After a big excursion, be it a vacation or Mardi Gras, or in this case, two solid days of French Quarter Fest, I am always left blue.  Add to that the very little sleep I got last night (we are attempting to use the Ferber method to get Sun to omit that 3am bottle-feeding) coupled with the stress of tax time, and I have been reduced to a sappy mess.  This afternoon, I read a post on the blog of a new internet friend that literally brought me to tears.

I know New Orleans has a lot of things that are negative about it.  But on a weekend like this it is hard to believe someone can be sad here.  The weather has just been perfect–in the 70s with breezes blowing, the city is lush in green everywhere you look.  And with good food and drink (without over-imbibing), and pleasant time spent with friends and family, the blues snuck up on me unawares.

I spent part of my day at the mall.  I hate, HATE, H.A.T.E. the mall.  And I was there to return stuff I bought on sale earlier in the week.  I got sucked into the ole “the more you spend the more you save” routine.  And living with buyer’s remorse sent me back today to set things straight again.  I don’t like how much emphasis this country (the world?) puts on clothing and labels and buying the latest fashion.  And to find it in a store selling baby clothing really set me even further in a funk.  And to tip the scales to assure my misery was that while I was there returning $60 worth of baby clothes that may or may not fit Sun in a year, the mother in front of me was buying $350 worth of stuff for her five-year old daughter: dresses, sandals, tops, pants, shorts, bracelets, sunglasses.  Really?  Do you need the matching bandanna AND bracelet AND sandals to go with a sundress for a five year old?  If so, Sun will not be popular.

Once done with the mall (and I was outta there pretty fast), I went to St. Henry’s Church.  The New Orleans Archdiocese has made the decision that it will be closing this church along with several others soon.  Not because of Katrina.  But because the Archdiocese is a business and these churches aren’t turning the profit they want to see.  St. Henry’s is where my great-great-great-grandfather’s funeral was out of; it’s the church where my great-grandparents as well as my uncle were married.  It is walking distance from property that has been in my family for over a hundred years.  Its closing is very symbolic to me.  And of course, very sad.

See, I live and thrive in New Orleans because I do not like change.  And neither does New Orleans.  For better or worse, we both like to keep on keeping on.  And when we do change, that change is slow.  S.L.O.W.  But I do not attend St. Henry’s Church (I currently attend church very rarely).  I feel I have “no dog in the fight,” that it is only for sentimental reasons that I want that church to stay open.  But for St. Henry’s 300 parishioners, it’s not symbolic nor sentimental, it just plain sucks.  Maitri does a much better job articulating the feelings of New Orleanians about these church closings.

So of course, getting to St. Henry’s and finding it locked really bummed me out further.  I’ll be going to mass there next Sunday.  At least it will afford me the opportunity to ask my family members if they’d like to accompany me.  I think they will.

I know I will come out of this funk, and probably sooner on account on all this nice weather NOLA is having.  And all the spring cleaning CS and I are doing in the house.  It is helping just to have our windows open right now.  And out one of those windows I can see a bloom on my hibiscus bush.  Because that punch of red admist all the green that abounds really keeps a gal like me from staying blue too long.

Day 2 of 2008 FQF is in the bag for me. It was a fun two days, and I doubt I’ll make it back out tomorrow. This Fest has been my best yet.

It started for me the best way it could, at Napoleon House:

Isn’t their courtyard awesome?

and here’s my FAVORITE summertime cocktail, the Pimm’s Cup:

Napoleon House is gracious enough to share the recipe (click here) for this drink. I’ve tried and it’s just like the real deal (even with Crystal Light lemonade). I REALLY love this drink. It is cool and refreshing and let’s you know you are drinking alcohol but is mild enough to drink throughout a hot summer day. Yes, there will be many of these consumed by me in the coming months.

The Fest itself was really nice. The music was all fabulous, as was the food. In the two days, I ate the same two things: Tujague’s brisket with spicy horseradish sauce and Mrs. Wheat’s meat pies. I love, love, love these two items. And once I eat one of each, I am full. And very happy.

We spent much of our time in Jackson Square in a square of our own–a square of shade. We did walk to the river and see and hear what was going on there, too. We heard many bands and saw much art. Here’s artist Martin Wohlgemuth’s work set up in Pirate’s Alley (I couldn’t resist buying more from him today):

And here’s another artist in Pirate’s Alley working on a streetcar scene:

And here’s more art along the side of Jackson Square:

Here are a few sights in and around the Fest:

And a footnote on my latest obsession, absinthe. First, a pic of a cool sign for a bar that is no longer:

And some accoutrement located on a bar that now sells absinthe (again):

I like ritualistic eating, and I think I will like ritualistic drinking, too! However, I refrained from drinking it this time since Sun was with me and I didn’t want to risk seeing her with two heads or other such anomalies.

Yes, French Quarter Fest is my favorite festival of the year. And today the weather was just perfect for it. Also great were the eats and drinks and art and company of friends.

Napoleon House Pimm’s Cups.

Tujaque’s brisket.

Sun (the baby and the celestial body), husband, and friends.

Great music.

More good food.  And beer.

Exhaustion.

Read a far better description here.

Maybe a post about Day 2 will be better.  Because after a very long, restful night’s sleep, I am gearing up and going back down.

Yesterday evening, I needed to go across the river (that’s the Mississippi River) to meet several clients at several locations.  Two of the locations, I’d been to before, a third was new to me.

“Across the river” is what we eastbankers refer to every city on the “westbank.”  I put quotes around the word westbank because to cross the river on the interstate (this bridge is called the Crescent City Connection, the Greater New Orleans Bridge, or the GNO for short) is to go not west but south.  Color my youth much confused with directions!  In most cities, you give directions by saying things like, “Go south for two blocks then turn west.”  In NOLA, God knows where you will end up with such directions.  You need to instead say things like, “Downtown (or uptown) side, towards (or away from) the river.”  The Mississippi River just snakes throughout the NOLA area, thus the reason NOLA is called the Crescent City–the river shapes the city in a “C.”

And Across the River, there is one major thoroughfare, the Westbank Expressway.  Thankfully, they built most of it raised so you can see it from afar.  Because, holy hell, things get confusing for us eastbankers on the westbank.

My first two stops were in an area I was familiar with–near the Jefferson Parish Court House (a place all NOLA attorneys should know) and a great little Cuban restaurant I really like.  I have seen this sign before but finally stopped to get its pic:

I do love me some neon signs!  And this one still lights up!  In taking this picture, I learned that they have turned this place into a restaurant.  I saw two men carrying a big tray of smoked or barbecued chickens into the restaurant from their outdoor cooker.  Those chickens looked pretty good, and the traffic at this little place was heavy.  Note to self: return for dinner soon.  Apparently, they also sell snowballs out of a little trailer:

Except I am reluctant to eat anything called “Wabbit Balls.”

After the second stop, I had to travel deep into the westbank and go to Harvey, Louisiana.  The client had given me directions, including going through the Harvey Tunnel.  I had Yahoo-mapped directions, and they did not advise going through the tunnel, but these directions were equally as confusing.

With the help of YatPundit and SoMo, I made it to my final location (without taking the tunnel).  And alls I can say is that I truly had no idea where I was.  Didn’t know if I was heading north, south, east or west.  Couldn’t really hazard a guess as to the direction of the Wesbank Expressway.  At least if I can get to the Expressway, I can get back to the eastbank.

But I stayed with the directions I was given and did just fine.  Upon leaving my final destination, my client gave me a shortcut to get to the Westbank Expressway.  And I found it in no time.  But again, I had no bearing on where I was.  It was really disconcerting.  See, that Expressway, like the river, snakes along. It isn’t a straight path, and so it can be due east at some points and due south (or west or north) at others.

Anywho, once getting to the Expressway, I called SoMo to bring me in to the Huey P. Long Bridge (we were meeting for dinner on the eastbank but nearer to the Huey P. than the GNO).  She gave spot on directions, and without them I promise you I would have gone WAY out of my way to end up returning via the GNO.

I couldn’t help but think while I was over there (for a total of an hour and a half) that I was in some time/space vortex.  It is so close yet a complete other universe.

I just returned from lunch at Galatoire’s and am writing while still under its magical spell.

I went with two friends, one of which is an attorney I work with and the other someone who once worked in my office.  Her betrayal at leaving the firm, this many years later, is still not forgiven.

Anywho, where was I?  Oh, yeah.  So, while driving there, we came across this old biddy in a Volvo station wagon.  She was hogging the road–driving down the middle and not picking a lane.  She then stopped to drop someone off and one in my party said, “Oh, she’s probably dropping someone off for lunch at Galatoire’s.”  We pulled into a parking lot, handed the keys to the attendant and turned to face Ms. Volvo standing behind me, keys in hand.  Oy.

We get to Galatoire’s and get my friend’s favorite table at the front in the center by the window.  And we ask for his waiter, Dorris.

And in walks Ms. Volvo.

Unconcerned with Ms. Volvo, we turned our attention to buttering our warmed French bread.  And ordering a round of white wine for the table.  Then we decided on what to eat.  All the while, my stresses of the day were still playing in my mind; my cuticles still in jeopardy.  I settled on splitting a Godchaux salad (lump crabmeat and seasoned boiled shrimp over a bed of lettuce served with a remoulade dressing) with one of my friends.  Then I ordered the Crabmeat Sardou–which Galatoire’s describes as “tender artichoke bottoms filled with fresh lump crabmeat nestled in a bed of creamed spinach and drizzled with a wonderfully rich hollandaise sauce”–in honor of Daisy Duke.  (Daisy, yes, it was Heaven.)

And then we just relaxed.  And breathed.  And enjoyed ourselves.  And talked.  We talked about David Vitter and the potential closing of the Catholic churches in NOLA and the funeral and accompanying write-ups about Al Copeland and about traveling and the state of the airline industry and about the LA Senate striking down naming the Sazerac as the State Drink and about family.  Interspersed in this good conversation was good eats and good drinks.  All served in good time and not rushed.  And somewhere along the way, my cuticles were saved as my stesses finally went quiet and I was nowhere but in Galatoire’s enjoying the best the city has to offer with good friends.

In other words, it was just your typical lunch at Galatoire’s.

When I stress, it shows in my fingers.  I don’t bite my nails; I don’t smoke and have yellow nails as a result; I don’t crack my knuckles.  No, my vice is that I pick my cuticles.  Until they bleed.  Then I pick some more.  In a good week, my fingertips will be in “healing mode” and not hurt so bad.  More typical, however, is that my fingertips are in varying degrees of injury–some are newly raw, some are on the mend, and some are completely healed.  Very rare is the case that at least some tips are not ripped.  Rare, too, is the case for all ten to be damaged.  Currently, I am in that rare case where all ten are in bad shape.  And crawfish season is upon us!  Oh, the misery of fingertip pain from the salt and seasonings getting in those ripped cuticles!!

The tip of my pointer on my right hand is in the best shape of the ten–it is close to being fully healed.  And somehow I’ve got it in my head that if I can see just one to full healing and then KEEP IT THERE then maybe I can branch out to all the others.  So, as of this past Sunday, I am NOT allowing myself to rip, touch, or so much as ogle that right pointer’s fingertip.  It’s been three days.  And the temptation has been so great.  See, when they are healed, they have these thin layers of skin that are just BEGGING to be ripped.  Or manicured.  And I am always in too bad of shape to get a manicure.  See my vicious cycle?

Do you think I can do it?  Stay away from just one fingertip?  Do you think if I do I can follow through with others?  With all ten?  I am cautiously optimistic.

I’ll keep you posted in the coming weeks!

Mondays always come fast and furious, almost as if unexpected. The thick of sleep stays with me ’til mid-morning. Even when I am awoken at 5am to the buzz of a mosquito that has been biting me. Slow and groggy and appreciative of the quiet am I until that first cup of coffee.

Mondays are full of sadness of the things that did not get done over the weekend. No trip to the museum to see the recent exhibit nor enough to-do tasks struck off the home-improvements list; no dinners at fancy restaurants nor poker parties with friends; no movies watched nor enough exercise done. Too much bickering and not enough enjoying.

Mondays are full of hope of the things that can get done in the coming week. Lined up orderly behind Monday are all the days of the week, waiting to be filled with productive tasks and time well spent. On deck this week, completion of tax returns and shopping for sandals; office work and lunch at Galatoire’s with friends; and a shift in my schedule so that I can attend French Quarter Fest on Friday with my family and friends.

Mondays garner their own respect. They are the only day of the week where you look backwards and forwards, feel hopeful and sad, are exhausted and rejuvinated, all at the same time.

Here’s hoping this Monday, and the coming week, fulfill the hopes we have for it.

Captain Sarcastic and I, along with a sleeping Sun, went to the Freret Street Market yesterday. Expect that in addition to being the monthly art market, it was also the annual Freret Street Fest. So we were treated with live music (two stages), beer and food tents, as well as lots of good art. Plus we saw Stacey.

I bought this necklace (and its cute carrying case) from Melissa Lovell of Random Acts of Craft:

And here’s a picture of Melissa at her table of pretty necklaces and magnets:

Then I saw this piece and had to have it:

It’s a painting of a flambeaux carrier. The artist is Martin Wohlgemuth, and here he is under his tent:

We’ll be seeing him again next week, and you can too. He will be in Pirate’s Alley during French Quarter Fest. We saw much more art, be it textile wares or mosaics, photography or pottery. There were many food vendors, too. And then there was this community art project going on in the center of it all:

For a donation (or for free you could not afford it), you could add your own doodle or name to the several pieces of art.

The Fest and accompanying market were way cool.

Pete has spent copious hours laboring over a new nonsense blog bling award. We give you:

We endeavor to award blogs and/or posts that are a kindred spirit with the beloved NOLA Lucky Dog. What is the spirit of a NOLA Lucky Dog, you ask? Well, it is original and iconic; it is reverential and irreverent at the same time; it will make your stomach hurt; and it is better if you are drinking liquor.

Fear not! This award will not be limited to NOLA blogs and bloggers!

To kick things off right, it seems only fitting to bestow this first Lucky Blog Award on Ashley Morris, a NOLA blogger who died suddenly this week. I did not know Ashley nor did I know of his blog until his death, but it is apparent from the love shown on the Twitter tube and the NOLA blogs that this was a great loss on my end. By all accounts, Ashley was a larger than life, NOLA loving, tell-it-like-it-is fellow. I have learned that he was a fan of Jameson, and that fact alone is highly indicative of us having gotten along swimmingly had we met. I also have learned a new word this week, a word he was fond of saying and maybe even coined, fuckmook.

So to you, Ashley Morris, we raise a glass and award you the first Lucky Blog Award. You are missed by those who loved you.

Sitting at a red-and-white checkered table at Bon Ton Cafe has a way of transforming you from the mental space you are in when you walk through the restaurant’s doors. Bon Ton Cafe has many tables in its one biggish room, and these tables are usually full during lunchtime. The buzz of conversation is intoxicating. I always feel like I will see someone I know upon walking in–a co-worker, a friend, maybe even my parents. Its brick walls remind you that this place has been here a really long time, and its distinct wall hangings keep watch to make sure things don’t change too much.

The nearby French Quarter offers many fine restaurants from which to choose. The Central Business District offers several good choices as well. The Bon Ton Cafe is one such CBD stalwart and august restaurant. Its creole and Cajun fare are top-notch. But it doesn’t forget that it’s a CBD restaurant. Which means that you get the luxury of a fabulous meal with the benefit of it fitting within your budget, both time-wise and money-wise.

And as your water glass is repeatedly filled by the wait staff and your bowl of crackers slowly get buttered and eaten along with gumbos and Debbie salads and fried oysters and grilled fish specials, and the clang of silverware plays its own song above the din of the diners, you forget those piles of paperwork waiting for you back at the office. Even if just for one too-quick-to-end hour.