This past weekend (June 13-15), there were *3* incredible festivals in the French Quarter -- the Cajun and Zydeco Festival, the Seafood Festival, and the Creole Tomato Festival-- and Big Man and I were there for 2 of the 3 festival days. (Apparently there was also a Latino Festival going on at the same time, as an add-on or sub-festival. Oh well -- the more, the merrier, we always say.)
It was all fabulous, as you might imagine -- incredible music, interesting crafts, terrific people-watching, great sense of community, topped off with wonderful, well-priced food. We enjoyed ourselves tremendously, feeling even that the rain on Friday and Saturday was a welcome addition, as it cooled things off and, as Big Man said, thinned out the crowds a bit. The food we sampled, from the things we paid for -- the crab and crawfish cakes, the boiled shrimp and crawfish (complete with corn, potatoes and sausage, naturally), the fantastic chargrilled oysters (yikes!), the shrimp on a stick, the homemade lemonade -- to the chef's tasting freebies -- the local ceviche, the shrimp and bean salad, the incredible seared tuna with black sesame seed crust (holy toledo!) -- were uniformly off-the-charts marvelous.
One thing, however, stands out above all over foods at the fests. In a week with saturated media coverage of an e. coli scare from tomatoes imported from Mexico, our Louisiana Creole tomatoes were not only certifiably safe to eat, they were fabulous. On Friday, we bought several fat red Creoles as big as a newborn baby's head (at $1 a piece!), and couldn't wait to eat them that night at home. Sweet, tart, acidic, meaty, juicy -- they fulfilled everything you wanted in a tomato, and put me in mind of the Creoles my mom used to include in our brown-bag lunches at elementary school (Our Lady of Prompt Succor in Chalmette, if you must know) back in the day, with a little packet of salt for us to add as we bit into them. So great a taste, that you would gladly make a meal just of tomatoes (with a little Blue Plate, of course).
But then, the next day, we came across the booth selling *heirloom Creole tomatoes.* What's the difference?, you ask -- well, it's like night and day. If regular Creole tomatoes can make you hate and despise store-bought tomatoes (or maybe I should say "tomatoes"), then these heirloom Creoles are on a different plane altogether, like food the gods get to eat.
First of all, they were GORGEOUS -- bright golden yellow, orange with yellow streaks, and this strangely beautiful brownish-reddish-greenish color. We bought 4 of the biggest ones, which were packaged upscaled in a nice white paper rectangular takeout box. When we got home, I washed them, sliced them thick as steaks, and arranged them on plate with some fresh boiled shrimp. I sprinkled some sea salt, added a little mound of Blue Plate mixed with Creole mustard, and we went to it. The whole time Big Man and I were eating this simple cold dinner, we kept *moaning* "Ohmygod" and long-drawn-out "Woooowwws." It was heaven on a plate.
So now we're kicking ourselves: WHY didn't we ask that tomato farmer where we could find his heavenly heirloom Creole tomatoes when the festival was over?? (If anybody knows, please let us know. We're willing to drive.)
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Stuff They Say on 'OZ
File this under "Only in New Orleans" (after all the other stuff already there!) --
Like other die-hard New Orleanians, I listen to WWOZ religiously. Whenever I'm in my car, in the kitchen, in my office at the church, 'OZ is on, filling my hours with wonderful music that can be heard nowhere else. 'OZ is one of the blessings of living in NOLA.
Sure, sure, of course -- I know you can listen to 'OZ online, no matter where you live, and I do recommend doing just that. But there's a drawback to doing that, as I discovered while living in Jersey -- long-distance listeners have to tolerate hearing about all the terrific and cheap live local music playing in New Orleans while you're unfortunately too far away to get there. Can't tell you how many times I'd be listening to 'OZ online, and I'd have to go running into Big Man's studio to moan and cry about all the great music we were missing. On a Monday, or a Wednesday, or some other crazy weeknight, when you couldn't hear ANY decent music in the darn city you were living in. That's all I'm saying.
But it's not just the music. It's the patter, the conversations, the outrageous opinions, so freely expressed by 'OZ's dedicated staff of volunteer DJs. Sometimes, the listener wants to shout, "Yeah, you right!" (and maybe some listeners do) to express complete agreement; sometimes the listeners just have to shake their heads and smile wryly, hardly able to believe that anyone could or would get away with such shenanigans; and sometimes you just gotta laugh and say, "Only in New Orleans!"
The following vignettes are just tiny samples that I treasure:
Back during the kick-off to the French Quarter Festival, when long-time NOLA musician and "establishment" figure Ronnie Cole was awarded a place in the Bourbon Street Legends Park, 'OZ DJ and jazz musician Bob French went off on the air, repeatedly referring to Cole as a "no-talent outsider" who was really from "Illa-noise" and complaining bitterly about the absence so far from Legends Park of such acknowledged greats (and New Orleans natives) as the Neville Brothers, Dr. John, Eddie Bo, Deacon John, et al. Poor Bob was so bent out of shape by the unwarranted honor that he went on and on before and after at least 3 different records. Where else in the world of commercial radio could such a thing have happened? (When you consider that the Jazz & Heritage Foundation, which runs WWOZ, is also a sponsor of the French Quarter Fest, it's even more remarkable.)
Every Friday, WWOZ welcomes Julie Posner, of LouisianaFestivals.com, to come over and preview the weekend's offerings of what I call "fest with no rest". I do not know Julie, nor do I know what she looks like, but her voice is always full of affection and enthusiasm for all the festivals and events she talks about. She makes it sound like each and every one of these minor and major events is worth going to (and you know? they probably are). You know how it is with radio -- she sounds like a great person, and I look forward to her reports, even when the upcoming weekend is already spoken for and I know I can't go to anything she recommends. On a recent Friday, the DJ announced sadly that Julie would not be able, for some reason, to come to the studio to do her festival promotion spot. Then he said, "I know y'all are disappointed, and I am too. While this next song plays, let's all just sit and think about what Julie is wearing. Here's some music to think of Julie by." I laughed out loud.
The other day, a DJ played a terrific number by "Pops" -- Louis Armstrong to the rest of you -- from an album of songs written by Dave Brubeck, done by various artists, called "Brubeck Encounters." When the song was done, the DJ came on, read the credits, and then said, "This is a definitive album. You need to have this record in your collection. In fact, if you dare to call yourself a lover of music, you HAVE to have it. I'm coming right now to y'all's houses and make sure it's in your collection!" The DJ laughed himself, realizing it was a kind of crazy thing to say, but then he added, "Seriously, you gotta have it." Now, that's an endorsement!
Rock on, 'OZ!
Like other die-hard New Orleanians, I listen to WWOZ religiously. Whenever I'm in my car, in the kitchen, in my office at the church, 'OZ is on, filling my hours with wonderful music that can be heard nowhere else. 'OZ is one of the blessings of living in NOLA.
Sure, sure, of course -- I know you can listen to 'OZ online, no matter where you live, and I do recommend doing just that. But there's a drawback to doing that, as I discovered while living in Jersey -- long-distance listeners have to tolerate hearing about all the terrific and cheap live local music playing in New Orleans while you're unfortunately too far away to get there. Can't tell you how many times I'd be listening to 'OZ online, and I'd have to go running into Big Man's studio to moan and cry about all the great music we were missing. On a Monday, or a Wednesday, or some other crazy weeknight, when you couldn't hear ANY decent music in the darn city you were living in. That's all I'm saying.
But it's not just the music. It's the patter, the conversations, the outrageous opinions, so freely expressed by 'OZ's dedicated staff of volunteer DJs. Sometimes, the listener wants to shout, "Yeah, you right!" (and maybe some listeners do) to express complete agreement; sometimes the listeners just have to shake their heads and smile wryly, hardly able to believe that anyone could or would get away with such shenanigans; and sometimes you just gotta laugh and say, "Only in New Orleans!"
The following vignettes are just tiny samples that I treasure:
Back during the kick-off to the French Quarter Festival, when long-time NOLA musician and "establishment" figure Ronnie Cole was awarded a place in the Bourbon Street Legends Park, 'OZ DJ and jazz musician Bob French went off on the air, repeatedly referring to Cole as a "no-talent outsider" who was really from "Illa-noise" and complaining bitterly about the absence so far from Legends Park of such acknowledged greats (and New Orleans natives) as the Neville Brothers, Dr. John, Eddie Bo, Deacon John, et al. Poor Bob was so bent out of shape by the unwarranted honor that he went on and on before and after at least 3 different records. Where else in the world of commercial radio could such a thing have happened? (When you consider that the Jazz & Heritage Foundation, which runs WWOZ, is also a sponsor of the French Quarter Fest, it's even more remarkable.)
Every Friday, WWOZ welcomes Julie Posner, of LouisianaFestivals.com, to come over and preview the weekend's offerings of what I call "fest with no rest". I do not know Julie, nor do I know what she looks like, but her voice is always full of affection and enthusiasm for all the festivals and events she talks about. She makes it sound like each and every one of these minor and major events is worth going to (and you know? they probably are). You know how it is with radio -- she sounds like a great person, and I look forward to her reports, even when the upcoming weekend is already spoken for and I know I can't go to anything she recommends. On a recent Friday, the DJ announced sadly that Julie would not be able, for some reason, to come to the studio to do her festival promotion spot. Then he said, "I know y'all are disappointed, and I am too. While this next song plays, let's all just sit and think about what Julie is wearing. Here's some music to think of Julie by." I laughed out loud.
The other day, a DJ played a terrific number by "Pops" -- Louis Armstrong to the rest of you -- from an album of songs written by Dave Brubeck, done by various artists, called "Brubeck Encounters." When the song was done, the DJ came on, read the credits, and then said, "This is a definitive album. You need to have this record in your collection. In fact, if you dare to call yourself a lover of music, you HAVE to have it. I'm coming right now to y'all's houses and make sure it's in your collection!" The DJ laughed himself, realizing it was a kind of crazy thing to say, but then he added, "Seriously, you gotta have it." Now, that's an endorsement!
Rock on, 'OZ!
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Fest With No Rest, Part 2
Sometimes you get a weekend in the New Orleans area that can make going back to work the next week a relief. This past weekend, May 24-25, was one of those.
Friday kicked off the madness with the Bayou Boogaloo in Mid-City along Bayou St. John and the first day of the Greek Festival held at Trinity Greek Orthodox Church. It was also the night of the Rehearsal Dinner for the wedding I was to perform on Saturday in the Hermann-Grima House courtyard in the French Quarter. With so much to get done in so little time, we settled on the dinner, held at the private swim club on the corner of Camp and Pleasant (and thus named "Camp Pleasant").
I had been told it would be a crawfish boil, and had worn clothing I thought appropriate for sucking heads and squeezing tails, but it turned out I was a bit under-dressed, considering the other guests (or maybe they just didn't care about getting crawfish juice on their clothes). The crawfish wasn't ready right away, so there were trays of hors d'oeuvres being passed, things like perfectly fried catfish, shrimp, and oysters, and little spicy spring rolls. It was hard not to fill up on those, they were scrumptious.
But then they came out with giant baskets of hot crawfish, fresh from the boiler, and poured 'em out into a metal pirougue. There were ears of corn and new potatoes too, but (to Big Man's disappointment) no hot sausages -- possibly a concession to the Yankee guests, for many of whom the crawfish were too spicy anyway, so they needn't have worried. The mudbugs were good size and well spiced, juicy and "fatty." Yum! Two trays were more than enough.
For dessert, Plum Street Sno-Balls had set up a table with a limited number of plain and cream flavors. I indulged myself with a Mounds-like mixture of both coconut and chocolate creams, and while I was thoroughly enjoying that, the servers came around with these perfect little sugar cookies, artistically iced to look like crawfish, shrimp, lemons, potatoes, bay leaves, and mushrooms -- they were crawfish boil cookies! I was completely charmed, and even though I shouldn't've, I took one.
Stuffed to the gills, I made my way home to rest up for the next day's multiple festivities.
Saturday was almost too full of a day. Big Man and I drove to Lakeview to drop something off at a local church, and then made our way down Robert E. Lee to the Greek Festival. The crowd was ENORMOUS, parking, even with the shuttle service, was crazy, and we decided to bag it til Sunday. (A miscalculation, as it happened that by the time we got there on Sunday, they had run out of roast lamb. See below.) We then drove down the bayou to the Boogaloo and managed to find free and legal parking a reasonable walking distance (Big Man has great park-ma).
What a pretty sight! Young parents with babies and toddlers in strollers, other little kids running around freely, teenagers, Baby Boomers like ourselves, older folks, under a bright blue sky and sunshine, the waters of the bayou sparkling, a few rental canoes dotting the surface. (A nice touch, that. Next year we'll have to rent one.) Two stages of music, a tent for kids, a book tent to benefit the Mid-City branch library (of course, Big Man had to buy some science fiction), and the obligatory row of food booths. We had alligator sausage on a stick with mustard sauce, squid salad, and Middle Eastern meatballs. Oh my God.
Checking our watches, we saw it was getting on to the time for the Farewell Party for two parishioners moving out of state. We drove back up the bayou and arrived in time to find out that THAT was a crawfish boil too! (Good grief!) We stayed for a while, chatting with guests and the dear folks who are leaving, then it was back to home for showers. (Festivals and parties are hot work.)
The wedding in the French Quarter courtyard was set for 6 pm, which unfortunately is still hot and sticky time in the Crescent City. I actually brought my little spray-fan thingy from Jazz Fest to the wedding, thinking I might look silly but at least I'd be cool. (Later, when other women spotted it at the reception, they all wanted to know where I got it.) It was a lovely ceremony, and the waiters from Broussard's (bless them!) started serving the hors d'oeuvres immediately afterwards. There was more fried shrimp and tasty little duck spring rolls with plum sauce. Yum! The buffet was terrific (crab cakes, roast beef, caesar salad, stuffed new potatoes, asparagus wrapped in prosciutto), but I managed to skip both the bananas foster and the wedding cake (like I hadn't already eaten enough calories for an ARMY).
I walked off some of it by going down the 2 blocks to Big Man's Bourbon Street club and catching a set before heading home to finish my sermon for the next day. (Hope it was none the worse for the big food hangover.)
After church duties were completed on Sunday, Big Man and I finally made it to the Greek Fest, where we were informed on entering that the roast lamb was completely sold out. Since that was, in fact, one of our major reasons for attending, I thought for a moment that Big Man would either cry or leave, but we made the best of it. After all, they still had TONS of great food. It was an overcast day, which lowered the temperature somewhat, a small blessing. They too had rental canoes in the bayou, a big kids area with all kinds of activities (including a giant sand box with hidden treasures in it, called "Archaeological Dig of Ancient Greece"), an agora/market with nicely priced Greek groceries, gifts, jewelry, clothing and art objects -- and 2 giant food areas, one inside and one outside.
Believe me, despite the lamb being sold out, there was PLENTY to eat, and we were more than satisfied with the Greek dinners, the souvlaki, the gyros, and of course the obligatory baklava (Big Man's favorite sweet in all the world). We not only got enough to eat, we bought stuff to take home. I resisted the baklava sundae, which, even to me, seemed like too much.
We enjoyed the music stage, where a young Greek band swung into their version of the famous theme from "Zorba the Greek" and a crowd of beautiful young Greek New Orleanians danced in a row, and then, faster, in increasingly tighter circles, their heads held high as their feet moved so fast in unison, smiling, proud of themselves and their heritage. It was a sight to see.
Later, we drove to the lake and watched the sun set with fishermen and other couples and families. Beautiful. On the way home, we made a few groceries at the renewed Robert's on Robert E. Lee (great store! go shop there!) to be ready for Memorial Day at home, because by that point we had had enough. Fest with no rest is great for the belly and the eyes and ears, but hell on middle-aged bodies. But still, it was a great weekend, even though we were relieved when it was over.
Friday kicked off the madness with the Bayou Boogaloo in Mid-City along Bayou St. John and the first day of the Greek Festival held at Trinity Greek Orthodox Church. It was also the night of the Rehearsal Dinner for the wedding I was to perform on Saturday in the Hermann-Grima House courtyard in the French Quarter. With so much to get done in so little time, we settled on the dinner, held at the private swim club on the corner of Camp and Pleasant (and thus named "Camp Pleasant").
I had been told it would be a crawfish boil, and had worn clothing I thought appropriate for sucking heads and squeezing tails, but it turned out I was a bit under-dressed, considering the other guests (or maybe they just didn't care about getting crawfish juice on their clothes). The crawfish wasn't ready right away, so there were trays of hors d'oeuvres being passed, things like perfectly fried catfish, shrimp, and oysters, and little spicy spring rolls. It was hard not to fill up on those, they were scrumptious.
But then they came out with giant baskets of hot crawfish, fresh from the boiler, and poured 'em out into a metal pirougue. There were ears of corn and new potatoes too, but (to Big Man's disappointment) no hot sausages -- possibly a concession to the Yankee guests, for many of whom the crawfish were too spicy anyway, so they needn't have worried. The mudbugs were good size and well spiced, juicy and "fatty." Yum! Two trays were more than enough.
For dessert, Plum Street Sno-Balls had set up a table with a limited number of plain and cream flavors. I indulged myself with a Mounds-like mixture of both coconut and chocolate creams, and while I was thoroughly enjoying that, the servers came around with these perfect little sugar cookies, artistically iced to look like crawfish, shrimp, lemons, potatoes, bay leaves, and mushrooms -- they were crawfish boil cookies! I was completely charmed, and even though I shouldn't've, I took one.
Stuffed to the gills, I made my way home to rest up for the next day's multiple festivities.
Saturday was almost too full of a day. Big Man and I drove to Lakeview to drop something off at a local church, and then made our way down Robert E. Lee to the Greek Festival. The crowd was ENORMOUS, parking, even with the shuttle service, was crazy, and we decided to bag it til Sunday. (A miscalculation, as it happened that by the time we got there on Sunday, they had run out of roast lamb. See below.) We then drove down the bayou to the Boogaloo and managed to find free and legal parking a reasonable walking distance (Big Man has great park-ma).
What a pretty sight! Young parents with babies and toddlers in strollers, other little kids running around freely, teenagers, Baby Boomers like ourselves, older folks, under a bright blue sky and sunshine, the waters of the bayou sparkling, a few rental canoes dotting the surface. (A nice touch, that. Next year we'll have to rent one.) Two stages of music, a tent for kids, a book tent to benefit the Mid-City branch library (of course, Big Man had to buy some science fiction), and the obligatory row of food booths. We had alligator sausage on a stick with mustard sauce, squid salad, and Middle Eastern meatballs. Oh my God.
Checking our watches, we saw it was getting on to the time for the Farewell Party for two parishioners moving out of state. We drove back up the bayou and arrived in time to find out that THAT was a crawfish boil too! (Good grief!) We stayed for a while, chatting with guests and the dear folks who are leaving, then it was back to home for showers. (Festivals and parties are hot work.)
The wedding in the French Quarter courtyard was set for 6 pm, which unfortunately is still hot and sticky time in the Crescent City. I actually brought my little spray-fan thingy from Jazz Fest to the wedding, thinking I might look silly but at least I'd be cool. (Later, when other women spotted it at the reception, they all wanted to know where I got it.) It was a lovely ceremony, and the waiters from Broussard's (bless them!) started serving the hors d'oeuvres immediately afterwards. There was more fried shrimp and tasty little duck spring rolls with plum sauce. Yum! The buffet was terrific (crab cakes, roast beef, caesar salad, stuffed new potatoes, asparagus wrapped in prosciutto), but I managed to skip both the bananas foster and the wedding cake (like I hadn't already eaten enough calories for an ARMY).
I walked off some of it by going down the 2 blocks to Big Man's Bourbon Street club and catching a set before heading home to finish my sermon for the next day. (Hope it was none the worse for the big food hangover.)
After church duties were completed on Sunday, Big Man and I finally made it to the Greek Fest, where we were informed on entering that the roast lamb was completely sold out. Since that was, in fact, one of our major reasons for attending, I thought for a moment that Big Man would either cry or leave, but we made the best of it. After all, they still had TONS of great food. It was an overcast day, which lowered the temperature somewhat, a small blessing. They too had rental canoes in the bayou, a big kids area with all kinds of activities (including a giant sand box with hidden treasures in it, called "Archaeological Dig of Ancient Greece"), an agora/market with nicely priced Greek groceries, gifts, jewelry, clothing and art objects -- and 2 giant food areas, one inside and one outside.
Believe me, despite the lamb being sold out, there was PLENTY to eat, and we were more than satisfied with the Greek dinners, the souvlaki, the gyros, and of course the obligatory baklava (Big Man's favorite sweet in all the world). We not only got enough to eat, we bought stuff to take home. I resisted the baklava sundae, which, even to me, seemed like too much.
We enjoyed the music stage, where a young Greek band swung into their version of the famous theme from "Zorba the Greek" and a crowd of beautiful young Greek New Orleanians danced in a row, and then, faster, in increasingly tighter circles, their heads held high as their feet moved so fast in unison, smiling, proud of themselves and their heritage. It was a sight to see.
Later, we drove to the lake and watched the sun set with fishermen and other couples and families. Beautiful. On the way home, we made a few groceries at the renewed Robert's on Robert E. Lee (great store! go shop there!) to be ready for Memorial Day at home, because by that point we had had enough. Fest with no rest is great for the belly and the eyes and ears, but hell on middle-aged bodies. But still, it was a great weekend, even though we were relieved when it was over.
An Open Love Letter to John Besh
Being a 5th-generation New Orleanian, my family always celebrated life's biggest occasions with meals on the town, and in the 40 years I lived in the city pre-Katrina I continued that tradition, believing that no life event had been truly marked until it was celebrated in a fine restaurant. In my younger, prettier years, I worked for a time at world-famous Brennan's Restaurant and at the Roosevelt Hotel. In both places, I learned a lot about fine service and fine food. (In both places, the employee meals were out of this world!) Later, as an adult, I did a lot of traveling, and enjoyed great meals in many different big cities and several countries.
All in all, I have to say that over the years I have eaten more than my share of fantastic meals in wonderful, elegant restaurants. Many of those meals have been truly memorable, the kind of thing that New Orleanians will sit around talking about for years (usually while eating another meal).
But earlier this month, when Big Man and I celebrated his 51st birthday and Mother's Day, we shared the best meal of my life. No kidding. I'm serious -- the best meal I've ever eaten. Ever. Anywhere. So this blogpost is an open love letter to New Orleans genius chef John Besh, and a brag on our wonderful meal at Restaurant August.
First of all, August is a lovely place, elegant and romantic. The building, a former tobacco warehouse, has had many reincarnations over the years, and Besh and his partners have done a marvelous job with the renovation. The bar is dark and stylish -- it's well worth coming early for your table to enjoy a short wait there. The front room sparkles with light, with huge windows overlooking the street. The second room has been converted into wine storage and is warmly paneled with wood, with a cunning little staircase going up to where the wine bottles are on display. It is darker, more intimate than the front room, and is where we've been seated both times we've eaten there.
The August menu can drive you crazy because it is so extensive and because you want to eat everything. But eventually, reluctantly, you make your choices, the waiter takes your order, and as you sip your drinks and talk, another waiter sweeps up to your table bearing a tray. "This is an amuse-bouche -- a little gift from the chef," he says, placing before you an egg cup with a brown egg shell with the top sliced cleanly away. "It's a seafood custard," says the waiter, "with caviar foam on top." You pick up the teensy little spoon, dip it carefully into the shell, and scoop up...WOW! It's a soft, creamy, rich, and smooth savory custard with hints of seafood flavor but no lumps or chunks of anything, and the delight of frothy caviar meringue on top. Big Man breathed out a hearty, "OH MY GOD" and he was speaking for both of us.
We could've left right then and there, and while we would still have been hungry, we would've been plenty impressed. But then our appetizers arrived, the 3-way pate de foie gras for Big Man and the oysters 3-ways for me. (Let me right here thank John Besh for doing things like this. It's so frustrating to go to a fine expensive restaurant and discover they're cooking your favorite things in 2 or 3 different recipes, but you can only have one. This 3-way deal is pure-D genius and a wonderful indulgence for the diner. Now you really can have it all!) Both appetizers were generously proportioned (don't you just hate dinky appetizers?), and both were stupendous. We talked about it and we couldn't pick a favorite out of the 6 total if our lives depended on it.
On the special tasting menu, we had spied a special local fresh vegetable spring salad with barely poached egg. We ordered it to split as our salad course, and it was lovely when it arrived. (Tiny quibble: even though we made it clear we would be splitting the salad, it arrived on one plate, with 2 plates for us to divvy it ourselves. I was a little surprised by that, as most fine restaurants will do the splitting for you in the kitchen. No big deal, however.) The thing that most impressed us about that wonderful salad was that it had chunks of "Romanesque" broccoli -- a form of broccoli we had grown to love in New Jersey but had never seen before locally. (We asked and were told it was from a local farmer's market, so we'll be on the look-out.)
Then it was time for the entrees. Big Man had the lamb 3-ways (thanks again, John Besh!) and I had the sweetbreads. The food was exquisite, melt in your mouth, a total treat for the senses, each bite better than the last, everything perfect. We so completely cleaned our plates, it was a little embarrassing, as it looked like we might have actually licked them!
When it came time for dessert, Big Man asked if there was anything available for a diabetic, and the waiter said, surprisingly, "No, sir, we don't -- but they do across the street. They always have several kinds of sugar-free pie -- would that be all right?" And he named chocolate, lemon, and coconut cream as possibilities. Big Man took a pass on the lemon (he hates lemon desserts, for some reason) and said either of the others would do just fine. I ordered the chocolate candy-bar torte with dulce de leche sauce (in for a penny, in for a pound, I always say). We sat speculating about what it could mean about going "across the street" -- to the Windsor Court Hotel, presumably -- to get the sugar-free pie, and the waiter was back with my torte, and a plate with 4 tiny slices of pie, 2 each of chocolate and coconut for Big Man! Was he happy! Did we tip big or what?
All the way home, we relived the meal, exclaiming over this special touch, and that wonderful surprise. And we found ourselves talking about it, as New Orleanians will, in the days afterwards, with each other, to friends and family members, to just about anybody who would listen. The food was perfect, the service almost perfect, and the setting gorgeous. It was a meal to remember and cherish.
Thanks, John Besh. If we were more well-off than a musician and a minister can be in these trying times, we'd eat there more often (probably to the detriment of our waistlines -- it's probably just as well we can't afford to eat there more often). But we're happy to tell the whole cock-eyed world:
Go eat at Restaurant August -- it'll be the best meal of your life.
All in all, I have to say that over the years I have eaten more than my share of fantastic meals in wonderful, elegant restaurants. Many of those meals have been truly memorable, the kind of thing that New Orleanians will sit around talking about for years (usually while eating another meal).
But earlier this month, when Big Man and I celebrated his 51st birthday and Mother's Day, we shared the best meal of my life. No kidding. I'm serious -- the best meal I've ever eaten. Ever. Anywhere. So this blogpost is an open love letter to New Orleans genius chef John Besh, and a brag on our wonderful meal at Restaurant August.
First of all, August is a lovely place, elegant and romantic. The building, a former tobacco warehouse, has had many reincarnations over the years, and Besh and his partners have done a marvelous job with the renovation. The bar is dark and stylish -- it's well worth coming early for your table to enjoy a short wait there. The front room sparkles with light, with huge windows overlooking the street. The second room has been converted into wine storage and is warmly paneled with wood, with a cunning little staircase going up to where the wine bottles are on display. It is darker, more intimate than the front room, and is where we've been seated both times we've eaten there.
The August menu can drive you crazy because it is so extensive and because you want to eat everything. But eventually, reluctantly, you make your choices, the waiter takes your order, and as you sip your drinks and talk, another waiter sweeps up to your table bearing a tray. "This is an amuse-bouche -- a little gift from the chef," he says, placing before you an egg cup with a brown egg shell with the top sliced cleanly away. "It's a seafood custard," says the waiter, "with caviar foam on top." You pick up the teensy little spoon, dip it carefully into the shell, and scoop up...WOW! It's a soft, creamy, rich, and smooth savory custard with hints of seafood flavor but no lumps or chunks of anything, and the delight of frothy caviar meringue on top. Big Man breathed out a hearty, "OH MY GOD" and he was speaking for both of us.
We could've left right then and there, and while we would still have been hungry, we would've been plenty impressed. But then our appetizers arrived, the 3-way pate de foie gras for Big Man and the oysters 3-ways for me. (Let me right here thank John Besh for doing things like this. It's so frustrating to go to a fine expensive restaurant and discover they're cooking your favorite things in 2 or 3 different recipes, but you can only have one. This 3-way deal is pure-D genius and a wonderful indulgence for the diner. Now you really can have it all!) Both appetizers were generously proportioned (don't you just hate dinky appetizers?), and both were stupendous. We talked about it and we couldn't pick a favorite out of the 6 total if our lives depended on it.
On the special tasting menu, we had spied a special local fresh vegetable spring salad with barely poached egg. We ordered it to split as our salad course, and it was lovely when it arrived. (Tiny quibble: even though we made it clear we would be splitting the salad, it arrived on one plate, with 2 plates for us to divvy it ourselves. I was a little surprised by that, as most fine restaurants will do the splitting for you in the kitchen. No big deal, however.) The thing that most impressed us about that wonderful salad was that it had chunks of "Romanesque" broccoli -- a form of broccoli we had grown to love in New Jersey but had never seen before locally. (We asked and were told it was from a local farmer's market, so we'll be on the look-out.)
Then it was time for the entrees. Big Man had the lamb 3-ways (thanks again, John Besh!) and I had the sweetbreads. The food was exquisite, melt in your mouth, a total treat for the senses, each bite better than the last, everything perfect. We so completely cleaned our plates, it was a little embarrassing, as it looked like we might have actually licked them!
When it came time for dessert, Big Man asked if there was anything available for a diabetic, and the waiter said, surprisingly, "No, sir, we don't -- but they do across the street. They always have several kinds of sugar-free pie -- would that be all right?" And he named chocolate, lemon, and coconut cream as possibilities. Big Man took a pass on the lemon (he hates lemon desserts, for some reason) and said either of the others would do just fine. I ordered the chocolate candy-bar torte with dulce de leche sauce (in for a penny, in for a pound, I always say). We sat speculating about what it could mean about going "across the street" -- to the Windsor Court Hotel, presumably -- to get the sugar-free pie, and the waiter was back with my torte, and a plate with 4 tiny slices of pie, 2 each of chocolate and coconut for Big Man! Was he happy! Did we tip big or what?
All the way home, we relived the meal, exclaiming over this special touch, and that wonderful surprise. And we found ourselves talking about it, as New Orleanians will, in the days afterwards, with each other, to friends and family members, to just about anybody who would listen. The food was perfect, the service almost perfect, and the setting gorgeous. It was a meal to remember and cherish.
Thanks, John Besh. If we were more well-off than a musician and a minister can be in these trying times, we'd eat there more often (probably to the detriment of our waistlines -- it's probably just as well we can't afford to eat there more often). But we're happy to tell the whole cock-eyed world:
Go eat at Restaurant August -- it'll be the best meal of your life.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Some Jazz Fest Moments
I'm not one of those people, like the gifted Chris Rose, who can write whole essays on Jazz Fest, complete with descriptions of sights and sounds and smells, and well-thought-out reviews of music and food. For me, Jazz Fest is a shifting kaleidoscope, with rapidly changing patterns, going by so quickly I can hardly process them. I'm lucky to snatch a few moments as they speed past me. Here's a few of my personal Jazz Fest Moments I'll be savoring til next year:
•Friends and strangers alike greeting each other on the Fairgrounds and around the city with "Happy Fest!" -- as though Jazz Fest were an acknowledged holiday like Christmas or Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day. Store clerks and waiters would wish you a Happy Fest, not just those at the fairgrounds. Big Man said that nowhere else in the world would a local music festival be embraced by a entire region and turned into a holiday that folks would greet each other with.
•Quint Davis being interviewed on TV and saying that "with the return of Jazz Fest Local Thursday, Angelo Brocato's strawberry ice, and the Neville Brothers to close the fest on the last day, that Jazz Fest was formally and officially back to pre-Katrina standards. The very next day, I bought a strawberry ice and told the folks at the Brocato's booth what had been said. They were thrilled, and with strawberry ice on my tongue, so was I.
•Seeing the great Allen Toussaint walking the track like us regular folks, eschewing the shuttle that Jazz Fest officials would surely have offered him had he wanted one. His entourage -- his sons maybe? -- were dressed in T-shirts and jeans, but Allen, handsome and dapper as ever, was in a suit and tie. Coming upon him so unexpectedly, Big Man swept his hat off his and held it over his heart, as, he said later, a sign of his deep and total respect; my mouth agape, I blurted out, "Allen, I'm so GLAD to see you!" and my son, nonplussed, totally forgot to take a picture with his fancy digital camera. Allen was his usual smooth and gracious self, stopping to allow photos, speaking kindly to those who came up to him, and replying to me with a smile, "I'm glad to see YOU too." (On the Sunday that Big Man played the Fest, in the musicians' parking lot we came upon a gleaming black Cadillac with the personalized plate PIANO1 and assuming it was Allen's, we made little "we're not worthy" bows to it.)
•Big Man's first-ever Jazz Fest gig was the cause of another Jazz Fest moment, as he warmed up on trumpet on the Gospel stage before the fest opened, and a small boy wearing a volunteer T-shirt and holding a push-broom came up to the stage and hollered up, "Hey, Mister, how you do them high notes?" and Big Man replying, like the old joke about Carnegie Hall, "Practice, practice, practice!" But then he relented and leaned over the edge of the stage to show the young would-be trumpeter a few tricks of the trade. And so the music is passed on, as it should be, from one musician, one generation, to the next.
•Eating at the Fest is such a trip. For amounts ranging from $6-$13, you receive a dish worthy of the world's finest restaurants, complete with presentation details like little bows made of green onion, slivers of fresh lemon, and sprinklings of parsley, and tasting like pure heaven. Standing or sitting at the food tables, we communed with folks from Japan, Germany, Iowa, New Hampshire, Chicago, New York, Australia. We asked each other what we were eating, and total strangers offered each other tastes and pointed out favored food booths. An amazed "Where did you get that??" was frequently heard, as was fervent gasps of "Ohmygod!" Yes, eating at Jazz Fest is truly a religious experience.
•Speaking of religious experiences, I had several in the Gospel Tent. The Famous Rocks of Harmony truly did rock the tent, in their natty matching suits, and their special trick of soloists working up to a near-frenzy and then handing off the solo to the next singer. It was such an historic moment to be there for Mr. Sherman Washington's final appearance (in a wheelchair) with the mighty Zion Harmonizers bringing the crowd to their feet. And what more can be said about Aaron Neville's return to the Gospel Tent for his traditional gospel-soul set, movingly dedicated to his late wife, Joel, with brother Charles wailing on sax next to him. By the time Aaron got to "Louisiana 1929" with its heart-breaking refrain, "They're tryin' to wash us away," there could not have been a dry eye or face in the place. Some of us wept quietly, others sobbed aloud. Folks waved handkerchiefs and paper napkins and screamed his name. He was home, we were home, and we were all together. Incredible spiritual experience.
•While I was there, it rained on two different days (I arrived after the rain on the second Saturday so I can't speak to THAT downpour), and it was quite a sight both times to watch all those umbrellas blossom like flowers in stop-motion as the clouds opened up. Most folks seemed prepared, with raincoats or rainsuits or rain jackets and umbrellas and boots (and tarps and shower curtains!); those who weren't thus physically prepared seemed at least mentally and spiritually equipped, stoically or hilariously getting soaked to the skin in order to see and hear their favorites, like Billy Joel and Stevie Wonder and Dr. John. Later, after rains, you could see people practically encased in sticky fairgrounds mud, or nearly invisible swathed in vinyl and plastic. (Women came up to me, demanding to know where I got my bright-red fireman boots and were disappointed to learn that the boots were close to 20 years old!)
•We all have our favorite tunes that we hope-hope will be played by our favorites at the fest. Since my son was with me on the second Saturday, I was wishing that the subdudes would do "Sugar Pie," an especial favorite of ours that was played for the "mother-son" dance at my wedding to Big Man four years ago. (Such wonderful lyrics about what it means to a parent when their "baby-my-own" grows up.) Sure enough, they did sing it, causing us to be all overcome with gushy emotion, both of us tearing up. Later that same day, to our enormous surprise and gratification, we ran into our old friend Johnny Magnie of the subdudes at the booth that sells crawfish sacks (a big festival hit). He seemed as glad to see us as we were to see him, and asked about mutual friends by name. Johnny was astonished to learn that I was now pastoring the congregation he used to attend and was amazed to see how adult my son was (I'm sure I'd be just as amazed by Bo and Tyler's growing up). While we clumped together visiting, folks went by and took his picture as a celebrity, with us in the picture!
•Even now, days later, I can hardly write about the experience of being at the fest for the Neville Brothers return. There were tens of thousands of people, full-throated roaring their pleasure and joy. Artie saying into the mike, "We never left, y'all, not really" meaning, I suppose, that no matter where they had been physically, it was impossible for the Nevilles to truly leave New Orleans. They ran through all the songs we wanted to hear, not like showmen, but like relatives at a gathering retelling the favorite old family stories. Famous names joined them on the stage -- Carlos Santana, for one -- but the Nevilles were all we cared about. Aaron dedicated more songs to his beloved Joel, and it seemed to us that he had been afraid to come home, fearing her loss would be worse in familiar settings. (Maybe he came to realize that he might miss her LESS if he were home.) The songs that had defined our lives, that had become part of our sexuality and our spirituality rang our over the fairgrounds -- "Tell It Like It Is," "That's My Blood," "Yellow Moon," Voodoo Woman," "Hey Pocky Way" -- and we sang and danced along, the years of our lives going by in our minds. Men and women alike broke down in an ecstasy of shared grief and joy. Couples clung to each other, sobbing on each other's shoulders. Grown men stalked past us with tears streaming down their faces. Big Man wiped his face; the woman in the chair next to ours sank down, laid her head on her knees and just cried, her shoulders heaving. The set was supposed to end at 7 pm but it went on and on, with the crowd screaming and cheering and dancing and singing along, until 7:35 pm. We practically expected a representative of the mayor's office to show up with keys to the city. Quint Davis finally came on, pronounced us all Nevilles, and told us that Jazz Fest was now officially back to normal. "Stay safe, be well, love New Orleans, and see you next year!" Totally wrung out, we staggered from the fest. Until next year.
•Friends and strangers alike greeting each other on the Fairgrounds and around the city with "Happy Fest!" -- as though Jazz Fest were an acknowledged holiday like Christmas or Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day. Store clerks and waiters would wish you a Happy Fest, not just those at the fairgrounds. Big Man said that nowhere else in the world would a local music festival be embraced by a entire region and turned into a holiday that folks would greet each other with.
•Quint Davis being interviewed on TV and saying that "with the return of Jazz Fest Local Thursday, Angelo Brocato's strawberry ice, and the Neville Brothers to close the fest on the last day, that Jazz Fest was formally and officially back to pre-Katrina standards. The very next day, I bought a strawberry ice and told the folks at the Brocato's booth what had been said. They were thrilled, and with strawberry ice on my tongue, so was I.
•Seeing the great Allen Toussaint walking the track like us regular folks, eschewing the shuttle that Jazz Fest officials would surely have offered him had he wanted one. His entourage -- his sons maybe? -- were dressed in T-shirts and jeans, but Allen, handsome and dapper as ever, was in a suit and tie. Coming upon him so unexpectedly, Big Man swept his hat off his and held it over his heart, as, he said later, a sign of his deep and total respect; my mouth agape, I blurted out, "Allen, I'm so GLAD to see you!" and my son, nonplussed, totally forgot to take a picture with his fancy digital camera. Allen was his usual smooth and gracious self, stopping to allow photos, speaking kindly to those who came up to him, and replying to me with a smile, "I'm glad to see YOU too." (On the Sunday that Big Man played the Fest, in the musicians' parking lot we came upon a gleaming black Cadillac with the personalized plate PIANO1 and assuming it was Allen's, we made little "we're not worthy" bows to it.)
•Big Man's first-ever Jazz Fest gig was the cause of another Jazz Fest moment, as he warmed up on trumpet on the Gospel stage before the fest opened, and a small boy wearing a volunteer T-shirt and holding a push-broom came up to the stage and hollered up, "Hey, Mister, how you do them high notes?" and Big Man replying, like the old joke about Carnegie Hall, "Practice, practice, practice!" But then he relented and leaned over the edge of the stage to show the young would-be trumpeter a few tricks of the trade. And so the music is passed on, as it should be, from one musician, one generation, to the next.
•Eating at the Fest is such a trip. For amounts ranging from $6-$13, you receive a dish worthy of the world's finest restaurants, complete with presentation details like little bows made of green onion, slivers of fresh lemon, and sprinklings of parsley, and tasting like pure heaven. Standing or sitting at the food tables, we communed with folks from Japan, Germany, Iowa, New Hampshire, Chicago, New York, Australia. We asked each other what we were eating, and total strangers offered each other tastes and pointed out favored food booths. An amazed "Where did you get that??" was frequently heard, as was fervent gasps of "Ohmygod!" Yes, eating at Jazz Fest is truly a religious experience.
•Speaking of religious experiences, I had several in the Gospel Tent. The Famous Rocks of Harmony truly did rock the tent, in their natty matching suits, and their special trick of soloists working up to a near-frenzy and then handing off the solo to the next singer. It was such an historic moment to be there for Mr. Sherman Washington's final appearance (in a wheelchair) with the mighty Zion Harmonizers bringing the crowd to their feet. And what more can be said about Aaron Neville's return to the Gospel Tent for his traditional gospel-soul set, movingly dedicated to his late wife, Joel, with brother Charles wailing on sax next to him. By the time Aaron got to "Louisiana 1929" with its heart-breaking refrain, "They're tryin' to wash us away," there could not have been a dry eye or face in the place. Some of us wept quietly, others sobbed aloud. Folks waved handkerchiefs and paper napkins and screamed his name. He was home, we were home, and we were all together. Incredible spiritual experience.
•While I was there, it rained on two different days (I arrived after the rain on the second Saturday so I can't speak to THAT downpour), and it was quite a sight both times to watch all those umbrellas blossom like flowers in stop-motion as the clouds opened up. Most folks seemed prepared, with raincoats or rainsuits or rain jackets and umbrellas and boots (and tarps and shower curtains!); those who weren't thus physically prepared seemed at least mentally and spiritually equipped, stoically or hilariously getting soaked to the skin in order to see and hear their favorites, like Billy Joel and Stevie Wonder and Dr. John. Later, after rains, you could see people practically encased in sticky fairgrounds mud, or nearly invisible swathed in vinyl and plastic. (Women came up to me, demanding to know where I got my bright-red fireman boots and were disappointed to learn that the boots were close to 20 years old!)
•We all have our favorite tunes that we hope-hope will be played by our favorites at the fest. Since my son was with me on the second Saturday, I was wishing that the subdudes would do "Sugar Pie," an especial favorite of ours that was played for the "mother-son" dance at my wedding to Big Man four years ago. (Such wonderful lyrics about what it means to a parent when their "baby-my-own" grows up.) Sure enough, they did sing it, causing us to be all overcome with gushy emotion, both of us tearing up. Later that same day, to our enormous surprise and gratification, we ran into our old friend Johnny Magnie of the subdudes at the booth that sells crawfish sacks (a big festival hit). He seemed as glad to see us as we were to see him, and asked about mutual friends by name. Johnny was astonished to learn that I was now pastoring the congregation he used to attend and was amazed to see how adult my son was (I'm sure I'd be just as amazed by Bo and Tyler's growing up). While we clumped together visiting, folks went by and took his picture as a celebrity, with us in the picture!
•Even now, days later, I can hardly write about the experience of being at the fest for the Neville Brothers return. There were tens of thousands of people, full-throated roaring their pleasure and joy. Artie saying into the mike, "We never left, y'all, not really" meaning, I suppose, that no matter where they had been physically, it was impossible for the Nevilles to truly leave New Orleans. They ran through all the songs we wanted to hear, not like showmen, but like relatives at a gathering retelling the favorite old family stories. Famous names joined them on the stage -- Carlos Santana, for one -- but the Nevilles were all we cared about. Aaron dedicated more songs to his beloved Joel, and it seemed to us that he had been afraid to come home, fearing her loss would be worse in familiar settings. (Maybe he came to realize that he might miss her LESS if he were home.) The songs that had defined our lives, that had become part of our sexuality and our spirituality rang our over the fairgrounds -- "Tell It Like It Is," "That's My Blood," "Yellow Moon," Voodoo Woman," "Hey Pocky Way" -- and we sang and danced along, the years of our lives going by in our minds. Men and women alike broke down in an ecstasy of shared grief and joy. Couples clung to each other, sobbing on each other's shoulders. Grown men stalked past us with tears streaming down their faces. Big Man wiped his face; the woman in the chair next to ours sank down, laid her head on her knees and just cried, her shoulders heaving. The set was supposed to end at 7 pm but it went on and on, with the crowd screaming and cheering and dancing and singing along, until 7:35 pm. We practically expected a representative of the mayor's office to show up with keys to the city. Quint Davis finally came on, pronounced us all Nevilles, and told us that Jazz Fest was now officially back to normal. "Stay safe, be well, love New Orleans, and see you next year!" Totally wrung out, we staggered from the fest. Until next year.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Earth Day in the Park (Cue Lion Roar)
On Sunday afternoon, April 20th, my church celebrated Earth Day in Audubon Park with the two other Greater New Orleans congregations of our denomination, and with some 100+ volunteer adults and young people from Massachusetts and New Hampshire and Vermont, also of our faith tradition. We set up chairs and blankets in the shade behind the labyrinth, with a folding table covered in batik cloth as our altar, our chalice flame protected by a glass hurricane shade, and a flaming chalice metal sculpture crafted by a member of my congregation hanging from a low branch over us.
It was a glorious day, blue sky with a few drifting clouds, a light breeze riffling the pages on our makeshift pulpit, the grass and clover soft and green. There was a flock of birds chirping and swooping a few yards behind where we had set up, and a little further away, behind a fence, was the Audubon Zoo, where the new Asian-Pacific Festival was going on. The park was filled with happy people of all ages and races, and faint sounds of music drifted toward us from cars going by on East Drive, from inside the Zoo and the festival, from over by the Great-Grandmother Oak where some young people strummed guitars and sang softly.
We decided not to try to set up a sound system and the four ministers (one from each congregation and one community minister) just pitched our voices higher to reach our spread-out Earth Day congregation over the mild din of everything else going on. The responsibility of the Meditation portion of the service fell to me, and I gamely reminded everyone that we were not going to "enter into the silence" as in a usual worship service, but would instead enter into a time of paying attention to sight and sound -- the different shades of green from the leaves, the vines, and the grass, the blue of the sky, the creamy cottony wisps of clouds, the blue, pink, white and purple of the wildflowers, the whoosh of the wind, the songs and calls of the birds, the voices of the people around us -- even, I said, the faint sound of the animals at the Zoo -- all part of creation, all part of our world, all part of our celebration of Earth Day. Enter into a time of paying attention.
And we did. And around us was symphony of natural and human sounds that we were a part of and paying attention to. And then, right on cue, a lion at the Zoo ROARED.
Well, you couldn't have planned it any better, and when we resumed the service, I said, "That's something that never happens in church -- I've never had a lion roar during meditation before!" And everyone laughed.
When the service was done, we shared the food and drink we had brought with us -- ham and chicken (both home-made and that New Orleans church potluck staple Popeye's) and hummus, tabouleh, spinach salad, ambrosia fruit salad, 3-bean salad, cheese and crackers, black bean dip, fresh fruit, French bread and Passover matzoh, an apple pie, Girl Scout cookies, cake, and yummy baklava. Lots of cold juice and water and iced tea and soft drinks. Despite the large numbers of people, many of whom had NOT brought anything, there seemed to be enough food for everyone. Folks gathered in clumps in the shade, or on the benches around the Labyrinth and enjoyed the food and conversation and the day.
There were many hands to make light work of the clean-up afterwards, and we all agreed it had been one of the best Earth Day services and picnics ever. But the highlight of the day for me was that lion roaring into our meditation time.
It was a glorious day, blue sky with a few drifting clouds, a light breeze riffling the pages on our makeshift pulpit, the grass and clover soft and green. There was a flock of birds chirping and swooping a few yards behind where we had set up, and a little further away, behind a fence, was the Audubon Zoo, where the new Asian-Pacific Festival was going on. The park was filled with happy people of all ages and races, and faint sounds of music drifted toward us from cars going by on East Drive, from inside the Zoo and the festival, from over by the Great-Grandmother Oak where some young people strummed guitars and sang softly.
We decided not to try to set up a sound system and the four ministers (one from each congregation and one community minister) just pitched our voices higher to reach our spread-out Earth Day congregation over the mild din of everything else going on. The responsibility of the Meditation portion of the service fell to me, and I gamely reminded everyone that we were not going to "enter into the silence" as in a usual worship service, but would instead enter into a time of paying attention to sight and sound -- the different shades of green from the leaves, the vines, and the grass, the blue of the sky, the creamy cottony wisps of clouds, the blue, pink, white and purple of the wildflowers, the whoosh of the wind, the songs and calls of the birds, the voices of the people around us -- even, I said, the faint sound of the animals at the Zoo -- all part of creation, all part of our world, all part of our celebration of Earth Day. Enter into a time of paying attention.
And we did. And around us was symphony of natural and human sounds that we were a part of and paying attention to. And then, right on cue, a lion at the Zoo ROARED.
Well, you couldn't have planned it any better, and when we resumed the service, I said, "That's something that never happens in church -- I've never had a lion roar during meditation before!" And everyone laughed.
When the service was done, we shared the food and drink we had brought with us -- ham and chicken (both home-made and that New Orleans church potluck staple Popeye's) and hummus, tabouleh, spinach salad, ambrosia fruit salad, 3-bean salad, cheese and crackers, black bean dip, fresh fruit, French bread and Passover matzoh, an apple pie, Girl Scout cookies, cake, and yummy baklava. Lots of cold juice and water and iced tea and soft drinks. Despite the large numbers of people, many of whom had NOT brought anything, there seemed to be enough food for everyone. Folks gathered in clumps in the shade, or on the benches around the Labyrinth and enjoyed the food and conversation and the day.
There were many hands to make light work of the clean-up afterwards, and we all agreed it had been one of the best Earth Day services and picnics ever. But the highlight of the day for me was that lion roaring into our meditation time.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
How Many Colors Does It Take...
to paint a house in New Orleans? Well, that depends.
There was a time when I was young that the classic look for a New Orleans-style house was white boards and dark green shutters. (Turns out that this rather dull color scheme became fashionable in the early 20th century; in the 19th century, houses were painted in bright or dark colors, almost never white.)
But even white-with-green-shutters is more colors than you might at first think. The flooring of the porch is usually another color, such as dark gray, and if the house has any cast-iron trim, that's painted glossy black. And of course, there's the old tradition of painting the ceiling of the porch or under the front eave "hant blue." (This is to fool the ghosts, or "hants," into thinking they're seeing the sky, to get them to fly away from the house. I'm always disappointed when I find folks who are not keeping this old custom.) So even though the main color scheme is white with green shutters, it actually totals 4 or 5 colors.
But nowadays, we seem to be going back to the 19th century style of painting, in coordinated and contrasting bright and dark tones, and then the numbers begin to add up. There's the color of the main house, then the *2* colors of trim, the floor of the porch, the one for the railings, and finally the accent color. My sister L's house is painted in 6 colors, and looks demure compared to some others. I've also seen up to 7 or 8 without looking like a Carnival (or an exploded paint store).
But my real favorite is what's going on over at the marvelous tropical building on Magazine Street at Felicity (always one of my favorite buildings, it looks like it belongs in Jamaica or Haiti or somewhere), where Harkins the Florist has been repainting. So far, Big Man and I count 10 colors, and while it is admittedly wild, it is delightful. It makes me smile every time I drive by.
So, how many colors does it take to paint a New Orleans house? Well, it's limited only by your imagination.
There was a time when I was young that the classic look for a New Orleans-style house was white boards and dark green shutters. (Turns out that this rather dull color scheme became fashionable in the early 20th century; in the 19th century, houses were painted in bright or dark colors, almost never white.)
But even white-with-green-shutters is more colors than you might at first think. The flooring of the porch is usually another color, such as dark gray, and if the house has any cast-iron trim, that's painted glossy black. And of course, there's the old tradition of painting the ceiling of the porch or under the front eave "hant blue." (This is to fool the ghosts, or "hants," into thinking they're seeing the sky, to get them to fly away from the house. I'm always disappointed when I find folks who are not keeping this old custom.) So even though the main color scheme is white with green shutters, it actually totals 4 or 5 colors.
But nowadays, we seem to be going back to the 19th century style of painting, in coordinated and contrasting bright and dark tones, and then the numbers begin to add up. There's the color of the main house, then the *2* colors of trim, the floor of the porch, the one for the railings, and finally the accent color. My sister L's house is painted in 6 colors, and looks demure compared to some others. I've also seen up to 7 or 8 without looking like a Carnival (or an exploded paint store).
But my real favorite is what's going on over at the marvelous tropical building on Magazine Street at Felicity (always one of my favorite buildings, it looks like it belongs in Jamaica or Haiti or somewhere), where Harkins the Florist has been repainting. So far, Big Man and I count 10 colors, and while it is admittedly wild, it is delightful. It makes me smile every time I drive by.
So, how many colors does it take to paint a New Orleans house? Well, it's limited only by your imagination.
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