As the Katrina Anniversary approaches, emotions are running high in the church I serve and in the greater New Orleans area. What happened to us would be unreal if it weren't that we have to look at the evidence of it every single day. There are still neighborhoods even Uptown -- not just Lakeview, Gentilly, and the Lower 9 -- with ruined boarded-up houses, streets with no street signs, blue FEMA tarp everywhere, and Grand Canyon potholes in the streets (even major arteries). You can always tell experienced native drivers, because they're the ones automatically making wide swerves around the known road hazards, while the newbies plow straight ahead, dropping off "cliffs" and falling into big gaps in the road. Things that ought to be fixed RIGHT AWAY are left to rack and ruin -- like the smashed wooden utility pole looming dangerously over the corner at Felicity and Simon Bolivar, apparently held up by nothing except the electric wires.
Amazingly, proving the old saying that you can get used to anything, we begin to be inured to these sights and experiences.
I was asked by the Mayor's Office to participate in the city's interfaith Katrina Memorial in Jackson Square on Friday evening. My disgust with the poor performance of the incumbent Mayor and U.S. president over Katrina made me think twice about accepting. (I wasn't sure I wanted to share a platform with the Mayor.) In the end, I decided it was more important for me to be there than to make some kind of flimsy, ineffective protest by staying away. It's been a REAL challenge, trying to compose something that doesn't indict, even if only by implication, the Mayor and the president and the Corps of Engineers and the insurance companies and .... (Well, you get the idea.) I'm sure I'll have all these feelings under control (mostly) by the time the event rolls around at the end of this week.
My church will hold its 3rd annual Katrina Dinner on Saturday night, along with the ritual based loosely on the Passover seder that was developed by Justin Lundgren, a New Orleanian, soon after the Storm . We eat our favorite New Orleans foods (pralines for sweetness, dill pickles for bitterness), the youngest children present ask ritual questions, and we always keep an empty chair for all those New Orleanians who have not been able, or have not been allowed to, come home.
The rebuilding and recovery of our poor building goes very, very slowly. (If it went any more slowly, it wouldn't even be happening.) I'm still preaching from a flimsy and rusty music stand, trying to be a good sport about it. The floor in the Sanctuary is still scarred and pitted bare concrete, the water line is still visible above the new paneled wainscoting, and the ceiling shows missing and drooping acoustic tiles (which weren't attractive even before Katrina). The chapel has no electricity, but at least now has a new bamboo floor. The RE wing, with the exception of the new admin and minister's offices, has no floor, except for painted (pitted) concrete. The area where the kitchen and old board room used to be has at least been cleared and gutted, and is ready for the construction of the planned commercial kitchen that will be shared with a local AIDS agency. We hope to begin construction this fall, as soon as engineering plans and permits are taken care of.
So much of church life seems on hold -- we can't easily hold regular potlucks or dinners or social gatherings without a kitchen, and the unfinished, even ugly, appearance of the Sanctuary requires a suspension of feelings and awareness for a good worship atmosphere. Sometimes it all seems overwhelming.
And yet...
And yet there are many hopeful, happy signs. The people who live here, who've always lived here or who've moved here since It happened, are determined and committed, and absolutely united in their/our love for the city. As Ned Sublette wrote in the coda to his new book, "The World That Made New Orleans": "They refused to cooperate in their own erasure." He was writing about Mardi Gras Indians, but it now stands as a fitting declaration for all of us New Orleanians.
We refuse to cooperate in our own erasure, our own Disneyfication, our own irrelevance. We stand together, united in our affection for our culture, our music, our food, our way of life, our beloved, still beautiful city. We will not be erased or removed.
We are New Orleans. We go on.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Drink and Draw
Add this to the long list of "Only in New Orleans" stuff:
The Circle Bar, St. Charles at Lee Circle (the one in the gorgeously decaying old house that was once, I believe, the home of the first woman physician in the city), has a new offering to attract customers on Sunday afternoons. It's called, appropriately enough, "Drink & Draw," and it features a live nude model and Happy Hour pricing on all drinks. You pay $20 for two hours, bring your own drawing pad, stretched canvas, or illustration board (or, knowing how folks are, blank typing paper or an old legal pad) and your favorite drawing and painting media (ball point pens, anyone?), and sketch away. For slight extra fee, there's an actual art teacher to help you improve, if you're that interested.
Regularly, there's a "show" of the works produced at the weekly Drink & Draw, at places like Surrey on Magazine (the food there is divine, but don't try to go for brunch on Saturdays and Sundays -- the waiting line practically goes around the block). From what I could observe, the finished works of "art" are pretty much what you would expect from folks who are drinking and drawing on a Sunday afternoon, but what the hey, most people are definitely NOT going to Drink & Draw because they are, or have aspirations to be, Great Artistes.
Only in New Orleans. Sit in a decadent old mansion on a Sunday afternoon, look at a naked woman, drink low-priced drinks, and draw or paint (or pretend to draw and paint). How can you beat that?
I love this city.
The Circle Bar, St. Charles at Lee Circle (the one in the gorgeously decaying old house that was once, I believe, the home of the first woman physician in the city), has a new offering to attract customers on Sunday afternoons. It's called, appropriately enough, "Drink & Draw," and it features a live nude model and Happy Hour pricing on all drinks. You pay $20 for two hours, bring your own drawing pad, stretched canvas, or illustration board (or, knowing how folks are, blank typing paper or an old legal pad) and your favorite drawing and painting media (ball point pens, anyone?), and sketch away. For slight extra fee, there's an actual art teacher to help you improve, if you're that interested.
Regularly, there's a "show" of the works produced at the weekly Drink & Draw, at places like Surrey on Magazine (the food there is divine, but don't try to go for brunch on Saturdays and Sundays -- the waiting line practically goes around the block). From what I could observe, the finished works of "art" are pretty much what you would expect from folks who are drinking and drawing on a Sunday afternoon, but what the hey, most people are definitely NOT going to Drink & Draw because they are, or have aspirations to be, Great Artistes.
Only in New Orleans. Sit in a decadent old mansion on a Sunday afternoon, look at a naked woman, drink low-priced drinks, and draw or paint (or pretend to draw and paint). How can you beat that?
I love this city.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
No Such Thing as a Private Conversation in NOLA
Big Man leaned across the restaurant table to the transplants from Tennessee, his eyes alight with merriment. "I'm serious," he said, "Unless you're in your car with the windows rolled up, or in your own home, there's absolutely no such thing as a private conversation in New Orleans." Our guests were already agape since a few minutes before, our waitress had "butted in" to the table's discussion of the exact boundaries of the Irish Channel, and given us the benefit of her opinion and experience. The good folks from Tennessee had never before experienced such a thing.
It happened to us again on Sunday, during the Satchmo Festival. We had taken refuge inside Coop's on Decatur for a seat, a restroom, and air-conditioning (drat the heat!), and had stayed to eat from their excellent fare. (You gotta love those lamb ribs! Man, I could eat like 5 orders!) We were seated at the long table that faces the entrance, and since there were only two of us, another couple was already seated at the other end. It didn't take more than a minute for us to be in conversation with the people at that end of the table, after the male half of the couple overheard part of our conversation and joined right in. When they were finished and left, and as the place got more crowded, more people were seated at that end, and the whole thing started up again.
I do not know of any other city where this is true, that strangers so readily talk to each other, where "eavesdropping" in order to join a conversation already in progress is so widely accepted, where at any moment in public you have to be ready to respond to the remarks of someone who, up to now, you didn't know at all. Big Man says you're likely to get comments from passersby while you are making groceries ("Oh, that's good stuff, we use it at my house" or "Honey, don't buy dat, it's a rip-off) and if your car windows are rolled down, somebody is apt to comment if they can overhear any part of your conversation, or even if they can just hear your radio.
This is SO characteristic of New Orleans. One time, the year after Katrina, my sister L accompanied a friend to Manhattan for a buying trip for furniture and decorating fabrics to rebuild the friend's flooded family home. I joined them just for the day from where I was living in suburban Philadelphia. At the end of our day-long "forced march" -- my sister does not believe in taking the subway, a bus, or, God forbid, a taxi, when you can just as well walk and "see more" -- we ate dinner at a little Spanish restaurant in Greenwich Village. While we were there, it began pouring rain, trapping us inside with the staff and the few customers from the neighborhood. The three of us were talking about New Orleans and the recovery process, and my sister noticed a man seated near us who seemed (to her) to be listening to us, and she began including him in our conversation. He was at first uncomfortable, but soon warmed to our Big Easy style. L ascertained that the man was from the neighborhood, and ate in this little restaurant several times a week. Spotting the only other customer in the place besides us and our new friend, L asked, "Do you know that guy?" Looking over, the man said, "I don't know him, but I've seen him in here before." "That's ridiculous," declared my sister, and she marched over to where the second man was seated, and introduced herself to him. "We're from New Orleans," she said, as if that explained everything, "and we can't stand to see people eating alone." She then introduced the two men to each other, and admonished them not to be strangers to each other. "Y'all see each other in here all the time," she chided them, "you don't have to be strangers."
I still get a little teary thinking about that incident, how three women from New Orleans, in the immediate wake of the Worst Thing That Could Happen, could still represent the spirit of our beloved city so well, introducing these New Yorkers to each other. I often think about those two men and wonder if they ever sat together after that, or if at least they nodded in a mildly friendly way to each other, remembering those crazy women from the Big Easy and how they spoke so easily to strangers.
There is no such thing as a private conversation in New Orleans because we're all just dying to get in your business, to contradict, to embellish, to share a clue about a restaurant, grocery store, or music club you haven't heard of, to give you directions, to offer unsolicited advice, to become your new best friend. We talk to people in elevators -- now how crazy is that? (A young adult parishioner of mine said she was so glad to home, where, she said, no one would think she was a bag lady if she greeted them on the street or in an elevator.) We don't know why Yankees think you can't say "good mornin'" on the street or "hey y'all" on elevators; we feel sorry for their self-imposed isolation.
Us, well, we've never met a stranger. There's just folks you haven't spoken to yet.
It happened to us again on Sunday, during the Satchmo Festival. We had taken refuge inside Coop's on Decatur for a seat, a restroom, and air-conditioning (drat the heat!), and had stayed to eat from their excellent fare. (You gotta love those lamb ribs! Man, I could eat like 5 orders!) We were seated at the long table that faces the entrance, and since there were only two of us, another couple was already seated at the other end. It didn't take more than a minute for us to be in conversation with the people at that end of the table, after the male half of the couple overheard part of our conversation and joined right in. When they were finished and left, and as the place got more crowded, more people were seated at that end, and the whole thing started up again.
I do not know of any other city where this is true, that strangers so readily talk to each other, where "eavesdropping" in order to join a conversation already in progress is so widely accepted, where at any moment in public you have to be ready to respond to the remarks of someone who, up to now, you didn't know at all. Big Man says you're likely to get comments from passersby while you are making groceries ("Oh, that's good stuff, we use it at my house" or "Honey, don't buy dat, it's a rip-off) and if your car windows are rolled down, somebody is apt to comment if they can overhear any part of your conversation, or even if they can just hear your radio.
This is SO characteristic of New Orleans. One time, the year after Katrina, my sister L accompanied a friend to Manhattan for a buying trip for furniture and decorating fabrics to rebuild the friend's flooded family home. I joined them just for the day from where I was living in suburban Philadelphia. At the end of our day-long "forced march" -- my sister does not believe in taking the subway, a bus, or, God forbid, a taxi, when you can just as well walk and "see more" -- we ate dinner at a little Spanish restaurant in Greenwich Village. While we were there, it began pouring rain, trapping us inside with the staff and the few customers from the neighborhood. The three of us were talking about New Orleans and the recovery process, and my sister noticed a man seated near us who seemed (to her) to be listening to us, and she began including him in our conversation. He was at first uncomfortable, but soon warmed to our Big Easy style. L ascertained that the man was from the neighborhood, and ate in this little restaurant several times a week. Spotting the only other customer in the place besides us and our new friend, L asked, "Do you know that guy?" Looking over, the man said, "I don't know him, but I've seen him in here before." "That's ridiculous," declared my sister, and she marched over to where the second man was seated, and introduced herself to him. "We're from New Orleans," she said, as if that explained everything, "and we can't stand to see people eating alone." She then introduced the two men to each other, and admonished them not to be strangers to each other. "Y'all see each other in here all the time," she chided them, "you don't have to be strangers."
I still get a little teary thinking about that incident, how three women from New Orleans, in the immediate wake of the Worst Thing That Could Happen, could still represent the spirit of our beloved city so well, introducing these New Yorkers to each other. I often think about those two men and wonder if they ever sat together after that, or if at least they nodded in a mildly friendly way to each other, remembering those crazy women from the Big Easy and how they spoke so easily to strangers.
There is no such thing as a private conversation in New Orleans because we're all just dying to get in your business, to contradict, to embellish, to share a clue about a restaurant, grocery store, or music club you haven't heard of, to give you directions, to offer unsolicited advice, to become your new best friend. We talk to people in elevators -- now how crazy is that? (A young adult parishioner of mine said she was so glad to home, where, she said, no one would think she was a bag lady if she greeted them on the street or in an elevator.) We don't know why Yankees think you can't say "good mornin'" on the street or "hey y'all" on elevators; we feel sorry for their self-imposed isolation.
Us, well, we've never met a stranger. There's just folks you haven't spoken to yet.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
New Orleans' Beach(es)
I've had occasion several times this month to drive to Pensacola, where my brother and sister-in-law live, for family visits. On one drive, Big Man commented on all the Louisiana license plates surrounding us on the interstate. I laughed. "Don't you know," I said to him, "that Pensacola is New Orleans' beach?"
When I was a girl, along the Gulf of Mexico from Bay St. Louis to Biloxi was New Orleans' beach. It was an easy drive along Highway 90, and a family could do as a marathon in one day, there and back, sunburned and sandy, or take a more relaxing weekend and stay in one of the then-innumerable beach strip motels along the way. (Sadly, so much of this strip was totally and completely destroyed by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, and only now, almost 3 years later, are they just starting to sputter back to life with hotels, shops, and restaurants. Lots of rebuilding going on, which is a good thing.)
When Interstate 10 was finished, the drive to the even-better beaches along the Alabama coast and the Florida panhandle became more accessible, and individuals and families from New Orleans began staking their claim from Gulf Shores to Destin.
It is not quite as segmented as the Philadelphia-Jersey connection, where it has been truthfully said that if you learn what neighborhood in Philly a person is from, you can immediately guess which South Jersey shore town they go to in the summer. But it is true that many New Orleanians would cheerfully argue the relative merits of Gulf Shores vs. Orange Beach, Pensacola vs. Navarre, Fort Walton Beach vs. Destin ad infinitum.
Pensacola, kind of the center of the New Orleans-oriented part of the Florida panhandle, has an ambivalent relationship to the Crescent City. In Pensacola, I saw a Florida license plate spelling out "SAINTS," and there were hundreds of Florida cars sporting Saints bumperstickers, decals, and black-and-gold fleur de lis. Restaurants all down the coast advertise gumbo, etouffee, and even red beans and rice. "Authentic New Orleans Sno Balls" can be found in every beach town as a cooling treat.
A "Tail of Two Cities" is a souvenir that can be purchased in many places in Pensacola; it depicts a nattily dressed pelican, wearing fleur de lis on one side. It is supposed to represent downtown Pensacola and Pensacola Beach. But the artist is a New Orleanian and seems to have captured instead a linking between NOLA and Pensacola.
The relationship between the two is not always close and happy. In last weekend's Pensacola newspaper, there was an article about a night of gallery-hopping that involved both live music and the serving of adult beverages. The article emphasized that this year the police would be enforcing local ordinances about no drinking alcohol on the street, even in non-glass containers, so that gallery-hopping participants in the Arts Night would have to drink up or discard their drink before leaving one gallery for another. There was some protest about this -- apparently, in previous years, law enforcement had turned a blind eye to the strolling gallery patrons with their go-cups. (Me, I can't see why this is an issue, but then, I'm a New Orleanian.) A Pensacola city councilman, interviewed on the little brouhaha, declared firmly to the reporter, "This is not New Orleans, you know!"
Anyway, it was a surprise to Big Man to feel so at-home in the Florida panhandle, until he realized that it's almost, but not quite, New Orleans Far East.
Our plans for the rest of summer include explorations to New Orleans's "old beach" along Highway 90, gas being so expensive and the bay St. Louis-Biloxi arc of beaches being so close. More reports from New Orleans' beaches then!
When I was a girl, along the Gulf of Mexico from Bay St. Louis to Biloxi was New Orleans' beach. It was an easy drive along Highway 90, and a family could do as a marathon in one day, there and back, sunburned and sandy, or take a more relaxing weekend and stay in one of the then-innumerable beach strip motels along the way. (Sadly, so much of this strip was totally and completely destroyed by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, and only now, almost 3 years later, are they just starting to sputter back to life with hotels, shops, and restaurants. Lots of rebuilding going on, which is a good thing.)
When Interstate 10 was finished, the drive to the even-better beaches along the Alabama coast and the Florida panhandle became more accessible, and individuals and families from New Orleans began staking their claim from Gulf Shores to Destin.
It is not quite as segmented as the Philadelphia-Jersey connection, where it has been truthfully said that if you learn what neighborhood in Philly a person is from, you can immediately guess which South Jersey shore town they go to in the summer. But it is true that many New Orleanians would cheerfully argue the relative merits of Gulf Shores vs. Orange Beach, Pensacola vs. Navarre, Fort Walton Beach vs. Destin ad infinitum.
Pensacola, kind of the center of the New Orleans-oriented part of the Florida panhandle, has an ambivalent relationship to the Crescent City. In Pensacola, I saw a Florida license plate spelling out "SAINTS," and there were hundreds of Florida cars sporting Saints bumperstickers, decals, and black-and-gold fleur de lis. Restaurants all down the coast advertise gumbo, etouffee, and even red beans and rice. "Authentic New Orleans Sno Balls" can be found in every beach town as a cooling treat.
A "Tail of Two Cities" is a souvenir that can be purchased in many places in Pensacola; it depicts a nattily dressed pelican, wearing fleur de lis on one side. It is supposed to represent downtown Pensacola and Pensacola Beach. But the artist is a New Orleanian and seems to have captured instead a linking between NOLA and Pensacola.
The relationship between the two is not always close and happy. In last weekend's Pensacola newspaper, there was an article about a night of gallery-hopping that involved both live music and the serving of adult beverages. The article emphasized that this year the police would be enforcing local ordinances about no drinking alcohol on the street, even in non-glass containers, so that gallery-hopping participants in the Arts Night would have to drink up or discard their drink before leaving one gallery for another. There was some protest about this -- apparently, in previous years, law enforcement had turned a blind eye to the strolling gallery patrons with their go-cups. (Me, I can't see why this is an issue, but then, I'm a New Orleanian.) A Pensacola city councilman, interviewed on the little brouhaha, declared firmly to the reporter, "This is not New Orleans, you know!"
Anyway, it was a surprise to Big Man to feel so at-home in the Florida panhandle, until he realized that it's almost, but not quite, New Orleans Far East.
Our plans for the rest of summer include explorations to New Orleans's "old beach" along Highway 90, gas being so expensive and the bay St. Louis-Biloxi arc of beaches being so close. More reports from New Orleans' beaches then!
A Big Thank-You to Essence!
The Essence Festival returned to New Orleans for the second year after Katrina July 4-6, and once again, it was a boon for the city as well as a heck of a good time for the close to 200,000 festival-goers who came to the city for the event. (Some say higher, some lower, but that's the figure I'm going with.) The hotels were full, the casino was jumping, and every night Bourbon Street was nearly impassable.
There's talk in some circles that Essence participants do not spend their money as they might in the city's shops, restaurants, and businesses, and that fest-goers aren't the world's biggest tippers, but there can be no doubt that a group of such magnitude coming to the city is a bottom-line positive thing. We can always work with the Essence folks to do better marketing and promotion of the many other attractions the city has to offer, and help educate ALL our visitors on the etiquette and necessity for tipping. (So few other cities have nightclubs with live music where it is expected that the band has to be tipped, for example. But in New Orleans, if the band doesn't make good tips, they can't pay bills.)
One thing that particularly struck me about Essence -- and had to occur to any person who saw the thousands of Essence guests on the streets -- was how gorgeous, absolutely stunning, the Essence women are. It was like a case study in How Many Ways Are There to be a Beautiful Black Woman. The apparent answer to that hypothetical question is, "About 100,000."
The beautiful black women at Essence were very young, youngish, middle-aged, and oldish, into their 70s. Their skin color ranged from pale olive and coffee with lots of cream to tan and dark beige to rich chocolate and dark coffee to nearly ebony. They were reedy slender, skinny, shapely, curvy, REALLY curvy, classic hourglass, and large. They dressed to the nines, wore beautiful jewelry and accessories, and walked with style and grace. They held their heads high, looking this way and that at the sights of the city -- while providing quite the feast for the eyes themselves.
While during Essence New Orleanians might have lamented the lack of on-street parking, the high prices of parking lots (I saw $30, $40 and even $70 prices posted on private lots and hotels!), the closed-off downtown streets, and the challenge of walking in the French Quarter day or night with around 200,000 new folks -- in the end, as always, The Party With a Purpose that is Essence was a gift to the city.
Thanks, Essence, and a big NOLA shout-out to all the gorgeous sistahs who graced our city that weekend.
There's talk in some circles that Essence participants do not spend their money as they might in the city's shops, restaurants, and businesses, and that fest-goers aren't the world's biggest tippers, but there can be no doubt that a group of such magnitude coming to the city is a bottom-line positive thing. We can always work with the Essence folks to do better marketing and promotion of the many other attractions the city has to offer, and help educate ALL our visitors on the etiquette and necessity for tipping. (So few other cities have nightclubs with live music where it is expected that the band has to be tipped, for example. But in New Orleans, if the band doesn't make good tips, they can't pay bills.)
One thing that particularly struck me about Essence -- and had to occur to any person who saw the thousands of Essence guests on the streets -- was how gorgeous, absolutely stunning, the Essence women are. It was like a case study in How Many Ways Are There to be a Beautiful Black Woman. The apparent answer to that hypothetical question is, "About 100,000."
The beautiful black women at Essence were very young, youngish, middle-aged, and oldish, into their 70s. Their skin color ranged from pale olive and coffee with lots of cream to tan and dark beige to rich chocolate and dark coffee to nearly ebony. They were reedy slender, skinny, shapely, curvy, REALLY curvy, classic hourglass, and large. They dressed to the nines, wore beautiful jewelry and accessories, and walked with style and grace. They held their heads high, looking this way and that at the sights of the city -- while providing quite the feast for the eyes themselves.
While during Essence New Orleanians might have lamented the lack of on-street parking, the high prices of parking lots (I saw $30, $40 and even $70 prices posted on private lots and hotels!), the closed-off downtown streets, and the challenge of walking in the French Quarter day or night with around 200,000 new folks -- in the end, as always, The Party With a Purpose that is Essence was a gift to the city.
Thanks, Essence, and a big NOLA shout-out to all the gorgeous sistahs who graced our city that weekend.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
In Praise of Creole Tomatoes (especially heirlooms!)
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.)
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.)
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!
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