call for an end to all offshore drilling.

But if we gonna do it, it ought to be safe. I can demand -- and all of you, wherever you live can demand -- that such drilling be done with adequate safeguards, with redundant safety procedures, with scrupulous inspections overseen by the federal government. We can demand that the state and federal governments require and strictly enforce such safeguards, processes, procedures, and redundancies. We can demand that this be declared a national disaster emergency, and allow the people most affected to get grants, not more loans, in order to get them through economically. We can support them through our consumer spending as well as our donations. We can call our hair salons, barbers and pet grooming places to keep collecting hair and fur clippings for the oil-soaking booms that are still needed. (These can be labeled and packaged and sent to Matter of Trust; see their website at http://www.matteroftrust.org/.)

And we can express our emotions -- our anger, depression, grief, exhaustion, worry, sense of complicity, and feelings of helplessness -- in our religious community, in our worship, in our small groups. We can help each other. There are no easy answers to this, and we must help comfort and support one another as we find our way through it.

The Oil Spill

2010-05-05T12:21:00.003-05:00

The explosion on the high-tech oil rig leased by BP nearly 50 miles out in the Gulf of Mexico happened April 20th. Immediate word was that there had been casualties, but some workers had been able to evacuate in time and were saved. Local news showed footage of the fire in the Gulf, and anxious relatives being ferried to a hotel near the airport to await their loved ones -- or word that their beloveds were among the lost. More reports later focused on the funerals of the men (they were all men -- for whatever reason, oil rigs are not known to be havens of gender-inclusivity).

Announcements were made on April 21st or 22nd (hard to remember now) that the oil well was being capped as it blew, so (the announcement, presumably from BP, said) there would be minimal leakage of oil into the waters of the Gulf. As I packed for my New York trip on April 23rd, the news seemed to be changing. There WAS a spill, but it wasn't too bad. When I arrived in New York on the night of April 24th, the media was in full retreat from earlier stories. There WAS a spill, and it WAS bad, it was very bad indeed. It might even be the worst ever.

Storms in the Gulf not only dropped rain on Jazz Fest revelers, it sent the oil slick moving rapidly toward the ravaged Louisiana coast. By the second Jazz Fest weekend, April 29-May 2, some folks in Irish Bayou and even Slidell, claimed they could smell it on the wind. (It may or may not have been the reason that the Queen of Soul Aretha Franklin gave to Jazz Fest officials about canceling her set, even though her tour bus was already in New Orleans, and nobody was claiming to be able to smell it from there.)

Folks at Jazz Fest lined up in record numbers to get raw oysters, joking sardonically that it could our last raw oysters for 5-10 years. (If the seedbeds of Louisiana oysters are disturbed, new seed oysters will have to be obtained after the beds are cleaned and then carefully nurtured. it would take between 5 and 10 years to be able to harvest from such new beds.) While they made remarks steeped in disaster-humor, their eyes were alternately angry and sad. Hearing that Halliburton contractors had been involved on the rig, one man said, "Let Cheney pay for the clean-up." The lead singer for Pearl Jam, on stage at the Fest, suggested that the children of BP executives spend their summer breaks working on the clean-up. He was wildly cheered.

Whether you live here in poor belle NOLA or anywhere else around the country, I know that all of us have been deeply affected emotionally and spiritually from this disaster, and the slow pace and inadequate scope of clean up. I know that all of us, young and old, well-off and struggling, want to do something, but we don't know what. We know something of what this disaster means in terms of our lives and livelihoods and delicious food and our beautiful marshlands and fragile coastal areas, and the strange and wonderful wild things that live in those places, but there is still a mystery in terms of what happens next, what might happen next.

Here are some concrete ideas for things that can be done, right now, right away, to have a positive effect on the spill clean-up. And if there are those of you who read this who know of other things we can do, please do let me know so I can help spread the word.

#1 It is well-known that the containment booms for oil spills are filled with waste materials like hair, fur, and old nylons. (Check-out the YouTube video clip entitled "Hair Soaks Up Oil Spills".) Collections of hair clippings from barbers and salons and fur clippings from pet groomers would be of tremendous assistance. A local hotel is working with a local environmental organization, Matter of Trust, to coordinate donations of old hosiery, pantyhose, stockings, clipped hair, and fur from pet groomers; that is the Ritz Carlton Hotel, 921 Canal St., NOLA 70130, 504-670-2817. Packages must be clearly labeled, such as "PANTYHOSE" or "HAIR CLIPPINGS". If you live in New Orleans, you can drop off labeled packages of your old stockings right at the valet entrance of the hotel. You can also call your hair salon and dog groomer and request that they save all hair and fur for this important cause.

#2 If you are financially able, you can contribute to help the people who are hurt most. A fund has been set up by the Greater New Orleans Foundation, the Gulf Coast Oil Spill Fund, to collect money to benefit local communities (in Plaquemines, St. Bernard, and lower Jefferson parishes) most adversely affected by the disaster, who are mostly poor/economically marginal, Islenos, Vietnamese, or African American). Donations can be made online, and more information gathered, at www.gnof.org.

#3 If you are able and willing to, you can volunteer to help. In-person volunteers can register with the Coalition to Restore Coastal Louisiana at www.crcl.org, or through the Sierra Club at action.sierraclub.org/Oil_Spill_CleanUp. Recovery from this, as from Katrina, will be a marathon, not a sprint. We will need a lot of help for quite some time to come.

#4 If you live or visit near the Louisiana-Mississippi coast, and need to report damaged wild life or shoreline, these are the numbers to call: for oiled wildlife 866-557-1401; for damaged coastal areas 800-440-0858.

#5 Write and call your elected officials at the federal level. Demand clear procedures for emergencies in the Gulf. Demand accountability for when inevitable accidents happen. Demand immediate federal aid for the coast line, the wild life, and the human communities affected by such disasters.

Finally, we can all pray/meditate/send good thoughts when gathered in our faith communities. We can support and comfort each other in our rage and grief over this new disaster. We can use the work of our hands and the power of our minds to make this better and prevent its recurrence.

To all of you out there standing in solidarity with us in South Louisiana and the Gulf Coast, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

Amanda Shaw at Wednesday at the Square

2010-04-22T16:51:00.003-05:00

Another gorgeous day at Lafayette Square, with blue skies, bright sunshine, the petunias nodding their pretty heads, the crowd -- not as big as it'll be next week for Marcia Ball! -- looking happy and attractive. Some folks were already sporting the Jazz Fest shirts, camisoles, skirts, and T-shirts. I imagine they'll have laundry to do before the fest starts on Friday -- or maybe these are lucky die-hard people with *so many* Jazz Fest-themed items of clothing that that is not an issue.

It was a family night for us at the Square. Our sister H, from Minnesota, was in town for a wedding and joined us straight from the airport. Sister D was there, just off work at a local white-shoe law firm, and I had ridden with our sister L and her husband, along with our nephew B, who is temporarily staying with them Uptown while he searches for a NOLA apartment. Big reunion with lots of hugging and kissing and exclamations of compliments ("You look fabulous!" "No, you do!") by the Henry Clay statue.

Side question: Why is there no statue of the Marquis de Lafayette in Lafayette Square?? The central statue is of Henry Clay, and the statue in the front, across from Gallier Hall, is of schoolchildren paying tribute to John McDonough. But where oh where is Lafayette? Isn't that strange?

OK, back to the concert. Or rather, back to the food. I discovered that the Rib Room at the Royal Orleans Hotel now has a booth selling their unbelievably delicious shaved prime rib with gravy on a pistolet topped with horseradish cream sauce. OMG -- devoted readers of this blog might recall that Big Man and I thought that was the absolute best thing at the French Quarter Festival 2 years ago. Of course I told them that as I purchased my pistolet (7 $1 tickets), and they apologized to me for not being at this year's festival. (I was actually relieved, because I had thought they were there, and I just couldn't locate them.) So I'm walking around holding a cup of wine and this fabulous behemoth of a sandwich, and people keep stopping me to ask where I got it. I sent so many people over there that my nephew said I should go and ask for a referral fee or discount on my next one.

Amanda Shaw and the Cute Guys is a great band and they come out like gangbusters, revving the crowd up right from the start. It is such a treat to see Amanda, who the whole city has watched grow up from a cute-as-a-button child prodigy to this amazingly attractive, mature, stage-wise performer. Highlights of the show were: "It's All Right," "Hot Tamale Baby" and a smokin' version of "Devil Went Down to Georgia."

There was so much good feeling when it was all over that it took a long time for the crowd to disperse. Wait til next week, when it'll be about TWICE as many people!

Tremé, Episode 2 (Spoiler Alert!)

2010-04-21T15:34:00.004-05:00

We had another crowd over for the second installment of HBO's "Tremé" on Sunday. A freak rain storm had blew up, and everyone arriving was wet. One guest had to bring his dog, too scared by all the flashing lightening to leave at his house or in the car. (Riley and Keely had a petty good time together, but they got a little riled up, no pun intended.) Sunday's crowd included my sister L and her husband, who have satellite but no HBO.

To help set the scene, we played our DVR copy of HBO's "Beyond Bourbon Street" (Big Man growls, "I'd like to get beyond Bourbon Street!"), which is sort of the Da Vinci Code or Rosetta Stone for the Tremé series, explaining all about our New Orleans music, food, culture, and traditions.

My sister demanded we turn out all the lights and so the 8 of us sat in the dark as the episode began -- with the crazy-wonderful Coco Robichaux supposedly in the WWOZ studios, being interviewed by the Steve Zahn character, who trashed the redone French Market as "soulless" which got a laugh in my living room. (That character -- and his real-life counterpart -- are taking a lot of hits from viewers both inside and outside the Crescent City, but I say, how can you totally dislike someone played by Steve Zahn? Even when he's a pain in the ass, he's still somehow cute.) Although all of us in New Orleans are sick and tired of out-of-towners acting like voodoo is everywhere here, the fact is, everyone knows that Coco really IS into it, and so that first scene played well, if a bit over the top.

The scene where the chef-based-on-Susan-Spicer broke down and cried hit us all in the heart. The living room went dead quiet. We all remembered what that was like -- when you couldn't stop crying, or you thought you had stopped and something small and trivial happened, like burning an omelet, and then you would just break down again. And we respected that the incident was not referred to again -- they didn't try to explain it or have her talk about it to anyone. That's not real. Props for getting that right.

The street musician giving "volun-tourists" hell for being so caring about the Lower Ninth Ward post-Katrina (but never having a passing thought about poor folks in New Orleans before) was both realistic and unrealistic. Realistic because a lot of us felt/still feel that way, and unrealistic because a busker dependent on tips would have to be crazy to bite the hand that feeds him. The young volunteers did have the perfect scrubbed-face, wide-open look of so many of the (sweet, well-intentioned) Midwesterners who have come down since the Storm. (And really, God bless them.)

The Mardi Gras Indian practice scene was just right, and satisfied even those of us who, while moved last week when the Big Chief came down the street in his suit, did not feel that either his moves or his chants were authentic.

We were all disgusted by the contractor who ripped off Gigi's Bar, and we all knew stories, first-hand, second-hand, third-hand, of people that had happened/is still happening to. And we were saddened and angered about the Big Chief's tools being stolen from the house he hired to redo. And while we were feeling the anger, still, we were shocked into silence when the Chief found the thief ("copper miner") in the act in an empty house and beat him up badly. We fear the Chief may have killed the guy, and since we all like and respect the Chief character, this has us worried.

Music throughout the episode was perfect. (The Boswell Sisters in John Goodman's scene was an especially nice touch.)

The best tribute I can tell you as to exactly how we felt about this episode is that, when it was over, and we were all talking about it, somebody said, "Why don't we watch it again?" and that's just what we did.

Annunciation Park Fence Gets Hit Again!

2010-04-21T14:52:00.003-05:00

Big Man and I live in what we jokingly call the "Lower-Lower Garden District" -- so close to the Warehouse District and the CBD that it hardly seems like Uptown at all. The house we found to live in nearly 3 years ago is very close to (in fact, in sight of) Annunciation Park, with its graceful iron fenced gateways on each end of the park. We love this neighborhood and we like the convenience of the park.

For whatever reason, the city has never installed a big yellow sign with a black arrow pointing both ways at the curb of the park where Annunciation Street comes to an "end" at the park's gates. (It's not really an end, of course, because if you go around Race Street, there's one block of Annunciation all by itself on the other side of the park.) In the daytime, even the worst drivers can see that they're at a dead end and have to turn to the right or left to continue on their way.

But at night, in the dark, unfamiliar drivers, drivers who are impaired in some way, and drivers who are speeding for whatever reason often miss what's going on. In less than 3 years, Big Man and I and our neighbors have witnessed at least 4 major accidents (one included at least one fatality). In one instance, a drunk driver just plowed through the stop sign at Annunciation and Race and hit an SUV parked on the street in front of the entrance way to the park. (The driver tried to run away but was "captured" by some neighbors and held til the police arrived. Big Man hollered after him, "Dude, don't make it any worse!")

Another time, a driver (drunk? stoned?) sped so fast down Annunciation, that he missed the stop sign and literally FLEW into the park, knocking down a portion of the iron fence, which thus flipped the car upside down. It landed wheels up and then slid across the park almost to the other side. Obviously, that was the accident where someone got killed. A third accident also hit the park fence, but not going as fast, so the offending car was left hanging off the raised granite curb of the park, the poor fence on the ground again. (I wonder how much it costs the city to keep on fixing that fence -- seems to me that not all these drivers could have had insurance.)

Last Friday night, round about midnight, as I watched TV in the living room with our dog Keely, we heard a car motor gunned all the way and a rapidly approaching siren. Then blue lights flashed in the window, two cars whooshed by, and then there was a dull BOOM! All of us in the neighborhood on both sides of the street poured out onto our porches and balconies to see the Annunciation Park fence down again, and a police car, lights flashing, parked perpendicular to the park. Deep inside the park, we could hear angry police officers hollering, "Get out of the car NOW!!" Later, from the police officer stationed there to guard the car until hapless owner could come and get his stuff out, we found out it was a guy in a stolen car, who, on hitting the granite and fence, jammed the front wheels of the car almost to the back. He was lucky he wasn't badly hurt. The car was, of course, totaled.

I guess we ought to petition the Streets Department about getting one of those yellow signs with the black arrows for that spot facing Annunciation. We don't want to keep losing that fence.

Day Off at the Lake

2010-04-14T20:56:00.002-05:00

Monday is the only day of the week that Big Man and I have off together, and we try to savor it when we can -- although it must be said that many weeks, Monday simply becomes the day for housecleaning, laundry, and grocery shopping. (Well, at least we're together while we're doing all that!)

But Monday came up even prettier than the weekend had been -- and the French Quarter Festival weekend had been absolutely primo. Monday was sunny, with temperatures slightly cooler, a light breeze, and gorgeous blue skies. So perhaps it was not so strange that as we sat on the couch to talk about what we should do with the day that we both said at the same moment, "Let's go to the Lake!"

We changed into Lake-going clothes, including sunhats, packed a bag with sunblock, a large tablecloth, a towel in case we needed it, and a few sections of the New York Times for relaxing reading. We also got Keely Smith the dog, since a romp at the Lake on a beautiful day is perfect for good doggies.

Even the drive was lovely, the city so sparkly and full of flowers. We drove along Lakeshore Drive, picking the best spot, and found a place between two fishermen, with lots of clover. I spread out the yellow tablecloth, and we placed shoes and sunblock bottles on the corners to hold them down in the stiff Lake breeze. Wave spray washed over us lightly and the sun poured down. Big Man took Keely for a long walk along the seawall, as I carefully applied sunblock before laying out with the Book Review. More semi-salty spray hit my bare legs and I grew sleepy with the sun and the wind and the soft grass beneath me. I think I had a short relaxing nap.

Big Man and Keely got back, and one of them was wet. No, not my dog but my husband -- he couldn't resist taking a few steps down toward the waves and got good and splashed. Keely's too smart for that and managed to avoid getting really wet. The three of us got cozy on the spread, and I snapped a few pictures with my iPhone. We talked, and sort of slept, and stroked the dog. We watched the groups of fisherfolk, whole families pulling redfish and mullet off their lines and into their ice chests. Everything was lovely.

Eventually we got too hungry to stay, and packed up our stuff, took the dog on one last walk on the seawall, and got back in the car. We drove to the Lakeview Robért's and bought a mess of their sushi and ate it on the cast iron table and chairs outside under the overhang. Keely sat with us, hoping for a handout which she did not get. (All we need to do is train that dog to expect us to give her table scraps!)

When we got home, it was too late to go to Elmwood Fitness Center and Big Man had to squeeze in some trumpet practice time, and the kitchen still needed cleaning and the laundry wasn't done -- and we agreed it was of our best days off ever.

Premiere of HBO's "Tremé"

2010-04-14T18:39:00.002-05:00

We invited a few friends who are without HBO over for Sunday evening's premiere of HBO's new series set in New Orleans post-Katrina, the long-awaited "Tremé." Scenes and episodes have been shot all over town, including our own neighborhood, and most New Orleanians are only a degree or two (or less) separated from locals who've been given parts of varying sizes in the series. Excitement ran really, really high -- "Tremé" was pretty much all anyone could talk about round town last week, and the local TV channels and radio talk shows, from NPR to 'OZ to Rush Radio was all over it. The Sunday Times-Picayune had a grand total of *6* different articles, stories, reviews, and blurbs about it.

There were 6 of us squeezed around our TV at 9 pm on Sunday, and we were all antsy with anticipation. At various points in the first episode, we sang along, "I feel like funkin' it up, feel like funkin' it up," we laughed (mostly at Steve Zahn's character), we argued ("Is that a real Indian chant?" "Was that Central City or Seventh Ward?"), we shouted "Hey!" (when the on-screen band played the familiar bars of "Secondline"), we equivocated ("Maybe that was the world's oldest and stalest Hubig pie"), cheered and yelled "AMEN!" (when John Goodman's character threw the microphone into the Industrial Canal after an interviewer as good as said New Orleans should not be rebuilt), and we collectively caught our breaths and tried not to cry (when the Indian chief put on his suit and cried out, "Won't bow -- don't know how!").

Afterwards, probably like all the other New Orleans viewers, we traded our own Katrina stories. I'm pretty sure that those scenes in "Tremé" brought those memories back to everyone watching from New Orleans. One of our guests, a nurse at Charity Hospital during the Storm, recalled how the sound of helicopters was pervasive in the city immediately after Katrina, how the sound invaded her dreams and that even today she couldn't stand to hear it. We recounted how much water we had had, and how horrible our first glimpses of the city were. All over the city, and in those places of the diaspora, these conversations were repeated over and over. We talked and talked (I thought folks would never leave) until we were talked out.

We give the show a big thumbs up. It gets us right, and gives us our props. We can't wait for episode 2 -- same time, same group, potluck this time.

Heard today (Tuesday) that HBO has already ordered another season. Good on 'em.

French Quarter Festival

2010-04-14T13:49:00.002-05:00

What a gorgeous French Quarter Festival we just had! Perfect weather, happy crowds of lively people, terrific music, and delicious food -- what more could you want?

Several things were noticeable about the Festival crowds this year. For one thing, there seems to have developed some kind of fashion among the young women for strange headgear. We observed "hats" of day-glo colors, draped with contrasting feather boas, or covered in wild artificial flowers in hues not found in nature, or tiny little head decorations that could not have blocked any sun and really couldn't be called "hats." Of course there were LOTS of Saints Superbowl Champs ball caps and also many different kinds of traditional straw hats in various styles. There appeared to be more tattooed young people this year -- or maybe I just noticed it more. (An old-fashioned part of me wonders if any of these folks will rue their skin decorations as they vie for more staid careers than they might now have.) Tons and tons of children -- in strollers, in baby packs, on parents' shoulders, grasping a hand of a grown-up, toddling on their own, doing their little dances in front of stages. Many people were already red and rosy with sunburn, perhaps not thinking that it could happen this early in the season.

The breeze off the River was pretty stiff, and kept things cooled down even with the bright sunshine. And once it got to sunset, it was actually a little chilly. I was glad both nights to have brought a shawl for my shoulders.

I remember when Big Man and I first moved home and went to our first French Quarter Festival together. We said tings to each other like, "Some day, maybe you'll be playing here." And now here it is, less than 4 years that we've been living here, and Big Man had not one but TWO French Quarter Festival gigs!

Friday evening Big Man played with a band that was billed as "Russell Batiste and Friends." Some friends! At one point, I counted 16 people on stage, not even counting the little Batiste kids who were banging percussion instruments. (There were *4* horns -- 2 saxes and 2 trumpets -- they were so squished together they could hardly move.) After several instrumentals featuring of course the wondrous trumpet of my beloved -- including a wild take on the theme from the Charlie Brown musical! -- Jason Neville came out and sang his butt off. He was even better on stage than he had been at his CD release party a few weeks ago at The Precinct in my neighborhood. The time his version of the Beatles' "Blackbird" was both passionate and poignant. He also sang "The Way You Look Tonight" and made it his own, and there were hoppin' takes on traditional Indian chants and "Pocky Way." Women of about my age sitting near me in front of the stage were remarking on how much Jason resembles his dad Aaron at that age. It IS a wonder, almost scary. The crowd was quite appreciative when the set was over, and Big Man was exhausted both from playing and from trying to figure out which song was next, as Russell is quite averse to the discipline of set lists. (At one point, Jason began to sing a tune, and Russell called out from the drum set, "Naw, naw, we're not doin' that!")

Afterwards, I walked with Big Man to the Blues Club for his regular gig, and then carried his trombone to where we had parked the car to lock it safely in the trunk. I thought to catch a bus or streetcar to get home after that, but I missed the streetcar and then discovered, via iPhone (I LOVE my iPhone!!), that the next Magazine bus was an hour away. I started walking home along Tchoupitoulas, thinking if a bus came by, I'd hop it. At Lucy's Bar, I saw the Fujita family was having a farewell party there. (Good bye and good luck to sweet Scott Fujita, who helped us get to the Superbowl, but whom the Saints management did not want to pay more. On his way out, as it were, he donated a chunk of his Superbowl winnings to the Save Our Coast Foundation. What a guy!) Turned out no bus ever came, so I ended up walking home the entire way -- not *that* bad, really, close to 3 miles, all told. But it was a lovely night and there were lots of people out and about by all the restaurants I passed in front of, so it was no biggie.

The next day, Saturday, Big Man again had the closing gig at the Festival's Harrah's "Louis-Louis" Stage (in honor of both Louis Armstrong and Louis Prima -- Prima's getting a lot of play right now due to this being his 100th birthday year). This time, Big Man was playing with Rénard Poché and his band, a much smaller ensemble than Russell's behemoth of the night before. But still, with all the instruments that Rénard plays, plus his band members, they filled the stage. There were two female keyboardists, Keiko Kamako (who played the night before with Russell as well) and Leslie Smith (daughter of the late music photog Michael Smith). Highlights of the set for me were the Sly Stone medley (VERY cool and really riled up the crowd!) and the almost-too-strange arrangement of "Eleanor Rigby." Along the way, Rénard played drums, guitar, flute, trombone, percussion, Native American flutes -- two at once!, and possibly something else, I lost track. The youngish crowd *really* seemed to love his (somewhat preachy) rap songs and folks were so stirred, that at the end they had to play an encore. (Unfortunately, Big Man had a private gig to get to at the Intercontinental Hotel that was supposed to start at 9 pm.)

When we finally left and fetched the car, with me driving to drop Big Man off, we got caught in a line of traffic being directed off Canal Street by the NOPD. Only later at home did I find out it was due to a stupid shooting of rival young men at the corner of Canal and Royal. Apparently seven people were hit, none fatally. And so it goes in the Crescent City, the good, the badm the sublime and the ridiculous altogether and all at once.

Not-So-Big Sam & the Funky Nation at Wednesday at the Square

2010-04-08T14:00:00.002-05:00

Overcast and windy, very likely threatening rain, Wednesday was not exactly promising for a late afternoon outdoor concert. However, it was going to be Big Sam & the Funky Nation, so it was appropriate to brave the elements. Luckily, the cloudy sky and friendly breeze lowered the temperature and made it very comfortable -- not sweltering like it will be later (for example, for Marcia Ball later in the season).

Big Man and I enjoyed dinner at home (our favorite post-Easter dinner of hard-boiled egg curry) and then parked the car at a lot on Magazine, walking through the pedestrian mall between the federal courthouse and the federal building to the square. I can never be in that neighborhood without remembering that where the Hale Boggs Federal Building now stands was where my father's Steelworkers' Union office used to be (interestingly enough, it was also where Lee Harvey Oswald's "Fair Play for Cuba" office was back in the day), and that our family used to spend Mardi Gras Day in Lafayette Square, with 2 long aluminum folding picnic tables set up together, laden with food, and lined with folding aluminum lawn chairs. Those few blocks are filled with memories for me.

Lafayette Square was pretty crowded, but not as packed as it had been for Trombone Shorty a few weeks ago. As always, the dress code was extremely diverse: law firm denizens in conservative business suits, menfolk in the New Orleans "uptown uniform" of Haspel seersucker and white buck shoes, long and short sundresses on the young women, lots of Jazz Fest shirts and T-shirts, bikers, old folks in their comfy clothes, little kids, lots of dogs, and one giant colorful parrot on this guy's shoulder.

We spotted one tall Creole-looking woman with long brunette hair in tight white jeans and a midriff-baring white embroidered top; we were admiring her when we realized we were practically ogling our friend Anaîs St. John. We called to her, and she walked over quickly, gathering glances and stares the whole way. She hugged us both and complimented me on my recent haircut. "So becoming," she cooed and I preened.

Big Man and Anaîs talked music for a while and compared notes on the New Orleans music biz and their upcoming gigs for the French Quarter Festival this weekend. Unfortunately, Anaîs's set on Saturday afternoon is too close to the ordination ceremony I am obligated to go to, so I told her I'd have to miss it. She waved her hand at me, tant pis ("no matter"). She told us her husband and toddler daughter were over near the food booths, but as we had already eaten, we weren't going that way. We wrapped up our conversation (the cynosure of all eyes the whole time!), kissed again, and parted.

Big Sam and his group the Funky Nation took the stage -- you can't mistake that loud beat-insistent sound! But as we approached the stage, something was very different. It didn't at first look like Big Sam was onstage, even though there was a guy waving a 'bone around. He was much too thin to be Big Sam. But as we got closer to the stage, we could see it was indeed Big Sam, "big" no longer -- he was positively slender! Full of energy and good spirits, he skipped, danced, ran, jumped, and moonwalked the stage; Big Man said maybe all this stage energy had helped him to lose the weight. But whether the hijinks were the *cause* or the *result* of the weight loss, it was still quite impressive. He looked GOOD, y'all. (Whatever you did or are doing, Sam, you just keep it up now.)

Songs bled into one another with interesting musical linkages. Each of the musicians on the stage were given ample opportunity to shine in solos, sometimes with Sam and his trumpet player often coming over to highlight the player and tease him with their mimicry and stage antics. Favorites for me were the classics "Liza Jane" and "Sissy Strut" (that song always did need horns!) and Sam's own "Ba-dooey-dooey."

We left earlier than we wanted to due to Big Man having to make his regular Bourbon Street gig, but we had a good time nonetheless. Props to Big Sam for getting so healthy, and for putting on a great show!

Holy Thursday at Dooky Chase

2010-04-01T16:27:00.002-05:00

Maundy, or Holy, Thursday arrived as a gorgeous spring day, with cloudless skies, and temperatures expected to go to the high 70s. First thing I heard was the sound of a brass marching band, and I went out the house dressed in only a caftan to see what was going on. A school band was marching pretty sharply, in school uniforms, NOT band uniforms, with adults and children marching behind them, carrying signs which I was too far away to read. (And clad only in a caftan, I was not about to get any closer!) Not sure which school it was, but I suspect it was the International School and not St. Michael's Special School. As I walked back to the house, I thought, "Thank God I live in New Orleans, where a neighborhood parade is a fairly normal thing."

Another part of the day to give thanks for living in New Orleans is Ms. Leah Chase's annual serving of green gumbo or "gumbo dezherbes" for Holy Thursday. An old Creole tradition for the end of Lent, it involves 7 meats and 7 different kinds of greens to form a thick, rich gumbo served over rice. Dooky Chase Restaurant in the Tremé is always packed for this event, and today was no exception.

With a little difficulty navigating the construction on Orleans Avenue, and an even bigger challenge in finding parking, we made it shortly before 12 noon. Of course, there was a line waiting for a table, but we were "privilege characters" (as my Mama used to say) with an invitation to a private party hosted by my old friend RJH in the old Dooky's dining room, now called the Gold Room.

All of the servers were hopping, overtaxed by the huge crowd. In the far room, I could get glimpses of Ms. Leah, in a bright green "Holy Thursday at Dooky Chase" T-shirt. (I want one, and I hardly ever wear T-shirts!) There was so many people wanting to speak to her, she moved through the packed dining rooms like a politician or celebrity, or like a saint! touching a shoulder, shaking a hand, bussing a cheek, exchanging snippets of conversation as she made her slow way around.

There was supposed to be 20 people at RJH's green gumbo party, but of course more showed up, so Ms. Leah's twin grandsons, who work as waiters, carried in 2 more tables and settings. I was seated between Mrs. Sybil Morial, widow of one former mayor and mother of another, and local civil rights activist attorney BR. Others in the room included local judges, candidates for office, civil servants, and political operatives, as well as RJH family members.

We were served "Arnold Palmers" -- a mix of half lemonade and half iced tea -- and soon the gumbo dezherbes arrived, each bowl seemingly carefully apportioned with bits of the 7 meats: hot sausage, smoked sausage, andouille, chicken, veal, beef, and ham. We kvetched that we wanted bread (or more bread, as one end of the long table had gotten hot garlic bread slices and promptly scarfed it all up), and young Dooky patted me on the shoulder as he flew by, "Coming, it's coming!"

Soon he and another server were back with platters of corn bread squares, which we fell on with gusto. They were warm and rich and sweet, needing no butter (although I bet Big Man wanted some but was too polite to say so!). This would have been good enough -- more than good enough -- but then young Dooky swept back in, carrying 2 heavy platters of hot fried chicken. "I had to sneak this outa the kitchen," he grinned. We squealed and oohed and aahed, grabbing at the hot chicken, dropping it quickly on our plates, our fingers nearly burned.

What sublime chicken! I mean, it was perfect! The skin golden brown and as crispy as hot popcorn, the meat inside tender and juicy. I know the New York Times calls the fried chicken at Willa Mae's (around the corner from Dooky's) the best in the country, but Big Man and I can see only a hairbreadth's difference between them. I'm sorry to confess that I had *2* pieces of that exquisite chicken, and ended with a piece of garlic bread.

We made our farewells around the table, and then came out into the main dining room -- where who do we see but the current Mayor of New Orleans, in the very worst table in the place, a tiny TV-tray sized thing, barely big enough for one but with the mayor and guest squeezed at it, up against the wall. (That table is so small that normally it is only used as a station for water pitchers.) What better indication could you have of the estimation of Ms. Leah, that this is where the outgoing mayor ended up??

Farewell to Marva Wright

2010-03-31T12:37:00.002-05:00

On Tuesday, March 23, Marva Wright, blues belter extraordinaire, died from complications of two strokes suffered earlier. She was only 62 years old. Her "real job" was elementary school secretary and thousands of New Orleans schoolkids revered "Miss Marva" as the secretary whose wonderful singing voice could make you happy (or at least almost happy) you were called to the principal's office.

Late in life she took up singing full time, after consulting with her friend Jo "Cool" Davis about the propriety of moving from church singing to blues singing. Since that had been Jo's path as well, he encouraged her. In no time at all, she was shouting and screaming into microphones all over the city, meeting (and impressing) national celebrities. She was a hard-working woman with a strict work ethic, requiring her band to be on time and always giving 100%. (Indeed, there are some -- and Big Man is among them -- who feel that Marva's second stroke was brought on at least in part by her returning to work so soon after the first one.)

Those of us who reveled in her performances will never forget her inimitable style, her wardrobe of wigs, her professionalism, her complete dedication to putting a song across. Her long-time gig was in a club on Bourbon Street just down from where Big Man plays 5 nights a week. Often when he got off from his regular gig, Big Man would walk over and sit in with Marva. "Hey, Horn Man!" she would call to him as he entered the club, and call him up to the stage. She enjoyed his playing, though I'm sure she could not call his name. She was some lady, believe you me.

My sister L and I talked about it, the loss, and how "young" she was. (Hey, you get to be in your late 50s and suddenly early 60s seems REAL young to you!) L worried that memorial tributes to Marva might occur after she and her husband left on Wednesday to see their grandchild in Austin, Texas. When WWOZ announced that Marva Wright would lie "in state" in historic Gallier Hall on Tuesday afternoon, we were glad and made our plans.

Big Man, L, and I drove downtown around 3:30 pm and found a legal parking space on the street (probably because Big Man was with us -- he generally has excellent parkma). In the afternoon light, we strolled through Lafayette Square to the gray granite steps of the old ornate city hall, passing the open pocket doors past the life-size bronze sculptures of male and female figures into the front hallway. Tables filled the entrance way, staffed by 4 elegant Creole ladies who greeted us and offered us guestbooks to sign. To the right, we could see one of the reception rooms set up with chairs in rows and a stage with a drum set and bristling with microphones, where I guess the actual service was to be that evening.

Then we went to our left into the main double parlors of the Hall, where Miss Marva was laid out in a shiny mahogany and brass casket. There were floral arrangements aplenty, including a tall microphone and stand made of chrysanthemums from the Jazz and Heritage Foundation, a lovely arrangement of hot pink lilies from Marva's long-time guitarist Benny, a giant bunch of white roses and white and green baby orchids from Marva's husband and children, an NOPD badge formed of flowers from the department's Sex Abuse Division (??), a stand of roses from Harrah's, and another arrangement from the Ritz Carlton. There was also a mystery arrangement with a card that simply said, "From a Friend."

Marva looked GOOD. Whoever the undertaker was had done a terrific job on her makeup, very lifelike. She was wearing a spangly silver and white dress that she used to perform in, and was completely accessorized with bling -- tiara-like headband, necklace, bracelets, earrings and rings. In her hands was tucked an immaculate white linen and lace handkerchief. She was sporting one of her characteristic wigs -- but not the one she's often pictured in, the one with the big fat Shirley-Temple corkscrew curls.

Around the casket on easels were poster collages of photographs of Marva on stage, Marva in concert, Marva with John Goodman, Marva being kissed by Paul Shaeffer, Marva at Jazz Fest, Marva with her band, Marva with her husband and her children, and on and on. We looked carefully at all the pictures, remembering. We were glad we had come, and L was especially glad it happened before she left town.

Rest in peace, Marva, we love you.

St. Bernard Crawfish Festival

2010-03-30T10:51:00.003-05:00

On Sunday after church, Big Man and I headed to my old stomping grounds of Chalmette for the annual Crawfish Festival. Chalmette, the St. Bernard Parish working-class suburb of New Orleans, is where my parents moved right after World War II, just as tomato fields of that parish were transformed into new housing developments for returning GIs. I grew up there, from kindergarten and elementary school at Our Lady of Prompt Succor, to high school at Andrew Jackson (the year it first opened).

Going back for the Crawfish Festival allows us to see what progress has been made on rebuilding St. Bernard since Katrina, and the truth is, it's not great. While a new Big Lots and new Walmart and new Lowe's have opened, there are still whole swaths of the Parish, residential and commercial, that display destruction and desolation. It's heart-breaking, really. So many people unable or unwilling to come back, generations of neighborhoods left empty where there had been neighbors, connections, relationships. Who knows how long it will take for St. Bernard to return to its pre-Katrina population levels?

Judging from the giant crowd at the festival, it seems clear that lots of St. Bernardians return from wherever they live now on this occasion, as well as drawing at least a few people from other parishes. Hard to judge exactly how many were there on Sunday, but sure seemed like at least ten thousand. A band was set up on the far end of the fest toward the Goodchildren side, and carny rides and booths were on the lake side of the fest grounds, which was the area all around the St. Bernard Civic Center.

How many ways can you fix crawfish? A lot, apparently. There was boiled crawfish, fried crawfish (including my especial favorite, fried *softshell* crawfish), crawfish pie, crawfish etouffé, crawfish creole, crawfish bisque, crawfish bread (giant line there), crawfish sauce poured over catfish, over french fries, over fried eggplant. Crawfish wasn't all there was, either -- any kind of seafood you wanted (including lobster!), sausages made of pork and alligator (and crawfish!), even lamb or beef gyros (I guess this was in case anyone was allergic or something). There were things called "potato ribbons" which were continuous sheer strips of potatoes flash-fried and potatoes fried with onions and potatoes boiled with the crawfish. (Face it, there were no low-calorie options at this fest!)

We ate our fill, enjoyed looking at the people and the crafts. I was sure there were people all around us that I had gone to grade school or high school with, without any of us recognizing each other. The day was really beautiful, sun shining brightly (I was glad to have a sunhat on). We will definitely be back again next year, when we hope to see more progress in recovery for St. Bernard Parish.

Ponchatoula Strawberries & Madisonville Seafood

2010-03-30T10:10:00.002-05:00

Saturday was SUCH a gorgeous day -- clear blue sky, temperatures in the low 70s, and a light breeze -- that after my pastoral errands and meetings, which took all morning, Big Man and I decided to take the drive to Ponchatoula to get some strawberries. It wasn't the Strawberry Festival or anything, we just wanted the drive and the berries. So we packed Keely into the car and drove over the Bonne Carré Spillway in the gorgeous weather. Along the way, we saw lots of egrets (but no eagles or pelicans as we have on previous drives). At Pass Manchac, the sun glittered beautifully off both Lake Maurepas and Lake Pontchatrain.

Ponchatoula was sleepy and quiet and quaint (not like it'll be the weekend of the festival!). We went to the very same young man with a truck full of strawberry flats at the junction of the highway and the main street that we bought from last year. Big Man thought we only wanted half a flat but I insisted on a whole one, since I figured we could unload the other half with my sister L (which turned out to be the case). The strawberries looked almost UNREAL, they were so deep red, so perfect in shape, so fresh. We immediately ate several, straight from the box.

We had noticed a produce stand as we came into town, so we put Keely on a leash and walked over there. (I was a little worried about whether they'd let Keely inside, but they were cool about it.) The open-air but covered stand had lots and lots of goodies -- fresh vegetables and fruit, refrigerated perishables like delicate lettuces, rows of home-made preserves, jams, jellies, pickles and sauces, hot items such as several kinds of boudin, boiled peanuts, and crawfish etouffée, an area where they put together gift baskets of produce and stuff, and an alcove with pottery stuff from Mexico. (If you go, this produce stand is just to the left of the main highway into town that you get on from the first Ponchatoula exit off Interstate 55.)

We picked up a beautiful glossy eggplant, a head of lettuce, some nice tomatoes, a package of prepared angel food cake (to have with the strawberries), and a jar of bread-and-butter pickles with pineapple and jalapeno peppers (really, who could resist that??) and a jar of strawberry fig steak sauce (wow!). After giving Keely a quickie little walk-around, we found places for everything in the car, the inside of which already smelled like strawberries. (I said to Big Man, "This smells so good -- they should make a perfume that smells like strawberries." And he says, "They do, it's for 8-year-olds.")

By now, we're both pretty hungry, and get back to the car for another drive. I had picked out a place in Madisonville that I had heard advertised on the radio that was supposed to have good seafood. Madisonville is the next little town over from Ponchatoula, an easy drive along the main street of Ponchatoula that becomes a state highway as it heads east. As we drove, it was interesting to see how much both little towns had grown over the years, with housing developments of McMansions popping up, despite the rural setting. (It always amazes me how far some people are willing to commute, to either New Orleans or Baton Rouge.) The day was fine, and the air smelled sweet, like strawberries and flowers and spring greenery (but we didn't sneeze!).

Friends Coastal Restaurant turns out to be situated right on the Tchefuncte River in Madisonville, in the "main" part of town, along with late 19th and early 20th century houses, many with tin roofs. The parking lots was full and there was clearly a waiting line, but when we walked in (poor Keely in the car in the shade with the windows rolled partly down), we were told if we were willing to eat *inside* we could get a table right away. The hostess led us, past all kinds of nautical décor, to a table that overlooked the deck on the river. It was the next best thing to eating outside, and it was wonderful to view the river, the boats, and the fancy-shmancy houses on the other side of the river (clearly the new construction side). They even had live music on the deck, a guy on guitar who was not bad.

Friends has a great menu, full of stuff you want to eat, and it took us a while to choose. In the end, we ordered the king crab as our shared appetizer, I got the puppy drum-fresh spinach wrap with a balsamic vinaigrette sauce (yum!), and Big Man got the lobster-andouille pasta (very high on the OMG scale). We also ordered little cups of their crawfish-corn chowder -- mmm, rich! Everything was fantastic, and while we hadn't actually intended to go out and have a $50 lunch, we were not at all sorry.

After lunch, we walked Keely around the little marina, admiring the gorgeous old boats (Madisonville is the home of the Wooden Boat Festival every October). We took that same highway back to the Causeway. Corrugated clouds had gathered over the lake but it was still beautiful and sunny. We agreed that Friends Coastal was well worth the drive and vowed to return soon.

Wednesdays at the Square #1: Trombone Shorty

2010-03-25T19:28:00.004-05:00

The first of the free Wednesday evening concerts at Lafayette Square kicked off yesterday. with Trombone Shorty and his band Orleans Avenue. It was a cloudy, somewhat chilly and windy late afternoon, but no rain was forecast -- it wouldn't have mattered if it had rained, since the concerts go on rain or shine. I didn't get home from the church until 5:30 pm, so we had already missed the beginning of the opening act, and with the usual delays in getting started (plus a conversation about whether or not to take our dog Keely), we didn't get there until close to 6 pm.

We parked in the office building adjacent to the Square, a nice bargain at $5, and rode down the elevator to the street. The elevator was filled with people, and as we got in, a black man in the back of the car called out, "Hey, Trumpet Man!" and he and Big Man greeted each other. Turned out it was James Andrews, Troy's (Shorty's) older brother, coming to sit in on his lil bro's gig on his trumpet. Big Man and James have run into each other quite a bit on Frenchman Street, where Big Man will often run after his regular gig is over. We exchanged a few words with him as the elevator went down.

We had decided to give Keely her inaugural Wednesday at the Square and brought her leash and some treats, but perhaps if we had known exactly how crowded it was going to be, we might have rethought it. Wow! What a crowd! The announcer on stage thanked everyone for the "biggest first Wednesday we've ever had," and I could believe it. Keely was by no means the only dog there -- in fact, there were dogs of every possible description: teeny-tiny, middle-sized, lanky, stocky, shaggy, sleek, and giant. Keely was happy to sniff all the dogs who would let her (a few were too barky and snappy to be friendly) and in a few cases, rolled around on the ground with.

Before we had finished getting food and drinks (we both got the absolutely yummy duck po-boys with Creole cole slaw, but only Big Man got something to drink, since the alcohol lines were way too long), the charismatic young Mr. Andrews took the stage. And I do mean "took the stage" -- Trombone Shorty strides on like he owns the stage, confident, cocky even (although is it cocky if you really have the goods?), a far, far cry from the diffident, shy young man Big Man and I met at the Clifford Brown Jazz Festival in Wilmington, Delaware, in the months after Katrina. Touring with Lenny Kravitz has really given him stage presence, stage craft, and show-biz know-how. (And I say this with approval. Too many New Orleans musicians sniff at working a crowd, having a rapport with the audience, using stage craft of any kind. You can take the whole relating to the folks thing too far -- witness the antics of Jeremy Davenport, which drains the songs of all emotional impact -- but you can also be too stand-offish (Irvin Mayfield and Terence Blanchard, are you listening?). It seems to me that Shorty has the balance just right.

All of the musicians on stage with Troy were great. Big Man commented that the rhythm section were "locked into" each other, not only playing perfectly together, but even moving physically together. The two saxophonists were terrific too, and Shorty was doing a good job making sure each man had room to shine. Shorty started off the first part of the set on the 'bone, and he was breathtaking -- I mean, literally. Big Man and I found ourselves gasping at his skill, his artistry, his immense talent and musicality. At one point, someone in the crowd around us said, "I didn't know you could DO that on a trombone," and someone else replied, "Nobody else can." The way he did "American Woman" (a standard on the Lenny Kravitz set list) was just amazing. Troy called his brother on stage and James came out and did a great solo with the band.

While Keely had been a tremendous hit with the crowd -- especially among pretty young women and little kids -- between the loud music and the large number of people, she became anxious. She lay down, her ears back, and you could see she was trembling. Well, we couldn't stay where we were if Keely was in distress, so we took a walk around the Square. Big Man thought he'd get a sausage on a stick, but it was by now about 7 pm (the concerts are supposed to end at 7:30 pm) and the sausage man was sadly sold out. He told us he intended to have a larger stock next week. We headed over to another line of food booths, and Big Man dithered between the barbeque, the shrimp and grits, and the Cajun pasta. The pasta won, since it had the shortest line, but in the end, we were very happy with our choice, for the pasta was chock-full of sausage, chicken AND shrimp, and was spicy delicious besides.

Just around now, Shorty switched to his Monette trumpet and was blowing his head off. He went into an extremely cool version of "Let's Get It On" that really riled up the crowd (and me!). What a talent! Trombone, trumpet, vocals, stage presence -- Troy Andrews, AKA Trombone Shorty, has it all. We left completely satisfied (and perhaps resolving NOT to bring Miss Keely next week.)

Happy St. Joseph's Day

2010-03-20T10:59:00.004-05:00

Warm and lovely, St. Joseph's Day came once again to New Orleans and the challenge was to visit as many altars as possible. With an early-morning pastoral care issue I had to deal with that went til after 1:30 pm, Big Man and I did not get rolling until midafternoon, but we did not let that dampen our spirits.

Our first visit was within our own neighborhood: the beautiful St. Mary's Assumption Church in the Irish Channel, the historic German-Catholic church across the street from the Irish St. Alphonsus Catholic Church (in those days, Catholic congregations were usually segregated by ethnicity and/or language, even though the masses were said entirely in Latin). On our way inside, we admired the fine old brickwork. Big Man said, "One of these days, we have to take some time to do a Gorgeous Old New Orleans Church tour." We agreed that such a thing would take more than one day.

The St. Joseph altar was set up in front of the statue of St. Joseph, just as you entered at the side door of the church. It seemed to me to be smaller than previous years, but was laden with all the classic accoutrements of a traditional St. Joseph altar: stuffed artichokes, Italian breads shaped as shepherd's crooks and crosses, the Lamb of God cake covered in shredded coconut "wool." bakery-style cakes in the shape of books with a holy card on one side and "St. Joseph Pray for Us" inscribed in icing on the other, plates of Italian cookies, bottles of Italian wine, fresh fruit and greenery, vases of green palm fronds, and small bowls filled with fava beans. There were also a few localisms, such as the breads shaped like a snapping turtle and a gator. As we admired the display, one of the women by the altar admired my Italian-American medallion beads, which I caught at St. Joseph's Parade either last year or the year before. I was glad I had made sure to put them on before leaving the house.

Along the communion rail of the main altar of the church, there were plates of cucidati (wonderful iced fig cookies) and reginas (hard biscuits covered in sesame seeds), meringues, and those really hard Italian cookies that could break a tooth. Over by the door to the Blessed Father Seelos shrine, they had a table with the little brown bags of cookies adorned with holy pictures of St. Joseph. I was careful to choose a holy card of St. Joseph at work, because right now Big Man is going through a work issue. I figured a little intercession by St. Joseph the Worker might help, and certainly couldn't hurt. (I also made a petition to Blessed Father Seelos -- in for a penny, and so on.) We greeted a parishioner of mine who was coming in from the church's backyard, where the big St. Joseph's lunch was being served; it looked great, but we had already eaten. (We ate there 2 years ago and it was both cheap and fantastic. A small family of parakeets lives in one of the tall palm trees back there, and it was fun to watch them flying around.)

We strolled the church afterwards, carefully perusing each stained glass, Big Man checking out all the German names and dedications. The stained glass, the ornate ribbing and corbels and vaulting -- St. Mary's is truly impressive and inspiring, especially once you know the story of those immigrant German families banding together to raise the money and physically help build the church.

Next, we headed to the massive St. Joseph Church near Tulane and South Claiborne, that so many many cars pass by unknowingly on the interstate. After we parked, we walked around the side of the church. As we approached the front door, Big Man asked wonderingly, "This is just a church? It's not a cathedral?" I assured him it was just a parish church -- but you did have to say it had to have once been a VERY prosperous parish indeed to have erected such a behemoth. Once Inside, some nice church ladies handed us slips of paper for prayer petitions, which we filled out using golf pencils. We walked down a side aisle, enjoying the recorded music (a soprano singing hymns in Italian). It was then that I noticed that the plywood panels had been removed from the stained glass windows on the interstate-Claiborne side of the church. The last time we had been there was 2 St. Joseph's ago, so some time in that interval the post-K repairs had been completed, and all the beautiful windows were on display, the late-afternoon sunlight streaming through.

The altar was much bigger and more elaborate than at St. Mary's, with more of everything and giant floral displays and candles available for purchase on the cross-shaped table arrangement. I took a picture with my iPhone, respectfully waiting til the devout had finished their prayers kneeling at the rail. A basket big enough to hold laundry sat on the step, filled with yellow and orange prayer petitions, and we added ours to the pile. St. Joseph, pray for us!

We sat for a while in prayer in the old wooden pews, and walked slowly down the center aisle, "reading" the story of Jesus's life being told in the stained glass windows. We were a little disappointed that there were no give-away bags of cookies at this altar (but apparently there had been a luncheon by donation at the Rebuild Center directly behind the church following the Mass for St. Joseph that had been held at 12:15 pm), and to tell the truth, I had already scarfed up nearly all the cookies we got from St. Mary's. So we decided to head to Brocato's on Carrollton for serious-sized bags of St. Joseph's goodies.

It was, of course, packed at Brocato's. We ended up parking in the back lot of the brand-new Walgreen's at Canal and Carrollton and walking over. Brocato's had a tiny altar at the back of the store, up the one or two steps to the elevated portion of tables. As small as it was, it had a nice selection of goodies, and the Lamb of God coconut cake looked especially good (some people are chintzy with the coconut, but this little lamb was really lush). We waited in line, with varying degrees of patience (guess which one of us was the more patient!), to purchase our bags of cucidati and reginas while other folks got boxes of cannoli and pastries, cones of gelati, and little cups of expresso.

A young woman recognized me from my work with Interfaith Worker Justice and we talked a bit. She and her friend really didn't know much about St. Joseph's Day traditions, and the little altar there at Brocato's was the only one they had seen. I gave them the paper history I had picked up at St. Joseph's and recommended they go there.

We headed home, eating cookies pretty much the whole way. It was a miracle we got home with any left.

That evening, we had been invited to a home altar by our friend the jazz poet RC. It was to be my first time in many years seeing a St. Joseph's altar in a private home, and I was excited. The home was a raised cottage in Broadmoor, and parking was at a premium. A little boy, about 10 or so, was directing traffic, and saying, "Are you here for the altar? It's right there!" Looked like about 50 people, men, women, and children, old and young, were squeezed into the front porch, living room and dining room. The altar had three levels, the first being set as a dining area for the "holy family;" the second, slightly higher, with lots of food and candles and framed holy pictures, and then the third, quite high, about my eye level, with the largest display loaves of bread, tall candles, floral arrangements, and cakes.

The lady of the house went around lighting the candles as darkness fell, and the time came for the ritual. The priest from St. Patrick's Church downtown led us in the traditional St. Joseph's Blessing, asking a benediction on the food, the people who made it, the people who will eat it, and all those in the world who hunger and thirst for both nourishment and justice. There were lots of litanies, and then we ended with the Lord's Prayer (omitting the Protestant "kingdom, power and glory forever and ever"). After that, and several children were dressed in renditions of "Holy Land" costumes, with pieces of fabric over their heads, secured by satin ties, and tunics or sashes indicating Middle Eastern garb. The boy and girl portraying Joseph and Mary, Joseph bearing a large wooden staff, went from room to room, asking for a place to stay for the night, first knocking boldly with the staff. Twice they are turned away. Then, they knock a third time and are admitted and brought to the dining table to be fed. This ritual is known to Sicilian New Orleanians (of whom our friend RC is one) as the "tupa tupa."

The host announced that the altar food and the food in the next room was a "free for all," and the assembled crowd fell upon the food. Oh my god. There was a giant whole baked fish (I only got a small bite of that), a big stainless steel bowl of green salad with olives and cheese and pepperoni on top, containers of angel hair pasta, crawfish cream sauce, shrimp and mushroom sauce, traditional milanese sauce, eggplant parm, fried cauliflower and broccoli, casseroles of green beans covered with cheese, trays of fresh hot anchovy bread, meatless marinara sauce (called "red gravy" of course). There may have been more, I don't know, I kind of lost track. For dessert, one could have Lamb of God cake (covered, alas, in in curly white icing and NOT coconut), chocolate Bible cake, any kind of Italian cookie you wanted, and piles and piles of pignolata (the little sticky dough bits that are collected together to represent pine cones, said by the Sicilians to be poor Baby Jesus's only plaything). The host's mama, a gorgeous Italian-American woman of indeterminate age, but surely older than me, went around and begged people to eat more and to take food home. (I needed no more encouragement to pack a container for Big Man, who couldn't come due to his gig in the Quarter.). As I stumbled out, replete with food and wine, I was urged to come again next year. FOR SURE.

Later that evening, I spoke to my sister L, who had apparently taken St. Joseph's Day by storm. I thought going to 4 altars was an achievement but it was nothing compared to L. She had been to 7 or so, and had both her lunch AND dinner at different St. Joseph's altars. (Even this can be bested -- at the home altar I visited, I ran into a woman who had done a complete novena of altars, visiting *9* AND going to a Mardi Gras Indian meeting of the chiefs Uptown besides! What a dedicated trooper!)

I ended St. Joseph's Day in a food stupor on the sofa, resolving to make an organized list and follow the examples of my sister and friend, and do MORE St. Joseph's altars next year.

Two Times St. Patrick's

2010-03-17T18:49:00.005-05:00

On Saturday, the floats for the Irish Channel St. Patrick's Day Parade lined up once again in front of our house and down our street. This year, however, we were prepared and had no errands we needed to do in our cars -- which were of course blocked up. It was a gorgeous day, much prettier than last year's parade day. It was in the 70s with a clear blue sky, a light breeze -- a perfect day. The lovely weather encouraged St. Paddy's revelers toward green sundresses and kilts and shorts.

Around 12 noon, we left our house and walked the parade route, greeting the other celebrants and the folks on the floats as they prepared for their ride, nailing huge spikes to the sides of the floats to hold tons of beads, stowing bags of cabbages, carrots, and potatoes high up on the floats, and of course lubricating themselves with beer (some of it green, but lots of regular-colored stuff as well).

All of the Irish Channel social groups had floats (a few more than one), and there was a contingent of really good-looking New York City firemen (are they all that handsome??), whose presence at the New Orleans parade is a post-9/11 thing. There were two different bagpipe groups in kilts and high socks, a big red fire truck from Ionia, Louisiana, and an all-girl marching group, in Caledonian garb. Nearly everyone we saw, nearly everyone on the route, white, black, Latino, Asian, old, young, and in-between, was wearing shades of green in one form or other. Except for Big Man, who claimed he had nothing green in his closet.

A young woman on a float noticed his lack and clobbered him on the noggin with a felt hat in the shape of a giant mug of green beer. He gamely plunked it on his head. I think the hat helped him obtain our next throw, a large head of cabbage. Unlike last year, when we caught so many we were giving them away, this was our only cabbage.

We bought street burgers and sodas from a new place on Sophie Wright Place; the burgers were really good, and their menu was intriguing (lamb burgers??). Plus, they deliver! I folded up a menu and put it in the canvas bag I was using to stow our cabbage. That'll come in handy some time in the near future. We sat in little Sophie Wright Park at the base of the Alvarez statue of Miss Wright to eat and enjoyed watching all the people. An older man sat by us and asked if we were from the neighborhood and we said we were. He pointed across the Magazine Street and said, "See that pink building? I lived there when I was a kid. My dad owned a store on the first floor, and we lived on the second floor." I said I bet the house wasn't pink then, and he laughed and agreed. He no longer lives in the Channel, but always comes back for St. Paddy's. I imagine he isn't the only one.

At the Chinese grocery/buffet on the corner of Magazine and St. Andrew Streets, a group of young Asian-American women wearing green had gathered on the extension above the front, just below the roof. A few looked unsure of their footing; others were venturing near the edge to look down at the parade below. We figured they would have no trouble getting throws up there, and we were right. (When we saw them a little while later, they had solved the "will this hold our weight?" issue by sitting on the roof edge and dangling their legs and feet toward the street.)

After we had had our fill of sights and sounds and throws and food, we walked back home and found a group of Irish-themed men sitting on the stoop next door. Since the parade was hardly moving, they weren't bothering to crowd onto their rather tiny band wagon until they had to. They were drinking beers (of course) and politely disposing of their empties in our trash can. We offered them the use of our bathroom, but they said they were fine.

The Irish Channel St. Pat's Parade was close to an hour late getting started, and Magazine Street was blocked until about 6 pm. I don't think traffic got back to normal til even later. The neighborhood was jumping all right, and a good time was had by all the Irish-for-a-day.

Today, Wednesday, St. Patrick Day itself, dawned cloudy, but still our neighborhood filled up quickly with cars, lining our side the street, the other side, and both sides of the side streets. While we are approximately a mile from the ground-zero of New Orleans St. Patrick's Day, the famous Parasol's, there has developed another St. Pat's tradition of an "Irish" Fair at Annunciation Park to benefit St. Michael's School, and that is exactly in our neighborhood. Luckily for all the Irish and would-be Irish, the day warmed and cleared as time went on, all the better to celebrate in.

So from around 10 am to about 6 pm, once again we were surrounded by folks wearing green and celebrating the Day, making it two times St. Pat's.

The Guys on the Claiborne Neutral Ground

2010-03-09T17:31:00.005-06:00

It's kind of like a mystery, those guys who sit on the neutral ground in Central City, on South Claiborne near Jackson on weekends. They bring out chairs, and sometimes folding tables. (Actually, sometimes they leave the chairs there all week, waiting for the weekend.) If the weather is warmer than they expected (as on Sunday), they hang their jackets and windbreakers on the limbs of a nearby tree and lift their faces to the sun. Sometimes they are playing cards, and sometimes chess or checkers, and sometimes they are eating. Other times, they just seem to be sitting around talking, observing the passing scene.

I often wonder about them. I assume they live in the neighborhood, pretty close by. Is it a closed group? A club? Is it the same guys each time? Would they welcome newcomers? How long have they been gathering there? Is it a post-Katrina thing? Or does it pre-date the Storm?

I pass them so often that I keep getting the urge to wave. Being New Orleanians, I bet they would wave back.

Best Weather of the Year So Far

2010-03-09T17:23:00.003-06:00

An absolutely gorgeous weekend was had in the Crescent City this past Saturday and Sunday! Pure blue skies, bright sunshine, temperatures in the low 70s (yay!), and gentle breezes carrying the scent of green shoots and flowers. Just lovely.

Saturday afternoon I performed a wedding at the church, and it couldn't have been nicer outside. (In fact, it was a tad chilly inside the church building, with the masonry walls holding in the cool air. It was much warmer outside.) When the wedding party flowed outside after the recessional, and their guests pelted them with bird seed, it was so bright and beautiful, the lovely bride had to shield her eyes from the glare (and not just from the bird seed!).

Sunday was just as good. I had a church engagement out by the lake after the service, and you could see many sailboats and motor boats taking advantage of the fine weather. On my drive back home, I drove past City Park -- bright green in buds and grass, azalea bushes blooming, the new fountain on the lagoon near Carrollton blowing fine spray, making rainbows in the air. The park was crowded with couples and families and folks with their dogs, walking along the new paved path around the lagoon, enjoying the day and each other.

Of course, then it had to rain on Monday and storm on Tuesday, but Saturday and Sunday were well worth it!

Late Spring

2010-03-04T15:30:00.002-06:00

With the Northeast, the Midwest, and the Northwest still blanketed in snow and nasty cold weather, it does seem mean to brag on springtime, but there you are. To us New Orleanians, this has been an unusually cold and long winter, and even Carnival was chillier than we prefer. (Yesterday, actor Tom Hanks, in town to promote the new HBO World War II drama about the war in the Pacific, teased us that he knew when temperatures go down to the 40s in the Crescent City things shut down and people go to bed with hot water bottles. He was not far wrong.)

But today the sky is bright blue and temperatures are back where they belong for this time of year, in the 60s. The forecast for this weekend, blessedly, is for it to go up to the 70s, which is even better. That's more like it!

In bloom around New Orleans right this very minute are the Japanese magnolia trees (which started around Mardi Gras, which is late for here), camellias, forsythia, and a few early azaleas. Looking ready to burst are the tulips and daffodils and other bulbs. We look forward to seeing more and more flowers, and to breathing in the intoxicating scents.

For us, it was a long time coming, but it's Spring in the Big Easy.

Catching Up

2010-02-22T21:41:00.006-06:00

I really have to admire those bloggers who seem to be able to keep posting no matter what. Me, I easily become discombobulated by events, and end up way behind on writing updates for this blog. My hat's off to the other bloggers, and I apologize to my regular readers (most of whom know what's going on, and why I haven't been able to post lately). This omnibus post will have to serve for the bunches I missed.

The Super, Really Super Superbowl
Big Man and I had a few friends over to watch the Big Game -- my son's parain and a friend of ours from New York City. Parain R is a gigantic Saints fan, since like Year One, but our Manhattanite was a "New Dat" -- a person who is a freshly minted member of the Who Dat Nation. We had some fairly trashy but delicious snacks to eat, and good stuff to drink. We actually had re-arranged the furniture in the living room so that everyone had a good view. The three of us New Orleanians were wearing our Saints gear (I had on my new light-up Saints T-shirt that Big Man brought home from Bourbon Street -- the battery pack is something of a pain, but it's worth it, it's so flashy), but our friend from New York didn't own any Saints stuff (yet), so he was just wearing black with a gold scarf.

The game, as everyone in the universe knows by now, was totally amazing, the most watched TV show since records have been kept, and the most interesting Superbowl game ever. We screamed and hollered and hugged each other. Whether the onside kick or Tracy Porter's interception was the game changer and the point at which we knew it was over is still debatable, but it doesn't matter. We won the Superbowl!! It was unbelievable. We laughed, we cried, we called relatives and friends and laughed and cried with them. My son in Atlanta, who doesn't even LIKE football, for God's sake, texted me "OMG." We opened the front door and could hear the horns blowing on boats on the river, car horns blaring, and people all over the neighborhood screaming, and fireworks booming. We could not sit still, and since Big Man had to go to work on Bourbon Street, we hurried out of the house and into the car and into the streets with the other Saints fans.

People driving by us were waving their arms and yelling, "We won! We won!" Other people stepped out into the street and were high-fiving strangers in cars. People had tears streaming down their happy faces. Kids were packed into the backs of pick-up trucks and had their heads poking out of moon-roofs. Even though it was chilly, we rolled down our windows and joined in the general celebrating, hollering and waving our arms too. As we got closer to the Quarter, we could tell there was not going to be any on-street parking -- indeed, some people were abandoning their cars on neutral grounds and weird places -- but we managed to get into the back door of the old Orpheum Theater garage, across the street from the Roosevelt. The NOPD had already blocked off Canal Street like it was Mardi Gras, and there were thousands of Saints fans on the streets, all of them obviously and tremendously happy. (Big Man said later that he had never seen so many people that happy in public in his life.) You couldn't even GET into Bourbon Street, it was already so packed. We skirted the issue by going through the Ritz lobby and out the back door, getting to the 200 block of Bourbon, and threading our way through the whooping, ecstatic crowd -- high-fiving, hugging and kissing strangers the whole way. It was the most amazing experience, and we were still high on the Saints when Big Man got off the stage that night at 1 am -- and believe me, the streets were still full, no one wanting to leave off celebrating. I will always be glad to have been "in that number, when the Saints went marchin' in" to history.

Saints Homecoming
All regular TV programming on three channels was interrupted on the Monday after the Superbowl when the team and the coaches arrived at the New Orleans Airport. Tens of thousands of people, men, women and children of every race and culture (by the way, schools and many businesses had let out early for this) lined the route the Saints' personal cars would take on leaving the airport. Jefferson Parish police had set up barricades to hold the crowds back. People wore their Saints jerseys and T-shirts and jackets (even the media folks), and many held up home-made signs ("Bless You Boys" was common but also "Thank You Saints" as well as "Superbowl Champs").

Big Man and I sat and watched the coverage, flipping between the channels to make sure we didn't miss a thing. Some of the "minor" players stopped to talk to the media, but the headliners just smiled and waved as they headed home (poor things, they're probably sick of talking to the media). The exception was Coach Sean Payton, slowly driving his car with only one hand, as his other hand held the Lombardi trophy aloft, so the crowd could ogle it as he went by. Very, very cool -- and a harbinger of what would happen later on, as you will see. Like nearly everyone else in the city, we had tears in our eyes.

Lombardi Gras
My family made plans for all of us to go to the big Saints celebration parade. The weather was miserable -- cold, low 40s, with a nasty wind blowing, but we were determined to go and be part of it all. Jefferson and Orleans Carnival krewes had loaned floats -- THIS year's floats! -- to make up the parade, and there was going to be both military and high schools marching bands. We packed a couple of folding chairs, bundled up in layers so we all looked like Pillsbury Doughboys, and headed to Poydras Street, near where our sister D's law firm is located. Unfortunately, this was NOT a good spot, as the NOPD had decided to keep Poydras from from crowds in case they needed an emergency route. Boo-hiss. But we were packed on the sidewalk with hundreds of other dedicated Saints fans, with their kids and grandparents, and there was a party atmosphere, even more so than a regular Carnival parade.

Vendors came through the crowd, selling T-shirts and hats and "Bring the Wood" bats (Coach Payton had given every player engraved bats before the Big Game saying the same thing). There were concession stands with hot dogs and burgers and nachos -- if only there had been a hot soup or hot toddy booth they would have made a fortune. Despite our many layers of clothing, we were bloody freezing, but excited and happy. In the crowd, a rumor went around that a mere *11* people had waited to greet the Colts at their airport, and while we conceded that there had been a blizzard up there in Minnesota, we all thought that was just SAD. We all agreed that we would have been there for the Saints, even if they had lost, and even if there had been snow.

The first band in the parade was the Marine Band, and to the crowd's delight and excitement, they played "Let's Get Crunk" and just rocked out -- breaking out of formation and shaking their booties like mad! We all screamed and hollered, we couldn't believe it! When Drew Brees went by, he looked so happy, we were thrilled for him. Stuff was thrown, but we were too far back, and it didn't matter anyway, it wasn't important to catch anything, it was just being there. The Who Dat chant was of course ubiquitous -- and of course, we all joined in.

On the news that night, "Mr. Mardi Gras" Blaine Kern said that it had been the largest crowd for any parade he had ever seen in more than 60 years of parades in New Orleans. The New Orleans police estimated that approximately *800,000 people* were along the Saints parade route -- which is just about the number of the current population of the entire city of New Orleans. Believe dat!

Sean Payton in Orpheus
Coach Sean Payton was the Grand Marshal of the Orpheus Parade and of course the Lombardi trophy rode with him. As he went past Sophie Gumbel Guild, my family's favorite parade spot, he waved it at the crowd. But I learned later, that when the parade reached the part of St. Charles Avenue where the police barricades line the street, Sean stopped the parade, and, with only two security guards to walk with him, carried the trophy along the barricade, letting folks in the crowd touch it. That was emotional enough, but then he did again on *Canal Street*. I heard he told people it was "their" trophy. I got all choked up when I heard it. (I also heard that the trophy spends the night in the home of a different Saints player every night. When Big Man heard, he said he was surprised it wasn't being lent out to every household in New Orleans -- like when was OUR turn??)

Best Mardi Gras Ever
Years and years ago, Pete Fountain told reporter Rosemary James that "every Mardi Gras is the best one ever," and to us natives and afficionados, that is certainly true. But this Mardi Gras, this Superbowl Mardi Gras, really WAS the best one ever. It was certainly the happiest -- and the next day the NOPD reported that crime was down 35% from the year before, even though there were about twice the number of people in the streets. There were lots and lots of flying pigs and frozen devils from Hell being frozen over. Big Man and I counted 13 Lombardi trophies -- costumes, not props -- in the French Quarter and the Marigny, and the general Mardi Gras color scheme was black and gold instead of purple, green, and gold. (I admit that Big Man and I were a part of that.) Even the weather cooperated and was warmer than expected and the sky was bright blue and the sun shone like a blessing. I kept saying over and over, "I'm so happy, I'm so happy" and so I was -- and so was everyone else.

Saints Grinches
I just want to briefly address the few vocal Saints nay-sayers that have received a little attention in the media (letters to the editor, mass emails, blogs, etc.). There are apparently a few individuals who have been saying publicly nasty things about Tom Benson and company being greedy and holding the city over a barrel, and that the Superbowl was "only a football game" and that the win and the euphoria over it will be short-lived, and not mean anything in the larger scheme of things in the life of the city -- that it will have no real effect on the recovery or on race relations or on anything important.

I hope that no one who knows me and the work I have participated in for various social justice causes for the past 30-odd years will find cause to fault me. But these remarks show a complete misunderstanding of what the Saints win has done for the people of the city, for our sense of ourselves, for our hope and expectations of the future. For nearly everyone, the feeling is, If this can happen, anything is possible. This is not to be despised. There is also an undeniable positive effect on the way the rest of the country perceives the city, and this too, should not be underestimated.

Finally, publicly disparaging the Saints and the Superbowl euphoria is elitist. It's saying that while the great unwashed masses are stupid and easily fooled by something worthless like football, these hoity-toity know-it-alls are the ones who REALLY know what's going on. It's bull***t, and mean.

There really is a better, more hopeful feeling in the city. It really does mean something. I, for one, am very very glad to join in the rejoicing and the happiness. It's up to us to make it last, and to make it mean even more. But I won't let those grinches steal our joy and hope.

When Pigs Fly

2010-01-29T15:32:00.005-06:00

It is very hard to describe the feeling in the city after the Saints amazing-spectacular-historic win over the Vikings on Sunday. I was stuck out of town on personal business of an extremely sad nature, and yet I too was totally swept up in the moment. There I was, up in my hotel room in a distant state, screaming at the top of my lungs, pounding the furniture, and quite bawling into the phone to Big Man. I had been calling my sisters and him for every score and every turnover, but when the Big Moment happened, as Hartley's kick went through the goalposts, you simply could not call the 504 area code. A recording came on, saying, "All circuits are busy -- please try your call again later." Luckily, since Big Man and I are still using the New Jersey cell numbers, we were still able to reach each other.

Big Man stepped out on our porch and held his phone out into the air for me to hear the shouting and singing, the fireworks, the music. Later, he said he drove around the city with our dog Keely, just to experience the city-wide euphoria. I was sorry to have missed it, but was glad to have the first-hand reports.

On Monday, the T-P's NOLA.com website reported the fears of a family in New Orleans whose patriarch had always declared he didn't want to die until he saw a black man be president and the Saints go to the Superbowl. The family was now worried that their Paw-Paw had nothing to live for.

On my return to New Orleans, I was told by a friend that her son had left her house on Sunday before the game ended to drive across the river for some errand or appointment. (One wonders how important this engagement could have been to have pulled him from the TV set with the game still on!) He phoned the house from the Crescent City Connection, saying, "Traffic is at a standstill; I'm just sitting here." Turns out when the folks heard the end of the game broadcast, they just put their cars into "park" and jumped out onto the Bridge, hugging strangers, screaming, crying, laughing, dancing between the cars. I picture this in my imagination and I want to cry.

Houses and businesses all over the city are decorated in black and gold, with giant sparkly fleur de lis and home-made signs in support of "Our Saints." Sacred Heart School moved their Saints sign from the fence to the building proper: "We [Sacred Heart logo] Our Saints." Sportcasters and newscasters continue to refer to Our Saints, the definitive article apparently tossed aside for the duration. A house on Earhart is totally covered in Saints decorations, with a 6-foot fleur de lis on the roof (one pictures the homeowner carefully climbing up to install this emblem of his devotion.)

On Tuesday night, or rather, early Wednesday morning, Big Man was walking to his vehicle after playing his usual gig on Bourbon Street, and spotted 3 drunken young people (2 young men and a young woman), apparently from their looks, Arab-Americans, weaving down the street, their arms around each other's shoulders. They were grinning ear to ear, and every now and then as they stumbled around, they stopped, threw their heads back and hollered in unison, with thick accents, "Whoo dah? Whoo dah?" Who Dat Nation embraces all races, all classes, all ethnicities.

On Friday the wondrous Julie Posner did her usual Friday thing on WWOZ, and couldn't stop burbling excitedly about the Saints. "The Superbowl isn't even important -- this is a dream come true, just like this!"

The parade on Sunday afternoon to honor both the Saints and the late-great local sportcaster Buddy DiLiberto drew over 10,000 fans, with nearly all the men donning dresses for the occasion. (Buddy D once swore that if the Saints ever made it to the Superbowl, he would wear a dress down Poydras Avenue.) Seemed like ALL of the paraders and parade-goers ended up on Bourbon Street afterwards, forcing all of the music venues into repeated choruses of "The Saints" and the sacred "Who Dat?" chant all night long.

On a house near my church, the pink cement pigs in front, which are always trimmed or decorated according to the season, are now sporting pink glitter wings. On a similarly trimmed house in our neighborhood, the pigs wear Saints helmets, black satin capes, and bright shiny gold wings.

The Farthest We've Ever Been

2010-01-18T09:50:00.002-06:00

Who Dat Nation continues to celebrate after the Saints' spectacular win over the much-touted Cardinals in the Dome on Saturday. Moving on to a championship play-off game has never happened in all of franchise history, so the fans and the players are totally psyched. (Although former Saints quarterback -- and famous crybaby -- Bobby Hebert pointed out before the game that current Saints players weren't even born or were mere infants back when the Saints were a reliably bad team, always, as one wag said, "Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory," so maybe they don't feel the press of past history the way the fans do.)

Throughout the city in the days before the game, the sense of excitement and anticipation was nearly palpable. Sacred Heart, a costly Catholic private schools for girls on St. Charles Avenue, had apparently declared Friday Saints Day, and the schoolyard was filled at recess with little-bitty white girls in black and gold jerseys. (I assume the teachers were similarly attired.) Grocery shopping and gas getting on Saturday early afternoon was a madhouse scene, stores and gas stations being PACKED with all the folks who were going to desert the streets at exactly 3:30 pm. (The Times-Picayune reported that crime drops in New Orleans during Saints games, because even thugs and gang-bangers are plunked in front of their TV sets for the duration.) Nearly every person we saw was sporting Saints attire, as I was. (Big Man was saving his for the gig Saturday night; he said it felt weird NOT to be wearing something Saints, like he was naked in public or something.)

In the Dome on Saturday, it was like Mardi Gras came early. Judging from the TV coverage on several channels (stations that didn't have the right to broadcast the game aired everything that happened beforehand, outside the Dome), fans NOT wearing costumes were vastly outnumbered by those who did. There were nuns and clowns and skeletons and Vodou orishas. There were men with painted faces, painted bald (or shaved?) heads, and painted chests. There were wigs galore on both sexes, and there mustn't have been a feather boa left anywhere in the Quarter. Lots of home-made hats -- towering fleur de lis, top hats, dome hats, football hats. (I expect that folks seated behind the hat-wearers at some point must have politely requested the hat to be set aside.) Black and gold sequins sparkled in every camera shot, and there were tons of home-made signs. "No place like Dome." "This house believes." "Going to Miami." "Cardinal gumbo." And on and on.

That first touchdown by the Cards in the first damn play of the game was a stunner, and caused many hearts to flutter with something like doubt. But the way the Saints came roaring back and completely dominated the game, made Big Man say that maybe they LET the Cardinals have that first one in order to build up momentum. I dunno. But it was a wonderful game -- and the fans went wild. Many of us, even at home, were hoarse from screaming afterwards. In sports reports, the anchors and sportscasters were calling the team "Our Saints" over and over and never just "the Saints."

The TV stations interviewed as many members of the Who Dat Nation as they could grab. There was the requisite amounts of "Woo-hoo"ing and hollering, but some of the quotes were really, really poignant. One man choked up when he spoke of going to Saints games in Tulane stadium with his father, now deceased, and how much this win would've meant to his dad. One fan was asked what would happen if the Saints won the Superbowl and the answer brought tears to my eyes.

"If we win the Superbowl, the city will double in size!" "Why?' asked the reporter. "Because then everyone from New Orleans will come home."

If the Saints win the Superbowl, we will all come home. May it be so.

The Cold

2010-01-12T15:48:00.002-06:00

On my gosh but it's been cold. Temperatures have been as low as 28 degrees, with wind chill factors bringing it to the teens. Can't put Keely our dog in the yard for more than 5 minutes at a time, and she really makes short shrift of walks in Annunciation Park. No matter how many layers you have on, some part of our body is not covered up enough, and breathing is actually painful. Puddles end up shattered, with shards of ice sticking up like broken glass. Many people have had their water pipes freeze, and some burst. Almost everyone else is letting their taps drip, so there's almost no water pressure. The homeless are at risk, as are poor folks who try to use unsafe space heaters or even their stoves for warmth.

At our house, the central heat is working well, however, since the vents are up in the ceiling, the second floor stays cozy even with the heat OFF, while the first floor is probably comfortable if you could get yourself up into the 12th and 13th feet of the room. In other words, the thermostat can say 68-70 degrees, but down where you are, on the floor or the couch, it's A LOT colder than that. (Even though my siblings laughed when I got the Snuggie in the family Christmas gift exchange, I was darn glad to have it. But I need to find a way to fasten it at the back of my neck -- I don't like the draft.)

On Friday, I attended a party at a parishioner's house and the cold was brutal, just walking to and from the car. To my utter surprise, when I was leaving, I discovered a young black man sitting on the porch next door, practicing scales on his trombone! (Maybe his mama or someone forbade him blowing it in the house, I don't know.) I couldn't believe this young man was putting his lips and tongue in that cold metal mouthpiece in that awful freezing cold! What dedication! I hope he didn't hurt himself or anything.

Thank god it finally warmed up this week!

Phunny Phorty Phellows Returns to St. Charles!

2010-01-12T15:22:00.003-06:00

I'm late reporting on the annual ride of the first-to-roll Carnival krewe, the Phunny Phorty Phellows, which by tradition is held on the night of Epiphany, January 6th, also known around here as the first day of the Carnival season. (I'm late because Big Man took the laptop with him to New Jersey, and I'm used to posting these from home using the laptop. Not a good excuse, I know.)

The PPP are a revival of an older organization from the late 19th century that went defunct at some point and were reborn in the early 1980s. Their deal is pretty simple. A group of costumed revelers meet at the streetcar barn, drink and eat kingcake. Whoever gets the baby is the "Boss" of the evening, their name for their "king." Then, along with their trusty brass band -- it's been the Storyville Stompers for some years now -- they all pile into a decorated streetcar and ride the streetcar line, throwing beads and stuff to whoever's on the street. Afterwards, the group repairs to their "bal masque" for some hard partying. (This year's ball was to be held at the new Rock'n'Bowl with Benny Grunch and the Bunch for your listening and dancing -- and laughing -- pleasure.)

Last year, in a driving rain, the PPP had their gathering in the Canal Street barn, since the St. Charles streetcar was not yet back post-Katrina. (You can read all about it in my post from back then.) But this year, they were back where they belong, in the Willow Street streetcar barn, across from the Carrollton Station bar (which, as you might expect, does a brisk business).

It was really, really COLD on January 6th -- in fact, we were in the middle of this hard-core winter freeze that had gripped the whole country. New Orleans was actually below freezing for several days in a row, which, as you might imagine, we're not equipped for. The good folks of the Phunny Phorty Phellows were game, however, and most had on layers *under* their costumes, so as not to spoil the effect. (A few had had to put coats on on top of their costumes, which marred the look.) A much bigger crowd than last year's was there to see them off, including goth young people, families with young children, older folks, and much media. Despite the cold, everyone was in a terrific mood. There was much kissing and wishing of "Happy Carnival" and even "Happy Mardi Gras" (I know, I know, too early, but the distinction seems to be getting lost).

Many in the crowd, like my sister and brother-in-law and I, had fortified themselves with adult beverages from Carrollton Station before braving the cold. Folks huddled in clumps for warmth, and to gossip. The mayor was there to see the PPP off and to officially proclaim the beginning of Carnival. (Gee, we've never needed his say-so before and where was he last year?) Most folks politely declined, in the spirit of Carnival, to boo him, but a few people could not resist.

The proclamation done, and with the band's fanfare, the PPP folks filed onto their streetcar -- there was a proctor at the door to make sure everyone had a costume on -- packed themselves in tight, and, with the cheers and waves of the crowd, they were off. It was reported later that St. Charles Avenue was lined with a bigger-than-normal crowd of well-wishers and parade-goers, a good sign for the parades to come. I managed to score a necklace of giant beads in the traditional purple, green and gold, so I was happy.

Later, at a nearby BBQ restaurant on Oak (Squeal -- we recommend it), the Mayor and his bodyguard came in to pick up their take-out dinners. He was surrounded by people who wanted to shake his hand or take his picture with their cellphones. I felt the Mayor was lucky that Big Man was out of town, or he might've ended up with a piece of Big Man's mind.

Despite the weather, a good start to Carnival 2010.

Believing

2009-12-17T12:31:00.002-06:00

Yes, it's the Christmas season and you'd expect -- if you were anywhere else -- that signs posted around town saying, "I Believe" or simply "Believe" would refer to Christianity or to a literal faith in the Biblical nativity story. Anywhere but here, that is.

"Believing" in New Orleans right now refers strictly to a deeply held faith in the Saints perfect season. It means believing with all your heart that the Bless You Boys will beat Dallas on Saturday, and more than that, will go on to win in the playoffs and end up as Superbowl winners. If faith is "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen," then what New Orleanians of all classes and colors have right now is true and authentic faith.

Religion is supposed to be a uniting force in society, and it is sad how often it is not. You can't imagine how this Saints-faith has brought us all together. Our beloved quarterback, Drew Brees, has been selected to rule over the Bacchus Parade on the Sunday after Superbowl -- picture the pandemonium in the streets! Many houses have Saints-themed Christmas decorations. My personal compromise: our house has Christmas lights and wreaths and mistletoe -- and a gold and black fleur de lis flag. The drug dealers on the corner (OK, I can't prove it, and they're perfectly nice to us) have a glittery gold and black wreath on their door. A swanky maternity dress shop in Old Metairie had a pregnant mannequin outside sporting a black Saints-themed baby-bump hoodie -- and a sign on the door proclaiming "13-0 Woo-hoo!" At my bank this morning, a car in the parking lot had a preprinted sign saying "14-0" -- although many around here would disapprove of counting our winnings before they hatch. (Superstitions abound -- some folks refer cryptically to the "S Bowl.")

With our shared faith in the Saints, and our renewed pride in our city and ourselves, it feels like we can do anything we put our minds to. It's a welcome and much-needed feeling this still-battered and bruised and not-fully-recovered city. What a wonderful Christmas season -- what longed-for gifts!

Love and gratitude to the Bless You Boys for all of this good feeling and unity.

Teddy Bear Tea at the Roosevelt

2009-12-14T17:26:00.003-06:00

Big Man got an unusual gig this holiday season -- he's portraying the Toy Soldier who plays the herald trumpet for Santa, Mrs. Claus, the Christmas Elf, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and the Snow Fairy at the re-established Teddy Bear Tea in a beautiful ballroom at the Roosevelt. In a revived tradition from pre-Katrina, every weekend leading up to Christmas, beautifully dressed and generally well-behaved little children, accompanied by parents and doting grandparents, make reservations to sit at round tables in the gorgeously decorated ballroom -- white trees glowing with white lights, the arched ceiling glowing with blue lights interspersed with giant dangling snowflake chandeliers, the "Santa house" at the stage made to look like gingerbread and candy -- to nibble at little cucumber sandwiches, ham and cheese sandwiches, and various sweets, all served with hot tea and coffee for the adults and hot chocolate for the kiddies. Each child leaves with a teddy bear (and possibly a stuffed crawfish or alligator if the accompanying adult has trouble saying "no").

There's a brief musical program, with Big Man blowing Christmas songs on the trumpet, and then the characters make the rounds of the guests, meeting and greeting, and of course there's photo ops with Santa. (Santa told me a lot of the children slid right off his lap, due to the satin and taffeta and other slick fabrics of their holiday finery.) During the table visits by the other characters, Big Man takes a break, since, quite frankly, kids are not lining up to get their picture taken with the Toy Soldier and his herald trumpet.

When the program is nearing the end, they bring Big Man back in, with all the characters except Santa (who's *always* swamped with kids, either taking pictures or just trying to tell him what they want for Christmas), and they all do a big Christmas secondline all around the ballroom, Big Man leading the characters in a little parade of Christmas songs, the kids following behind, waving their red napkins in the air. (Only in New Orleans!)

When the whole thing is over, the characters -- including Big Man in his Toy Soldier guise -- line up to form a "receiving line" as everyone leaves, and it's touching to see the little ones give big hugs and pose with their favorites. (A few even squeezed Big Man and stood for pictures with him! It was sweet.) Later, the Roosevelt's lobby was crowded with holiday-dressed children clutching teddy bears.

If you're a New Orleans-area parent or grandparent of a child older than 2 (the younger ones found Rudolph and his light-up red nose frightening and cried) and younger than 10 (any older than that and they'll just roll their eyes at you if you suggest it), then we recommend the Teddy Bear Tea to you. And be sure to say hello to that large Toy Soldier with the horn.

Too Funny

2009-12-09T15:27:00.002-06:00

Last Sunday, the Saints played a cliff-hanger game against the Washington Redskins (horrible team name, they should change it), and the whole city paused to watch in wonder. There was hardly a car on the streets from about 12:30 to 4-ish pm. It seemed everyone in the city was glued to some means of following the game -- no matter what else they had to do that day.

I understand through letters to the editor to the Times-Picayune, that Sunday Brunch at quiet, staid, traditional Galatoire's Restaurant was punctuated by waiters bearing sweating sterling silver pitchers of ice water to the tables, reporting to the well-dressed and well-heeled customers on the game scores from the radios blaring back in the kitchen.

That's amusing enough, but the capper was finding out that folks attending the matinée of "The Color Purple" at the Mahalia Jackson Theater of the Performing Arts in Louis Armstrong Park were entertained during intermission by a TV set turned to the Saints game in the theater lobby.

Yes, but then both the play AND the game resumed. Theatergoers reported later that the darkened auditorium was strangely lit up in places by the Saints fans continuing to check their cell phones and Blackberries for text messages about the game's progress.

And then in about the 4th act of the play, the actors were startled and the play halted as news quickly spread through the theater that the Saints had won a squeaker, 33-30, in overtime play, and had won their division. There was actually 2 minutes of applause and cheering that had absolutely nothing to do with the play, and the actors onstage had to wait til the fans subsided (somewhat) in order to finish the play.

Turns out that one Metairie Carnival organization has announced that they are canceling their parade for Superbowl Sunday, and the annual so-called "Family Gras" on Veterans Highway (yeah, like Carnival in the city *isn't* for families -- I hate that) has likewise been canceled for 2010. One blogger to the NOLA.com site has already complained they doing that might actually jinx things.

How "Who-Dat" is that?? Now that we're Division Champs, God help us all if the Saints actually do get to the S--------. (Yeah, I'm THAT superstitious!)

Christmas at the Roosevelt

2009-12-07T10:08:00.002-06:00

Last week, my sister D and I made trip after work to go visit the newly unveiled Christmas decorations at the Roosevelt Hotel. Of course, no New Orleanian can do this without remembering and thinking about the old decorations, back in the day, of the whole block-long lobby draped in fluffy angel hair (and don't even start telling me that you can't use angel hair any more due to safety concerns). So that memory -- or those memories -- were in our minds as we parked the car, walked past the poor sad still-shuttered Orpheum Theater and went through the big brass revolving door of the Roosevelt. Entering, we joined the throngs of people strolling through the lobby -- some were natives like us, reliving their happy holiday memories, and others were tourists pulling wheelie bags, just checking in.

It WAS lovely. All the way down the block of the lobby, you could see the massed bare white branches of tall trees set in urns lit with tiny white lights and hung sparingly with elegant oversized ornaments in clear and iridescent glass and medium-sized flocked trees. It made quite a sight. It was festive and sophisticated, VERY "New York" as one woman said to us. Which I guess is appropriate, since the Roosevelt is owned by the Waldorf-Astoria. I liked it, I did, but it was like the present decorations were laid over the ones I remembered, like a memory scrim. Strange feeling, seeing them both at the same time.

A pretty large Christmas train set made with candy and icing and gingerbread was set up in the new Coffee Shop in the Roosevelt's lobby (the old Fairmont Court location -- I still can't get used to seeing it so bright and white). It looked charming and delicious, and while it was not as impressive as the life-sized gingerbread village that used to be part of the old Roosevelt decorations, it was enjoyable and sweet.

D and I walked the whole length of the lobby, admiring the ornaments and trying hard to appreciate what we had instead of missing what was gone (ah, this is the lot of New Orleanians from now on!). D had never been in the new gift shop and we went in and scouted the merch. D was impressed, as Big Man and I had been earlier, by the breadth and quality of the goods offered, and by the reasonable prices. D and I found many great items that fit the Morel Family Christmas gift limit ($15-$20). D showed me a new book by localite Peggy Scott Laborde called "Christmas in New Orleans" which has photos and text about everything we remember: the department store windows and Santa areas, the Centanni house, Mr. Bingle, and all the rest. THAT is going on my Christmas list, f'sure!

Afterwards, we went into the new John Besh restaurant in the old Baily's location, now called Domenica, and sat at the bar to have a glass of wine and peruse the menu. (No way I could eat -- it was the same day as the regional ministers' annual holiday lunch at Commander's Palace, and I couldn't have eaten again if it had been FREE!) Great items on the menu, and there were options for either large or small plates -- terrific innovation and more restaurants should do it. The decor of the restaurant reminded me of Steven Starr restaurants in Philadelphia -- spare and elegant, with sheer curtains made of chain metal and single high-tech spotlights over tables, each with a wineglass full of tall skinny bread sticks. (D ate one and pronounced it very good, but I couldn't even take a bite.)

As we left, I remembered the lovely Christmas decoration at the Ritz Hotel, in the old Maison Blanche building, and I promised D we would do that on another night. More later on Christmas in New Orleans....

10-0, 'Nuff Said

2009-11-23T11:22:00.004-06:00

We are all nuts over the Saints. None of us can really believe this fantastic winning season -- we're on Cloud 9. We hardly know what to do with ourselves.

On Saturday, a woman from New Orleans called into the "Wait-Wait, Don't tell Me" radio game show on NPR, and after she identified her hometown, the audience applauded -- not something I remember happening regularly -- and the host asked solicitously, "How are things there now?" And the woman burbled, "Things are wonderful! The Saints are 9-0!" The studio audience went crazy laughing and one of the panelists, Paula Poundstone, asked in an unbelievable tone, "You've got levee worries, and you're not finished recovering from a major disaster, but things are great because your football team is winning??" The woman from New Orleans was not fazed one bit, and replied back brightly, "Oh yes, we love our boys!"

We do love our boys. Big Man and I ate in a hibachi restaurant on St. Charles Avenue (Myako, go, we recommend it) last Sunday night, with a table full of strangers, and we all got to talking about the Saints, and one person had to download the touchdown song they play at the Dome (for some weird reason, it's an Atlanta hip-hop song called "Let's Get Crunk") and then we all together were making the beat sound ("ernt-ernt") of that ubiquitous song. Pretty soon, we were passing plates around and urging each other to eat off our plates. It's the Saints -- they're pulling us all together.

Quarterback Drew Brees has become a kind of secular saint to us. The Times-Picayune had a front-page story recently about how Brees was visiting a little local girl sick of a serious disease, and how he and his wife's foundation have given away tons of money to a New Orleans public school. My niece E forwarded us an email showing a picture of an altered icon, turning Jesus's image into Drew's (it was called "Bree-sus" and while sacrilegious, it WAS funny). Another relative forwarded an email joke about how God is a Saints fan. (What's wrong with that? we want to know.)

If you are not from here, you too might find it all hard to believe. But Drew Brees and the Saints have given us something to cheer about weekly, excellence to applaud, and have renewed our bruised civic pride. With all we have to deal with -- and believe you me, it really is A LOT, still -- the Saints have brightened up our prospects and united the whole damn city in a frenzy of hopeful Saints-mania. People who hate professional football have caught the fever -- Big Man said seriously to me the other day (when we were "only" 8-0, mind you), "We need to go get some Saints jerseys." "Why?" I asked. It's not like we have Saints tickets or go to a bar or something; we watch the games at home, usually just the two of us. "We need jerseys to watch the games *at home*," Big Man said, totally deadpan and serious. (On Sundays, he's taken to saying, "Who dat!" to strangers on the street when he's walking the dog.) My sister L's husband, who's from England and doesn't even *understand* American football, is now a big Saints fan -- that's how it's gotten.

It's an amazing feeling. Thank you, Saints, and Sean Payton and Drew Brees and Gary Shockey and Darren Sharper, and all the rest of the "Bless You Boys" for what you're doing for us, and how you're making us feel.

[PS: We went to Academy to, yes, buy Saints apparel to watch the games in, and an employee told us they had completely sold out of Saints T-shirts and jerseys the Friday before the game. What we were looking at on Monday was the reorder, just delivered. In the same way that Academy moves hurricane supplies up to the front of the store when a storm is in the Gulf, they had moved all the Saints merch up by the door and there was a big crowd of New Orleanians picking over the goods.]

[PPS: Big Man says that for Monday's game, we have to put on our new shirts and go to a bar to watch the game. The man's in *AA* for pete's sake! But we got to have the communal experience.]

Relighting the Saenger

2009-11-02T10:59:00.003-06:00

Earlier in the week, the Times-Picayune announced that on Thursday, October 29 (I'm a little late posting this), the marquee lights of the Saenger would be relit for the first time since Katrina. Although for years now I had been been mourning the Saenger every time I went by it, thinking that nothing had been done since the Storm, it turns out, according to the article, that a consortium of developers (with experience restoring historic old theaters) have been toiling behind the scenes. The T-P reported that on Thursday, the public would be invited to see the long hallway into the theater, with displays of photos of the Saenger in the past and plans for its glorious future. I was SO excited!

My sister L was in Texas last week, but my sister D was in town. Like all of us, and our parents before us, she is a big theater buff and had been to plays at the Saenger many times. When I told her about the story, she got excited too, and we made plans to go. In the intervening days, there were more stories in the T-P, about a VIP-only reception actually *inside* the Saenger, but it seemed like even us peons would be able to see *something* and there would be the ceremonial lighting of the marquee. All well worth it.

I picked up D in the CBD after work on Thursday and we drove to the old parking garage on Rampart, that used to be called "Blaise's" and was a favorite parking spot for our dad on family outings, especially at Mardi Gras. We paid the fee and parked, talking all the while about our father and all the times we remembered parking there in the past, sitting in the old Waiting Room (now apparently an office) for our car to be brought down by the parking attendants. (There are no parking attendants nowadays -- you have to park your own car and go and get it afterwards.)

As we walked over to the Saenger, we could see police barricades, blocking off the area around the Saenger, and acting as security. We talked about our memories of the Saenger, and pointed out things on the outside -- the old poster boxes that used to advertise coming attractions, the faded, elaborate terra cotta decorations around the windows and boarded-up doorways. We rounded the corner at Rampart and Canal, and could see that the barricades were moved out in front to part of Canal Street. We moved closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the inside of the theater.

D and I got the front, and a policeman gestured toward us, pointing to where the barricades had an opening. We looked at each other and grinned. (D even pointed to herself, as if asking, "Me? You mean me?") We passed through the opening, thanked the policeman, and entered the long arcade hallway of the front entrance of the Saenger for the first time in more than 4 years. We nearly pinched each other in excitement. Lights had been set up, and there were many displays of the Saenger as it was being built, back in 1927, its grand opening, and high points in its life as a theater hub in New Orleans. (We were especially moved by a photo of a benefit for victims of Hurricane Betsy back in 1965.) We could see at the very end of the hallway, just in front of the old escalator by the double bars, tables had been set up to check IDs of the people invited to the special private reception. (Indeed, while we were watching, New Orleans socialite Mickey Easterling went past us, entering the VIP area.)

But there was so much to see and we were so very happy to be there that it didn't bother us that much to be left out. We wandered around, checking out all the pictures showing the plans for restoring the Saenger to its former glory, and we were very happy. Just then, an old friend of mine (27-odd years ago, we had been pregnant at the same time with our sons) who works for the Mayor's Office came past and I reintroduced her to my sister. D recalled an early toddler birthday party for our sons, during which a friend of mine had asked who was the older sister (I am, by 5 years), and how outdone D had been that it wasn't *obvious* that she was the younger of us two. My old friend laughed and allowed as how she could very well have been the one who committed the age faux pas back then. As J walked away from us to head into the reception, we made a little joke about being "peons" who were just enjoying being in the hall.

D and I went back to examining the photos and captions, when suddenly J came back to us, pulling us by the hands. As we got to the table by the entrance to the VIP reception, J said, "They're with me" and just like that, we were in! A smiling waiter came by with wines and champagne, and we both took glasses, and toasted this amazing good fortune. Sipping at our glasses, we entered the main theater area of the Saenger, where most of the crowd had gathered.

The seats had been removed, and we were contained in a particular area, not that far our from under the upper loges above us. Special lights had been set up and aimed at the small parts of the gorgeous theater that had been cleaned, stripped, and repainted in the manner of its 1927 opening. D and I were almost overcome; our eyes filled with tears. D pointed to the approximate spot where she and Daddy had attended their last play together. We stared at the damaged but still magnificent Mighty Morton Wonder Organ, and recalled the times we had seen it rise majestically out of the floor, its full and dramatic tones filling the auditorium. Around us were the damaged statues and fountains and facades of the "Spanish village" of the Saenger auditorium, following an early 20th-century style of creating the illusion of the audience being in the open air of a village in another country.

We looked up and in the dark blue ceiling we could see the empty place where light bulbs had portrayed constellations of stars. We heard someone talking about how the stars would be reinstalled, this time in LED lights. We wondered aloud about the old cloud machine, but could not hear anyone talking about fixing that. We admired the small sections that had been repainted, and agreed that the new-old colors would be much, much more elegant and beautiful.

Waitresses from a catering company passed among the chattering crowd, with hors d'oevres like stuffed eggplant, boiled shrimp, fried shrimp, fancy cold cuts on a stick, cheese and crackers, and cut pieces of muffalettas sandwiches. Everything was delicious. We definitely felt like VIPs and we VERY glad both of us had dressed up a little for work that day, so that we did not stand out from the invited crowd as underdressed.

Big Man finally joined us and got a chance to finally see the inside of the Saenger, albeit in its unfinished, damaged state. But he could easily see its beauty and was mightily impressed. A few minutes after Big Man got there, a small jazz band struck up some second-line music and the crowd moved slowly down the arcade hallway to outside under the marquee, where quite crowd had grown on the outside of the barricades. After interminable and mostly boring speeches from the developers and various politicians, including several members of the City Council and the Mayor, the switch was pulled and the white bulbs lit up, chasing each other round and round the letters of S-A-E-N-G-E-R and the underneath. The crowd cheered, some sniffled, and many waved handkerchiefs.

It was a wonderful night, and we all look forward to reopening of the Saenger some time in 2011.

How Many Festivals Can You Do in One Weekend?

2009-10-27T15:02:00.004-05:00

Your mileage may vary, as the saying goes, but here's what Big Man and I were able to squeeze into last weekend:

Bouligny Blues Festival at the corner of Napoleon and Magazine (my old neighborhood, back when my son was little) -- great music (Joe Krown was on while we were there); some choice crafts, fun children's play area, and terrific food. (Special props to Nirvana, which brought the saag paneer, one of our all-time fave Indian dishes and to Boucherie, whose 12-hour roast beef with horseradish creme and pickled red onions po' boy with *perfect* French fries. Are you hungry yet?)

Attended one of 4, count'em 4, wedding receptions in City Park. Ours was at the Casino, on the second floor, where we witnessed a pink explosion of a sunset, like a Hollywood production. Envied the folks taking a last-minute paddle-boat ride through the park's lagoons (and my family of origin better be scheduling that promised paddle-boat race SOON!) while enjoying giant boiled shrimp, tiny tasty muffalettas, chunks of grilled fresh tuna, perfectly fried shrimp, and crawfish sardou (VERY nice take on a New Orleans breakfast favorite from Breakfast at Brennan's).

Two parades to celebrate Halloween, one of which, Krewe of Boo, is sponsored by Blaine Kern (the self-styled "Mr. Mardi Gras") and winds its way through downtown eventually to the new Kern Mardi Gras World a few blocks from my house. Gigantic floats with skulls and witches and ghouls and goblins and vampires, all in the signature big-figure Kern style, familiar from his carnival floats. Great stuff, could practically see it without leaving my block.

Coliseum Square Festival, in the afore-mentioned park, a small affair on Sunday with only a few food booths and the traveling gelato wagon, and a bunch of crafts, including Baba Blankets. Lots of dog owners and dogs -- our Keely had a grand time running and sniffing and being sniffed. (Keely is such a big hit with the ladies that I told Big Man he could have used our dog back when he was single. He allowed as how he hadn't actually needed a cute dog to meet women back in the day, so there.)

The Boo Carré in the French Market, also on Sunday. Really, really enjoyed Amanda Shaw and what seemed to be an abbreviated version of the Cute Guys. For Halloween, she was sporting little black feline ears and a long furry tail with her well-fitting jeans and black high heels. (I looked at Big Man, looking at her, and he said, "Just don't say it.") A very appreciative crowd was stationed in front and the sides of the stage. (The noise got to Keely a little, so we had to move away a bit. Have to get her more used to loud music.) The Boo Carré was a terrific, family-friendly event, with kids going form booth to booth, trick or treating, and there was face painting and pumpkin carving too. New French Market restaurant, Galvez (in honor of our Spanish governor) was selling a delicious refreshing sangria, which I enjoyed very much. (Funny thing: a new vendor in the Market advertised herself as a healthy, low-fat, alternative for New Orleans-traditional cooking, but the triple-chocolate brownies on her counter, she admitted, were NOT in that category. Too bad.)

)!( )!( )!(

Fall festival season is upon us, and every weekend from now on til cold weather will be an exercise in decision-making. Have fun, y'all!

Finally, Fall

2009-10-22T10:39:00.002-05:00

Ever since I was a little girl growing up in the New Orleans suburb of Chalmette, I associated the turn of the weather to relatively cooler temperatures in the fall as my "birthday weather" (my birthday coming close to the end of September). This year, however, there was no birthday weather -- it was just as hot and humid through the month of September as it had been in August.

This unhappy trend continued into October. The air conditioners ran like crazy (oh, the Entergy bills!!) at our house straight up to Thursday, October 15th. Everyone in the city complained and moaned and kvetched about the heat, and why oh why couldn't fall come (or at least what passes for fall in the Crescent City).

Then the rains came on Thursday evening -- great booming thunderstorms, shimmering lightening, pouring sheets of rainwater, clogging drains and flooding some streets. And Friday morning came, and with it, bright blue skies and temperatures in the 60s. Oh my gosh! New Orleanians dug into the back of closets and the bottoms of drawers and in underbed storage boxes, and pulled out sweaters and jackets (in many case, far in excess of what the weather actually called for!), and went around that day reeking of mothballs.

It's finally fall! Folks around here were overjoyed. Late on Friday afternoon, wanting to give some out of town guests a good view of the river, I drove to The Fly and was surprised to see (although I really *shouldn't* have been surprised) the parking spaces packed, and the grassy areas crowded with young people from the uptown university campuses and young families with little kids. The Mississippi River was choppy with the brisk cool breeze ruffling the surface, and sparkling in the fall sunshine. The sky was perfectly dark blue, arching over us like a dome. It was gorgeous.

This weather made attendance at the Blues & Barbecue Festival at Lafayette Square on Saturday and Sunday swell even more, and once again, New Orleans folks were sporting their fall finery (leather jackets and wool sweaters and corduroy pants) even though it must've been uncomfortably hot for some of them. (By the way, the B&B Fest was our dog Keely's first experience of a New Orleans festival and she was very, very good. We rewarded her with just a smidgen of beef and the opportunity to lick the bowl from my creme brulee gelato. I think she was pretty happy with the overall experience, although the cold from the gelato gave her pause.)

The wonderful weather lasted until October 21, when it warmed up some, but not like it had been before. Fall has finally arrived in the Crescent City, and we love it.

J'Anita's on the Avenue

2009-10-07T10:56:00.005-05:00

It had been some time since we ate at J'Anita's "new" location on St. Charles Avenue. ("New" is a relative term in New Orleans. It can take years for folks here to accept a new location. I myself am still calling Howlin' Wolf "the old Praline Connection." J'Anita's moved from their previous spot on Magazine Street to share space and customers with The Avenue Pub, 1732 St. Charles Avenue about 6-8 months ago.) Driving by the other day, I saw a sign out front that said, "New! Crunchy duck balls!" -- well, they had me at "duck." I knew we had to get over there and SOON.

So on Monday, Big Man and I drove over to have lunch and visit with Craig and Kimmie. We were surprised to see a completely new menu with some terrific new additions. (Note to self: don't let so much time go by between visits!) We were blown away by some of the additions: besides the aforementioned duck balls, there was an appetizer called "Buddha's Temptation" (check this: apricots stuffed with blue cheese, wrapped in bacon, and deep fried. OMG), and among several new sandwiches, one called "St. Chuck Duck." Of course, the Best Damn Fish Sammich was still there, and Big Man fell right into his favorite rut and ordered it and Kimmie's great guacamole -- along with Crunchy Duck Balls, of course. I got the St. Chuck Duck, which is slow roasted pulled duck with apples, blue cheese, pecans, and a berry chutney sauce on bread.

When Kimmie brought our food over, she confided that Craig had wanted to name his new appetizer "Panko-Crusted Duck Tenders" but that she wouldn't let him (good call!). Crunchy Duck Balls IS a better name, especially in a bar. But you could call 'em anything, even some disgusting name, and they would still be one of the best things to eat on the whole damn planet. Crunchy, tender, juicy, and very very ducky -- and that berry chutney! Wow!

When Kimmie came back with our respective sandwiches, we just raved about the duck balls. But then, we were soon caught up with 2 of the best non-po' boy sandwiches in the world. Big Man's fish sammich was everything it had always been -- overstuffed, juicy, tangy, fishy in a really good way. And the duck sandwich was *unbelievable* -- I was licking my fingers to get at every last drop.

Believe you me, that was the best $25 lunch we've ever eaten!! Kudos to Craig and Kimmie for cooking food for the public on a level WAY above expectations. See their Facebook page at:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/New-Orleans-LA/Janitas-The-Avenue/73525898209

We Got a Dog

2009-09-30T12:41:00.003-05:00

Yes, you read that right. As some of my readers know, Big Man has been lobbying me pretty hard for some time now about getting a dog, and I've been promising to at least keep an open mind. On Friday of last week, we went to the Louisiana SPCA and checked out the dogs. I have to say I was pretty depressed, since it was clear that we were miles apart. Big Man was attracted to all the big dogs and the pit bulls -- imagine! And when I protested I didn't want a big dog, Big Man told me that a 55-pounder was NOT a big dog!! OMG

So we left on Friday without a dog, and without even agreeing on which dogs were cute or doable or anything.

The next day, Saturday, we decided we'd go over to the Art Museum in City Park to spend some time looking at the collections. And, wouldn't you know, when we got there, the SPCA were there doing an Adopt-a-Pet Day. We saw several of the smaller dogs we had seen the day before (yeah, because the SPCA was too smart to bring BIG dogs to the museum!) And then, while Eric was signing us in the museum's residents register, SPCA volunteers went by with a stocky black dog with brown eyebrows, who was looking around all interested and curious and everything, and had a perky walk with a bobbed tail, and for whatever reason, the thought just came to me, "That's Big Man's dog!"

When Big Man finished signing in, I said to him, "Did you see that cute little black guy go by?" and because he hadn't seen the dog, he actually thought I meant an African-American person! But I dragged him outside, and showed him the dog. The SPCA folks said she -- it's a she -- is a one-year-old Corgi-Rottweiler mix, that she's so shy and sweet that the SPCA staff had been keeping her in the office with them -- which of course is why we never saw her on Friday. They were calling her "Shirley" but they also said she didn't respond to the name at all, and that we should feel free to change it.

Within 5 minutes, Big Man and this dog were all over each other. At one point, Big Man looked at me and said seriously, "I *love* this dog." So we filled out all the papers, and the next thing we know, we're carrying her file (she's got a microchip implant!), the certificate for the free vet visit (she's already got all her shots and has been spayed), the free bag of food, her plush toy, and the dog on her leash out to the car and covering the backseat with a blanket. (We never did see anything else at the museum.) We tried out various names in the car (she was, by the way, a great passenger), and ended up with Keely Smith, Keely for short.

(Parenthetically: It's amazing to us, and more than a little sad, the number of people we have to explain who Keely Smith IS. This would be bad enough anywhere else, but since Louis Prima and Keely and their family lived in the New Orleans area for so long, and since both their music and their act have been SO influential in American pop culture, it really seems like a lack of knowledge. Maybe we're just over-devoted fans or something, but still, *everyone* ought to know who Keely Smith is. (And if you're reading this, and you live in New York City, you really should take advantage and go see her in person the next time she's appearing at a nightclub there, which she regularly does.) )

Keely Smith the dog and Smokey Robinson the cat are now sharing the same house but not yet really acquainted or anything. Possibly we made a mistake in not dragging them together right away, but we figure we'll have an iffy week getting them to co-exist. For the first few day, Smokey sulked upstairs, probably thinking what *I* thought when Mama and Daddy brought my baby sister L home from the hospital, "What do they need HER for -- they've got ME???"

We look forward to introducing everyone to sweet Keely.

Lil Dizzy's in the Whitney

2009-09-29T13:27:00.002-05:00

In one of the strangest adaptations and building-sharing arrangements in New Orleans, a hotel has been developed in the old classic Whitney Bank building on Poydras Street. The bank remains on the first floor, with an entrance on the corner; the entrance to the hotel is on the other side, near the Federal Building.

And since almost every hotel in the city has to have a restaurant, the Whitney has a branch of Lil Dizzy's, the Tremé Creole stalwart. The strange thing is how the space for the Whitney's Lil Dizzy's was carved out. The Whitney's original lobby, with its 2-story Corinthian faux-marbre columns topped with gold eagles, its tiled floors, and its art-deco brass fittings outlining the tellers' cages, was a hexagonal room that took up half the building's square footage on the first level. (I'm sure it was reassuring to people in those days that the bank's public face was so imposing and official-looking. Nowadays, banks look like swanky dentists' offices.)

About half of the bank's original lobby has been marked off with a half-wall about 5 1/2 or 6 feet tall (it's taller than Big Man, but feels short, given the height of the ornate coffered and dentilled ceiling). The dividing wall is painted with a full-color comic mural of the Whitney lobby circa 1930, featuring lots of silver screen stars of that era. Then the other half, complete with soaring columns and coffered ceiling and brass fittings, is now Lil Dizzy's restaurant and bar. The kitchen is situated over in the corner by one of the bank vaults (still visible); the other bank vault, a little down the hall, is now a private dining room. Since the wall only just barely separates the bank from the restaurant, delicious smells must permeate the bank when the kitchen is cooking. Must be VERY hard to work there and concentrate on what you're doing while your mouth is watering.

The bill of fare is about what it is at the other Lil Dizzy location -- traditional Creole entrées (red beans, jambalaya, fried chicken, etc.), po boys, and sides with bread pudding and sweet potato pie offered for dessert, all at reasonable prices. We were perusing the menu and getting ready to make our selections when the waiter came over and told us there was a special that evening -- Trout Bacquet. Oh well, there went the menus!

Trout Bacquet is one of the best dishes served at Jazz Fest, a practically perfect combination of fresh sautéed trout topped with lump crabmeat in a lemon butter sauce, with toasted rounds of good French bread to soak it up. No Jazz Fest is complete without eating Trout Bacquet at least once, and we usually have it 3 times or more -- it's that good. But we've NEVER had a full-sized portion before, so this was a no-brainer.

I have to say it was absolutely PERFECT. The fresh, sweet trout was golden brown and just a little crisp, a texture it never achieves at Jazz Fest, due to the challenges of cooking outdoors. The slathering of lump crabmeat was generous and was quite lumpy and not broken up. And the sauce was clear, lemony and buttery, nothing extra or superfluous. It was superb. Our plates were so clean afterwards that we looked like 2 kids angling to get dessert from a strict mom.

You have to go check out the Lil Dizzy's at the Whitney, to enjoy the atmosphere, the ambiance, the architecture, and the FABULOUS food.

Surfeit of Festivals

2009-09-29T13:03:00.002-05:00

September 25-27, 2009

It was an embarrassment of riches this past weekend. A well-rested and well-organized person might have been able to do a little of everything, but everyone else had to make hard choices. The New Orleans Seafood festival on Fulton Street? The opening weekend of the Oktoberfest at the (possibly doomed?) Deutsches Haus? The wonderful Alligator Festival under I-310 in Luling/Boutté (see my post from last year at this time)? If you were in the mood for a long drive, there was the "Calca-Chew" Food Festival in lake Charles (located in Calcasieu Parish -- get it?), or even the annual Seafood festival in Pensacola, Florida (a mere 3 hours away).

Next weekend, the Oktoberfest continues (every Friday and Saturday until the end of October), and the Gretna Heritage Fest rocks -- that's the one I can hear clearly through the dormer window on the second floor that faces the river, so I'm looking forward to being serenaded by Chicago!

Now that the fall festival season has started in earnest, it's time to get serious about planning ahead, and organizing your time!