CS had today off. Oh, what to do? How not to waste the day? I read the newspaper and scanned what events were going on today.  There was a book sale at one of the libraries.  That’s always a good thing to me.  Then there was a party for the streetcar beginning the route from Carrollton to St. Charles Avenue again post-Katrina.  Well, I am all about streetcars these days.

But then my eye settled on a third event.  A book reading at New Orleans Main Library.  The book was “Cooling the South: The Block Ice Era, 1875-1975,” by Elli Morris.  See, my family, way back when, was a very major player in the New Orleans block ice business.  A great-great-great uncle made a fortune in the business and sold it just before the Stock Market Crash of 1929.  And his line of the family sailed through the Great Depression flush with cash.  My great-great-grandfather had a small piece of this family business and my great-grandfather worked in the business, too, until it was sold.

So, with my curiosity piqued, we were off.  Getting off the elevator on the Main Library’s third floor brought me back in time to the countless hours I spent there researching my family.  How coincidental that that research had brought me back where I started for a book reading.

Inside the auditorium, there were few people.  Elli Morris talked for about 45 minutes.  Her family owned the Morris Ice Company in Jackson, Mississippi.  She grew up around all the machinery.  Her photographer’s eye drew her to the icehouse over and over.  Their icehouse is no longer working (like so many other block ice plants) but it is still every bit in tact.  She lived there for a year in 2001.  And explored and photographed.

Then she researched and learned that her family played a role in a much bigger piece of southern, even American, history.  And so her little story about her family’s business mushroomed into a much bigger project.  Her book is the result of her hard work.

She talked about the inventor of the first ice machine and ice deliverymen, and the ice trucks that were pulled by mules.  She explained that some trucks did not have a spot in the front for a driver; that the mule knew the route and didn’t need to be steered.  And she talked about the switch to refrigerators and the customers who returned their refrigerators because they were too noisy!

She intimated to the decline of the block ice industry, but “didn’t want to give away” the end of her tale.

Morris then opened the room for Q&A and then signed and sold her books and blank cards of her beautiful photographs.  Her book is wonderful–it is hardcover and filled with lovely photographs along with her thoroughly researched story.  The cover of her book shows a block of ice “feathering” as it freezes from the outside in.

Elli Morris will be in the New Orleans area for about a week and then she is moving on to other parts of the country with her book tour.  This is something that is truly fascinating, and hearing her tell of her story and read from it was just a delight.  Click on her site here and check out her schedule.  You won’t be disappointed.

I prepared my longest post ever. Then broke it into three shorter posts. Then wasn’t satisfied at all. Then the Supreme Court ruled that we have a Constitutional personal right to bear arms. Then my head exploded. And I got political on twitter about local politics. Then a recording of one of those local politicians called my house. And my head exploded again.

Earlier, I wrote about knitting and how whatever I experience as I knit goes into the piece and becomes a part of it every bit as much as the yarn. Cue the awwws. Yeah, well, the warm and fuzzies have left the building.

And instead of going on a political rant that will generate comments that are certain to make me seethe, I will only quote the philosopher Santayana: “Those who cannot remember the past, are condemned to repeat it.” And I will be pissed if I am repeating a past others failed to learn.

Goodnight and good luck.

A few years back, when Trading Spaces was a reason to stay home on a Friday night, I got the bug to sew.  I had visions of curtains, pillows, table runners, you name it.  I did my research and bought a sewing machine recommended by a sewing friend.  This was before we had Sun.  People told me I was nesting.

Whatever the reason, I was a sewing fool.  I sewed curtains and pillows and eye pillows (I actually sold those) and wine bags for Christmas gifts (including the wine!). Then I sewed a dress and hat for SoMo’s daughter.  Well, hell, that was using a pattern and it looked pretty good!  Then I got addicted to Ebay (don’t judge–you know you’ve been there!).  And I searched all manner of vintage sewing notions.

Confessions of a Misplaced Southern Belle recently turned me on to Giabella Designs.  Giabella’s aprons make me ache.  They are sooo beautiful–go check them out!  They remind me of the best find I had found on Ebay back when the sewing bug bit me, this vintage apron pattern:

But I wasn’t done with Ebay.  I then found some Michael Miller designer fabric, called “Cocktail Time.”  It was the perfect match for the pattern.  And so I made an apron:

Isn’t it adorable?!? And with the extra fabric, I went to my sister who owns a serger and she made me two bar towels and eight cocktail napkins.  I still adore this set.  It’s my favorite thing I ever sewed.

Then I made the little black and white number, but I used some designer Christmas fabric. It’s in the attic, or I’d show you a picture of it too.

Then I got courageous and made this cocktail one again for a newly-married friend with Miller’s fabric entitled, “How to Keep a Husband,” and I adjusted the pockets to mimic the pattern.  She, too, got towels and napkins.

And since they are so darn cute, my sister and mother-in-law put in requests, and we even bought the fabric they wanted, for me to make them one, too.  That was about three years ago.

And now, after not having sewn in a really long time, I have that itch again.  That itch to stitch.

I went on a field trip yesterday, really a wild goose chase that bore no fruit.  It led me to the neighborhood I grew up in.  The area was very badly damaged by Katrina.  As I drove toward my old address, I passed the hospital I was born in, the library I used to spend hours in, street names that immediately reminded me of my childhood.  Simultaneously, everything, all I remember, was different.  But the same.  The buildings are, for the most part, still there.  But most are no longer what they were when I moved away over 15 years ago.

So as I was driving not recognizing a thing, I was turning on the streets without having to look at signs.  I know that area like the back of my hand.  I always will.  And it was the oddest emotional mixture being reminded of dance lessons and summer school and swim lessons and the house that kept their glass Christmas tree in their front show window all year ’round while at the same time seeing just the skeleton of those memories.  The neighborhood is still raw, exposed, vulnerable.  It’s like someone took a huge swath of duct tape and stuck it on all the surfaces and then YANKED.  Underneath it all, it is what I remember, the past.  But on the surface, what is the current, real situation is destruction and slowness of recovery.

The Catholic Church that was right down my street, that housed my Catholic grammar school, is in good shape.  They obviously worked to get it re-opened.  It looks different.  Again, the buildings are the same, but there was a new street and new paint that changed the appearance.  It no longer felt like “my” school.

Then I turned on my old street.  And I got butterflies in my stomach.  I remembered so much!  Our friends’ homes; the house of the cranky old man who had a hook instead of a hand (he was a fireman and lost it in a fire and was very bitter about it); the big house with the fountain in the center that we’d go through as it was being built; the house of the architect and his family–he built it off his own design ala Mike Brady; the houses surrounding my old house that house more memories than I could maintain in the moment.

And for each house that had been worked on and had a car in front, four houses were still empty with the tell-tale watermark and spray-painted “X” on the wall.  Some had painted over the “X” but when your house is brick, paint is hard to cover.  The one bright spot was that there was a car in the driveway of my old house.  It wasn’t a vacant, forgotten house.  It had no watermark.  It looked surprisingly like we left it, even down to a sticker we left on a small window in the front.  That sticker!  I have a shrinky-dink of that sticker in some box somewhere.

I do not think a single neighbor from 15 years ago still lives there.  The empty lot across the street had a “new” house on it.  It was vacant all those years we lived there.  It had been flooded, and the For Sale sign had a Mississippi phone number.  Another NOLA ex pat.

I pulled away and drove the block and a half to the location of my first job–a hardware store.  It is still open.  Just after Katrina, when we were still rather numb but functioning, I recall being at the corner of my street heading to drive to Baton Rouge (an hour away) to go to the temporary office my firm had set up.  On the local talk radio was a familiar voice.  My first boss.  He was pleading for help in getting electricity back on at the shop so he could sell, you know, HARDWARE to folks that needed it desperately. I almost cried when I heard his voice.  I had been thinking about him, the store, the old neighborhood, knowing it had been hit hard.  But he is tough and survived and was fighting to get back on line.  It was the first real sign to me that the city WOULD recover.  Because of the business owners like him that just wouldn’t walk away and would make it go even with no help from our government (fed, state or local).

I walked into the store yesterday.  He’d expanded the ol’ place.  One of the doors was boarded.  The front desk has a watermark a foot high.  I sneaked to the back and saw him doing something so typical–bending over a lawnmower with a wrench.  He sharpens chainsaw, lawnmower, and edger blades and fixes their motors, too.  He looked up and said, “Can I hep ya… [then he recognized me] … Girl, get over here and give me a hug!” And we embraced. And caught up on the last five years, focusing mainly on his recent heart surgery and his troubles post-Katrina.

He was like a second father to me back when I worked for him.  Two of my brothers worked for him before me.  And his key employee is the same as it was 15 years ago.  And many of her siblings worked there over the years too.  It is a quintessential family joint.

Damn. Writing this is getting to me.  I titled this post before I started writing it.  And I realize I am wrong.  My home wasn’t that house.  It was the people that housed my life back then.  And many are relocated but still around.  And seeing my old boss, my dear friend, WAS going home, at least a little bit.

I cannot say enough how much I like love crawfish bisque.  It may well be my all-time favorite dish.  Growing up, my mother never made it, not once.  The first time I had it was at my best friend’s aunt’s.  That bowl set the bar very high.  My grandmother would make it every couple of years.  Maybe.  Sometimes less.  The reason you see it so infrequently is that, done correctly, it takes a lot of time.  All together, it probably takes a full day to prepare.

First, you need to boil crawfish.  Then pick them.  Then clean the heads.  Cleaning the heads is the worst part of preparing this dish to me.  Not because it is as gross as it sounds (it isn’t much more weird than peeling the tails) but because you have to snip off the noses of the crawfish.  This rips my fingers to shreds.  Here’s what four look like cleaned and ready to be stuffed:

Only 146 more to go.  Yes, the recipe I use (from Marcelle Bienvenu’s “Who’s Your Mama, Are You Catholic and Can You Make A Roux? A Family Album Cookbook” –great title, eh?) calls for 150 stuffed heads.  That’s a lot of heads!  Now, the next step is to stuff said heads.  To do that, you chop bell peppers, celery, onions, garlic, and crawfish tails and mix that together with stale french bread crumbs.  You then mix in more tails you did not chop and saute in oil with lots of salt, black pepper and cayenne pepper.

Cooling crawfish head stuffing.

Let the mixture cool.  Then stuff the heads and roll them in a mixture of seasoned and plain breadcrumbs.  They will look like this:

Bake them until golden brown in a 375° oven (about 20 minutes).  At this stage, go crack a beer.  And give yourself a high mark for Effort.  You have come far and done well.  You are clearly at the point of no return and the rest, as they say, is a cakewalk.

Okay.  Now, the recipe calls for sauteing more crawfish tails (the recipe calls for a total of four pounds of crawfish tails) with salt, cayenne pepper and paprika.  The recipe suggests 1 tablespoon of cayenne.  That will blow my mouth apart.  We used 1/2 tablespoon this time, and that seems juuust right.  Then you add warm water and roux to the pot.  Well, damn. If I hadn’t read ahead, I’d have been in a pinch because I make roux and don’t buy it.  So before I get going on this step, I make that roux first so that I can add it without having to take my cooking pot off the stove.

Pontchartrain Pete doing the work of the sous chef.

In yet another pot, saute green peppers, onions and celery until they are tender then add them to the main pot along with more water.  Cook vigorously for 2 minutes.  Add more water and cook for 15 minutes at a lower heat.  Then add green onions and parsley and let cook 10 minutes more.  Use this time to also cook a pot of rice.  Your hard work will be rewarded with a lush pot of this:

Everyone you know, and some you don’t, will invite themselves over for dinner.  Seriously.  It IS that good.

And the best thing is that this is one of those dishes that tastes better the next day after the flavors have had time to meld and relax.  So leftovers are as decadent, if not more so, than the first eating.

Bon appetit!

Drinking in New Orleans.  I could say no more and just post pictures.  But who are we kidding?

Friday, a small group from the Twitterverse met up for lunch at Galatoire’s.  I adore Galatoire’s, and have said so time and again.  For a succulent read of Friday’s foray, read Pete’s post.  It was a glorious time.  After we finished dining, we were not done imbibing.  So after having two Sazeracs at Galatoire’s, we headed off into the French Quarter for more.

Galatoire’s Sazerac

Being already on Bourbon Street, we did not have to stumble walk far to end up here, the quintessential place to continue the consumption of Absinthe:

Since absinthe is again legal in the U.S., there is a new fascination with the green-glowing liquid.  The first brand we tried was Le Tourment Vert from France.  The Old Absinthe House burns the sugar cube and then pours water over the cube to melt it.  There is debate whether to burn the sugar cube or not; historically the cube was not burned.  But, damn, it is pretty:

We then tried Lucid (also from France):

Then we did Kubler, made in Switzerland.  My preferance? Tournment, Kubler then Lucid.  But they were all smooth and tasty.  Absinthe is anise-flavored.  Licorice.  But with the sugar and water that is added, it isn’t overly bitter.  In fact, as for drinking, it is refreshing, and kind of like a breath mint.

Absinthe posters at The Old Absinthe House

Now, aside from the booze, there is really an allure for me to be in a bar in the middle of the day.  It scares me sometimes how much I like it because left to my own devices, well, let’s not think about where I’d be on a given Wednesday at 2:30 in the afternoon if left to my own devices.

My ancestors on my father’s side of the family came to New Orleans over 100 years ago.  We stepped of the boat and started tending bar in the Central Business District and the French Quarter.  And we did this for decades.  It hasn’t worn of yet, that desire to be in a bar during the day.

And most appealing to me is an old bar, one that may have seen my ancestors.  Like the Old Absinthe House.

All the wood and brass.  The patina of years of traffic.  The legends and myths of meetings of pirates.  Ah, to go back in time in the very seat you are sitting on!  As the time passed, the bar went from mostly empty to quite busy.  Much of the crowd, like us, meandered from Galatoire’s.  Mid-afternoon, the skies growled then opened.  And it rained.  A lot.

And if there is one thing I like more than being in a bar in the French Quarter in the middle of the day, it is being in that bar with its doors thrown open when a good, hard rain comes through.  It quiets all of the outside noises down; no sounds of traffic or Lucky Dog vendors or folks walking down the street.  The entire universe, all, is what is inside that bar with you.  It is a lovely way to span time.

After more absinthes than I care to recount (ok, four), we left the French Quarter and made a stop at the Swizzle Stick Bar for my other recent luxury, the Adelaide Swizzle.  It was now 6:30pm.  I was exhausted.  We parted ways and ended a perfectly wonderful day of imbibing in the Quarter.

I am going to try something new here–I am going to write what is in my head right this moment. No previous thought has gone into this post; my thoughts have been all over the place. Here goes.

I had an epiphany this week. Ok, epiphany is a bit strong of a word. I had a realization. A confirmation of a suspicion. An acceptance.

In the hospital two weeks ago, my sister offered to drive to Dallas to allow my husband to return to work ASAP. She’d have had to have driven 8 hours each way; we knew I wasn’t going to be able to drive. Turned out I was sprung early enough that my sister did not have to follow through.

Upon my return, my sister took Sun for 3 days/2 nights. Then another 3 days/2 nights. And Sun was content to be with my sister and her family. I had worried she’d be fussy; she wasn’t in the least.

I knew my sister would make a great aunt. She’s the aunt to six other nieces and nephews just on our side of the family. And I knew my sister would do anything for me, no matter how intrusive or short-noticed.

But.

It’s a completely different thing when someone DOES anything for you than from you KNOWING they would do anything. And it was meaningful to her that I LET her do for me. I tend to do for myself, not ask for help and turn it down when offered. But this surgery brought me to my knees.

My sister and I spent today at the zoo with Sun and my sister’s niece. She wants to start seeing Sun once a week during the summer while she’s off from work.

When I mentioned to my sister once that I was sorry that Sun wouldn’t know our grandmother or the fun childhood memories we had of our fun aunt, she said, “Sun WILL have that. With me.” And she is being true to her word.

My sister and I are close in a sisterly way. We don’t talk every day or gush about every detail of our lives when we do talk. She doesn’t know about this blog, even. But I KNOW there is NOTHING I couldn’t tell her, nothing she wouldn’t support or help me with. Even if she thought I was in the wrong, she’d take me in and hug me.

The boil we had this past weekend didn’t have all of my family, but it did have many of the friends that we consider family, the family you create. And when I think back on the boil—Sun swinging; box fans blowing; the screened porch blocking both sun and rain; family and friends enjoying good food, drink and company—I realize that such event is EXACTLY like the childhood memories I cherish so dearly. (Is that an epiphany?) Except now we are creating these memories for Sun, just as I had hoped we would.

And THAT makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.

Or it’s the absinthe I am drinking.

Hodding Carter, who was a progressive journalist and author, and fellow Louisianian, is credited for saying, “[t]here are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One is roots; the other, wings.”

On the first anniversary of Sun’s birthday, I keep thinking to myself, “Roots and wings.” This year has gone by awfully fast. I have taken a lot of pictures, maintained her baby book, kept this blog, and kept a journal entitled, “The Story of You” for Sun when she gets older telling her of her “firsts”—her first trip to the park, the zoo, her first flight, her meeting her family members, her teeth coming in, her immunizations, her CT scan, her hemangioma treatment, her first Mardi Gras parade, her first Jazz Fest, her first night away from home—all the details of her life that I think she’ll find of interest when she is older.

But through it all, I am aware of my job, my goal: To raise Sun to leave me. To fly away with her wings. And to give her a foundation, roots, to ground her as she makes her own way in the world when the time is right.

How hard it is to be a parent, to give such love so freely, so willingly, to someone we KNOW we will “push” out of the nest. If the quickness of this one year is any indication, Sun will be out of my nest in hardly any time at all. My time with her is short and I need to make the most of it.

I know she will grow up and hate when I refer to her as my baby. I know because being the youngest of five, I have detested my parents calling me their baby girl for years. But not anymore. Now I know that when my parents look at their adult child, who they loved so tenderly when she wasn’t feeling well in the wee hours of the morning as a baby, they still see that sweet love of theirs reflected back in the face whose brow they’d wipe. I know Sun will fly away one day. But she’ll always have a piece of my heart with her. I can only hope when she does fly away, her roots keep her grounded. And connected to her parents.

Happy birthday, Sun. Momma loves you more than you will ever know until you have a child of your own.

Crawfish boils are a common thing during summers in New Orleans.  I threw my first boil a couple of years ago and was amazed at the amount of work that goes into one.  Here’s a quick to-do list:

1. Order the crawfish in advance.
2. Buy groceries—veggies galore (this year, potatoes, onion, garlic—the typical trio—along with celery, lemons, broccoli, brussel sprouts, corn, artichokes, and mushrooms), sausage to throw in too, along with spices, salt, booze, napkins (and wet wipes), ice (day of), cokes (we in the South, or at least my family, call all sodas “cokes”), water, and garbage bags.
3. Cut the grass.
4. Board the dogs.
5. Sweep the porch.
6. Borrow and set up folding tables and chairs on newly cleaned porch to accommodate 30 people.
7. Put several fans (not less than three) on the porch.
8. Borrow second pot, burner, basket and cover.  Boiling goes quicker if you can do two pots at a time.
9. Fill propane tanks.
10. Be sure you have a tub for the crawfish to soak in pre-boil.
11. Pick up crawfish.
12. Prepare side dishes.
13. Set up pop-up tarp for the men-folk/boilers so they don’t fry in the sun.
14. Clean the house.
15. Bring ice chests down from attic.
16. Get koozies/huggies out of pantry.
17. Cut/prep veggies.
18. Purge the crawfish (sorry, fellas).
19. Boil the crawfish and the veggies.
20. Eat and enjoy!

Yes, they are a lot of work.  Almost as much work as will go into the crawfish bisque we will be making with the leftover crawfish.

Today was such a good day.  My sister and her husband and son arrived early, as did my aunt and uncle, to assist with getting things ready.  The women dressed Sun and prepared side dishes while I drove to the Marigny to get the birthday cake from NOLA Cafe and Bakery.  The men started boiling the seafood so it’d be ready when the guests arrived.

My husband also finally installed a swing on the porch for Sun.  She LOVED her swing.  How much?  She fell asleep in it!  Ok, that may have been because she still had fever and no nap, but it was darn cute.

I could write many other details of the wonderfulness of today—seeing friends and family that I see regularly and some not so often, drinking Pimms Cups, eating watermelon, enjoying my new teak furniture, laughing, relaxing, watching the rain—but what made today special was something less concrete than any one of these things, or even all of them combined.

Recovering from surgery still, I was FORCED to take things slow and not push to the extreme.  It caused me to be even more organized than I usually am for a party.  But as it got nearer and nearer to 1pm and I could see not every detail I wanted attended to was going to get attention, I didn’t resist or balk or scramble.  I just allowed it to be good enough.  I was confident that overall we were ready.

And those things that did not get attention, I promise you, no one noticed.  I was at peace all day.  As Sun ached with fever, we took turns holding her and caressing her and swinging her.  And she’d feel better or not or nap or not or laugh or cry.  But through it all, she was a delight.  My baby is turning into a little girl.  A gentle, wee bit shy, sweet little girl.  And mamma was mighty proud of her today, and mighty proud of her home, herself, her very life.

I am starting to feel a good bit better.  Thanks, Katie, for all your e-mails of support and for everyone else’s comments and twitterings; it all really helped!

Today I had the privilege of meeting Jane Moneypenny from Variety is the Spice.  I don’t know how many of you have read this blog, but it’s special.  It is co-authored by two 20-something girlfriends in a conversational setting–as though they are talking over a cup of coffee or a beer.

My suspicions were confirmed today.  Jane and I were separated at birth.  Yes, she is 13 years younger than me (not that she pointed that out, she is no way that rude!), and yes we don’t look all that much alike.  But we are one in the same.  We share the same childhood, the same all-girl NOLA Catholic high school experience, the same values, the same morals, the same opinions.  Hell, we even share the same philosophy about clothing and shoes: they are nice, but there are so many more REASONABLE things to spend our hard earned money on!

But here’s where she and I differ.  When I jumped into life, I jumped into law school.  And living 8 hours from NOLA.  Then came home and settled in for the long haul.

Jane, she went to college in St. Louis then stayed for a job.  But then she realized that wasn’t her life’s ambition.  So how did she jump into life?  She jumped off a cliff.  Literally.  And figuratively.  Because if jumping off that cliff wasn’t ballsy enough (and it was way more ballsy than anything I’ve ever done), she’s quit her comfortable, secure, 401(k)- and health insurance-provided job.  And she has no job lined up.  And she’s going to Europe for three (3!) weeks.  She actually does those things that I hardly allowed myself to dream.

She’s saved her money so that she can have this amazing European experience with a few of her friends.  And once back in the States, she’ll start looking for that right job, that right city, that is the right venue for her to continue her life’s great adventure.  Aren’t you dying of jealousy?  Didn’t you wish you’d have had the nerve to do that at 25 years old?

Well, you can!  Sort of.  You, like me, can live vicariously as Jane starts her life’s big adventure and blogs as she goes.  I am sure she will have a great time and have not one single regret about leaving St. Louis.  I am still in awe with what she’s already done, and she hasn’t even gotten on a plane yet.

Bon voyage, Jane!  Send us postcards!!