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!

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.

As I mentioned, returning from Dallas, we spent a night in Natchitoches (pronounced Nack-a-tush not Natch-i-toe-chis).  I was tired, CS was hungry.  I was content to call room service, but there was no restaurant in the hotel.  Instead, the hotel recommended a whopping two restaurants, Ryan’s and Mariner’s.  We don’t like Ryan’s so we headed to Mariner’s.  All I wanted was a cup of soup, so my expectations were pretty low.  I kept thinking it’d be funny if we ate Fried Green Tomatoes recalling that the movie was filmed here.

We drove up to a bucolic scene of the restaurant nestled on Cane River Lake overlooking fishing camps:

We walked in to a room whose wall facing the lake was all windows.  It was dusk.  It was lovely.

The menu gave a brief history of the city, and offered an extensive array of food choices.  I settled on a grilled shrimp salad.  CS was torn between the Stuffed Cajun Catfish (baked fillet with Rosetta’s seafood stuffing) and the Acadian (Tilapia fillet, blackened or baked, smothered with their award-winning crawfish etouffe).  He went with the waitress’s recommendation, the Acadian.

First they brought CS’s soup, lobster and crab bisque.  I love lobster and crab and a good bisque.  I didn’t order this myself, though I wanted soup, because I wasn’t sure it’d be any good and it would be too rich in any event.  It was rich, but was like silk.  The seafood was perfectly cooked and the seasonings were spot on.  It was a very good start.

Then they brought the entrees.  My grilled shrimp salad was your typical greens and dressing.  But those grilled shrimp were some of the best I’ve ever eaten.

Let me back up a minute.  I don’t eat seafood out of New Orleans very often.  It tends to be stereotypical, overpriced and quite disappointing.  Now, getting into Cajun land, Lafayette, Shreveport, Natchitoches, I ease up on my don’t-eat-seafood-out-of-town rule.  But you need to take care that you are in a good place and not been taken.  So, I was a bit cautious about eating at a seafood restaurant, especially leary of bad seafood.

So, these shrimp were grilled to perfection.  Something that is often not done in New Orleans.  These shrimp had grill marks on them!  And they tasted as good as they looked.  They were just the right size, not too small but not so large that they should be butterflied.  As good as they were, I could not finish them nor my salad.  CS would finish my shrimp, which is something he rarely does–finish my food–but these were just that good.

And then there was his Acadian.  This dish, even in my frail condition, was platonic.  No question this was remarkable.  Again, a little background.  I am not a fan of crawfish etouffe.  It tends to be a bit gritty to me and just something I don’t prefer.  As a matter of fact, when it comes to crawfish I like them boiled (well) the best.  I don’t like them cooked otherwise; I don’t like crawfish bread or crawfish Monica; I don’t like crawfish sausage or crawfish pasta.  These dishes just don’t do it for me.  So, I would have passed on a fish dish with crawfish etouffe covering it.  I’d have been missing out.

Mariner’s offered the best crawfish etouffe I have ever eaten.  In my life.  In my entire southern-Louisiana, 38 year long, life.  And CS agreed.  It was what etouffe is meant to be: spicy and hearty but not heavy and overly rich.

My skin absorbed the quiet and solitude this restaurant, this oasis, offered to me as I was convalescing.  I half wished to stay at this very spot for a week and enjoy the cool breeze that blew on the dock that we stood at after we ate.  It was so relaxing and picturesque.  On the dock, a father was standing with his two children and they were feeding catfish and turtles fish food.  I was informed that if you feed a catfish at the same time every day, you can train him; he’ll return day after day at the same time.

I have this dream of one day owning a fishing camp of my own.  I don’t think I want the dream to come true because then taxes would have to be paid, grass cut, floors cleaned, windows to board in hurricane season, etc.  But I have this vision in my head of owing a little place like the one just across the lake from Mariner’s (in the picture above).  And now I know where I’d like my imaginary camp to go, too.

Our trip to visit some of Captain Sarcastic’s family had gone well.  His entire family welcomed me into their hearts the second I met them years ago.  So it was as good for me to see them as for CS.

We stayed at CS’s paternal grandfather’s house.  Being 90 (or 92, there is a debate about his age), he keeps his house warm.  As in no A/C.  In Texas.  In the summer.  Ninety degree summer.  My husband did manage to get Poppy to turn on the air at night (but not during the day!) but it took most of the night to cool down.  Fans blew in every room.

Our last evening was spent with Poppy and his son and wife.  We had dinner at the lake.  I don’t recall which lake–like a lot of things in Texas, the lake is named after someone.  The meal was mediocre BBQ (and to me that is bad).  The view and the company were delightful, even if the meal wasn’t.

We ate around 6pm.  Then we all headed back to Poppy’s and visited.  Aunt and Uncle left around 9pm.  About when they were leaving, I began to have a stomachache.  I felt overfull and blamed it on the bad BBQ.  I’ll leave out the copious details (you’re welcome), but I was up all night, yakking all of what I had eaten Sunday.  My ribs were hurting terribly–front and back.  The back rib pain was concerning.  I’d never experienced that before and rattling in my memory was something about it being a sign of a problem with some organ.  I am a wealth of medical knowledge

Around 4am, I woke CS (well, I am sure I was waking him all night long) and told him I was really concerned that maybe I needed to go to the ER.  He asked if I wanted to go right then.  When he asked, I doubted myself.  Surely this wasn’t serious and we’d have to wake the baby and Poppy and make a big deal.  Instead, I asked CS to go to the pharmacy and get me some meds.  He did.  He got up at 4am and drove around a town he does not know to get me meds without one word of complaint.

The meds did nothing.  Time passed slowly, I continued my trek to the bathroom, den, bedroom, all the while grateful of Poppy’s bad hearing and the noise of the fans drowning out what CS would otherwise have heard.

At 6am, Sun woke up.  And so did Poppy.  My bad situation just got worse with a little person who needs attention and an onlooker.

Finally, I knew our plan to drive 7+ hours to get home was not going to happen.  I was going to screw up CS’s work.  I was going to have to stay in Dallas until I was at least medicated enough to not yak or roil in pain.  I was going to be imposing on all kinds of family.  I was not happy.  And I continued to think it was a stomach virus that I was just going to medicate so as to get on the road.

We called Uncle No. 2 who recommended we go to Baylor Hospital.  I checked in and was seen relatively quickly.  Initially, the ER doc, too, thought I was dealing with a stomach bug.  But they ran a battery of tests that abdominal pain warrants to be sure my symptoms weren’t masking anything serious.  First, they took my blood and gave me an IV of saline to rehydrate me.

And in the meantime, they started me on morphine.  Ah, morphine, my old friend.  I had you with my delivery of Sun and with my wrist surgery.  It did not take away all the pain (and I really thought it would), but made it bearable.  I asked for ice chips but they wanted to see the results of an upcoming CT scan before I had anything in my stomach.  On the off chance surgery was needed.

The bloodwork came back.  It showed an accelerated white blood cell count.  “What’s that mean?” I asked, really scared for the first time.  What with my wealth of medical knowledge, I thought they were concerned about it being cancer.  “It is a sign of an infection,” my nurse told me.  My male, hot, straight, soon-to-be-a-daddy-of-a-baby-girl-too nurse.  I loved Nurse Tim.

“Oh,” I said, thinking we were back on track of a stomach virus.  You know, a viral infection.  Nurse Tim knew we were on a new track.  He switched me off morphine.  So as I was swimming in concern and self doubt, in pain and not dealing well with the big imposition I was being on, em, everyone around me, Nurse Tim injected me through the IV with dilaudid.  And before the syringe was out of the tubing, I was seeing clouds.  And my body was immediately light as a feather and heavy as a sinking stone all at the same time.  My muscles decided to release.  I could HEAR my head turn to look at CS.  I could see my head moving in slow motion while it was already turned to face my husband.  And all the while that cloud I had seen was now beneath me and I was floating on it.  I still felt some pain, but I no longer cared.

I was in good hands.  And I was beginning to suspect the CT scan was going to show whatever it was for which they there were now looking.  And it did.  It showed my gall bladder was quite infected.  Acute cholecystitis to be exact.  What caused it?  My diet (the word “cholesterol” was mentioned)?  Something I did or neglected?  He said it probably wasn’t my diet; that I am not overweight (take THAT Wii Fit!); that it occurs more in women in there 40s who are still fertile.  Well, I am not quite 40 and did have fertility problems, but I tend to fall in that group, I guess.

In talking to us, the ER doctor showed a look of surprise.  He said that he’s usually good at “seeing” that a person is sick when they come through ER.  And not that he thought I wasn’t feeling well, but he didn’t think I “looked” as sick as I was.  How sick am I?  Why are you saying this?  I worried. He explained that my gall bladder needed to be removed.  Standard procedure and all, but one that I’d prefer to have back home, but one that couldn’t wait nor endure the drive home.  “Sooner than later,” he said.  “This afternoon.”

Then a resident came to talk to me about the procedure.  This doc was hot, too!  As was another resident that attended the surgery.  Girls, if you must spend time in a hospital, find one like Baylor with all the male hotties!!  Where was I?  Oh, right, the procedure.  He drew my gall bladder, liver, pancreas and small intestines on a wet board.  With the gall stones they were certain I also had, his rendering of my gall bladder looked curiously like the head of a cartoon mouse.

The standard procedure is to cut four incisions around the gall bladder, locate the gall bladder, snip it, and remove it through one of the incisions.  See? Straight forward.  Unfortunately (and due to all the lawyers), they need to tell you every potential risk.  This list was harrowing to hear.  But doing nothing was just not an option as it could lead to some of the same risks and others far worse.

Then we waited to meet with the surgeon.  During this time, CS made calls to key family and friends.  And rubbed my back.  And assured me the work he was delaying was not a concern for him in the least.  That he wanted the best care for me and we were where we needed to be.  He outshone all the male Baylor hotties.

So after coming to terms with it in my mind, a second dose of dilaudid, and meeting with the surgeon and anestheaologist, we proceeded with the surgery.  Me, with much trepidation.

Then I woke up in recovery.  I was told that things went well, nothing but the standard occurred.  The doctor told my husband he was surprised I was not having problems prior to the day before because the gall bladder looked really bad and had several large stones in it.  He also said two very small stones are still in me and should go away on there own, but for me to otherwise follow up with my primary care physician in six months.

They sent me to my room around 11pm.  And finally, for the first time in the day, I was able to put something in my mouth, my belly.  Ice chips never tasted so good.

Captain Sarcastic is many things.  For one thing, he is good at getting the latest gotta-have electronic item.  Today, he asked me to help him unload the car.  I assumed there were groceries.  I was wrong.  Wii Fit was sitting in the back of the car.

So, after determining that I am overweight (not a secret–still gotta lose that baby weight), I jumped on my Wii Board and started to hula.  And what did it show?  That I FAILED!  Wha?  Screw hula hoops.  Let me balance.  I have GREAT balance.  I took yoga for years.  Well, according to Wii Fit, my balance is off, way off.  So, what’s a girl to do?  I broke for dinner out with a friend.

But after dinner, we returned to the Wii.  And I did the hula hoop thing over and over until I finally “passed.”  Then we hit soccer balls (and the occasional shoe and panda head) with our heads.  Then we moved to the slolum.  I had trouble getting between the flags but got the hang of it about the fourth time.  And we ski jumped.  And I eventually passed each task I started.  And it was a lot of FUN.  And a good bit sweaty.

So if you don’t see much of me here for a while, don’t worry.  You can find me on my Wii Board.  And maybe the next time I am here, I’ll have a BMI or Fit Age of 21!

This weekend and next is The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival.  To many, this is THE festival of the year.  It is certainly the biggest and most famous.  My husband is one of those die-hard Jazz Festers.  He has a brass pass and will be attending every day minus one due to work, six days of festing for him.  That’s a lot.  My in-laws are two more hard core Festers.  They will have driven 30 HOURS, over two full days, to attend JF.  Yeah, it’s a big deal.

And in honor of Jazz Fest, Pete and I will be bestowing our next Lucky Blog Award.

We will be scouring blogs to find the single best post about this year’s Jazz Fest.  So, if you are festing it up at JF and think we may miss your post, leave a comment on this post with a link to your post and we’ll check it out.  You do not need to leave a post to be eligible to win, but we do need to read it!

So whether you are in New Orleans or not, hop around the NOLA blogs (many can be found under my NOLA Blog Krewes) and those vacationing in NOLA to read all about Jazz Fest 2008.  It never disappoints!

My funk is, finally, over.  Over. OVER. O.V.E.R.  And I hate to admit what it took, but I will

It took a day completely, fully, wholly, unattached.  Captain Sarcastic took Sun to Jazz Fest today, and because I had to work yesterday I was not in the office today.  Ten plus hours of me-time!  Ah, it was a luxury just to think of it.  I wanted to do NOTHING of the things I normally do; I needed to do something other than the same places with the same faces.

Yesterday on the twitter, talks were had about meeting for drinks this afternoon.  Things were settled on Cooter Brown’s.  Then, later in the evening on the twitter, Bud’s Broiler came up.  And before long, YatPundit and I had made plans to meet for lunch for a Number 4 and Number 3, respectively, each with cheese fries.

So once CS and Sun were off this morning, I spent an hour cleaning.  I got more cleaning done in that one alone-hour than I have in the past year!  It was amazing.

Then lunch.  I LOVE a burger at Bud’s Broiler; they are char-grilled and yummy.  But today the focus wasn’t on the food; it was on the company, the conversation.  We talked about blogging, twittering, lawyering.  We talked about the proposed church closings, cemeteries, where we went to high school.  We talked about being a cultural catholic, and about being a parent.  We talked and talked and talked.  No babies, no office calls.

After three and a half hours, I needed to leave.  I had meant to run to the knitting store between lunch and my next agenda item, but that fell to the wayside.  YatPundit and I parted and I drove to Old Metairie to meet Katie at Lovejoy Spa for a pedicure.  I haven’t had a pedicure since I was pregnant–a year and a half ago.  It was JUST what I needed.  Adult activities with adults with no children.  We talked about weddings and doctors and weddings OF doctors.  It was decadent.  I could have sat in that vibrating chair for two pedicures.

Then Katie and I parted–her to nap and me to head to Cooter Brown’s.  At Cooter Brown’s, Yat Pundit arrived and then WarriorEngineer. And so did my cousin and two of his friends.  We drank beers from “around the world.”  And I ate a dozen raw oysters.  Their oysters are some of the best in the city: super fresh, ice cold and salty.  Oh, and yeah, MORE cheese fries.  Damn, their cheese fries are amazing: hot discs of potatoes SMOTHERED in dripping hot melted cheese.

At the end of it all, I got a call from CS sounding downright frazzled.  This is a sound usually found in MY voice, not his.  All day at Jazz Fest alone with Sun–including an exploding diaper and port-o-lets–had taken its toll. I was needed back home.

Walking in the front door to a bathed Sun (Sun-bathed?) and an apologetic husband (he was sorry he’d interrupted my day alone–can you believe?), I was rejuvenated, refreshed.  I AM rejuvenated, refreshed.

I am appreciative of the blessings of my life, of my family, of this lil blog o’ mine, of the comments and e-mails you, my amazing readers, sent me regarding my last post.

I am a lucky gal.  And all I needed was a bit of exclusive me-time to feel it all again.

I had to pick Sun up from the Westbank today.  Seems I am across the river often these days.  Today I passed Mosca’s twice.  Once was hard, twice was really hard.  Especially because YatPundit kept twittering about how he had cooked Mosca’s Chicken a la Grande last night.

Over dinner, I mentioned Mosca’s, planning a trip back to eat dinner.  A diner close to us mentioned a rumor he’d heard about Al Capone sending his chef to New Orleans to learn from Mosca.  I have no idea if this is true.

Then later tonight, YatPundit posted about his home-cooked Mosca’s dinner last night.  He used a sauce Mosca’s sells in the grocery store.  And YP mentions yet another mob-themed rumor about Mosca’s in his post.

Oh, the allure of a mob-rumored hole in the wall restaurant in the middle of nowhere three cities away!  Yes, we will have to do a group dinner there soon.  Until then, I will just pretend that YatPundit’s post was also a scratch-n-sniff.  I can almost smell the garlic!

When I was younger, I believed all the songs I’d heard about love, about it being all you need and it keeping couples together, that it was the be-all and end-all.  Then I fell in love and learned love was not all you needed.  That love can hurt and make you go down roads you need not go down.  I became a realist at a young age.

In Captain Sarcastic, I finally found the right balance of head and heart.  I loved him, and still do, completely.  I think of his presence in my life and know his absence would hurt more than a shotgun blow to my chest.  And he’s reliable and dependable and lots of other “-ables” that made him a logical mate for me.

We’ve been together for 10 years now and married for just over five years.  I had to recount those five years three times just now to be sure.  Time has flown by–that’s what Katrina and fertility treatment can do to you.  And now that we have a daughter, that love is in many ways stronger.

But.

Sometimes, the act of being married can wear you down.  Nietzsche wrote

If we live in too close proximity to a person, it is as if we kept touching a good etching with our bare fingers; one day we have poor, dirty paper in our hands and nothing more. A human being’s soul is likewise worn down by continual touching; at least it finally appears that way to us–we never see its original design and beauty again.

One always loses by all-too-intimate association with women and friends; and sometimes one loses the pearl of his life in the process.

I agree with Nietzsche that living close can wear you down, that it can make you forget the original design and beauty of someone.  But I don’t agree that we always lose by all-too-intimate associations, by marriage.  Sometimes?  Definitely.

Things have been rough for me lately.  Mainly due to my own insecurities–worries about money (I will never not worry about money; it’s just the way I am hard-wired) and this impending economic depression; worries about my career and any loss I may have as a result of cutting back due to having Sun (see, money again); worries about my father who was recently diagnosed with an aggressive form of prostate cancer and the fact that I can’t imagine ultimately living in a world without parents; and worries about my relationship with CS.

CS and I have been fighting.  A lot.  Like, every day.  Partly because he dropped a ball that has real impact to us.  And that ball is tied to money.  Ah, money.  You bitch.  And partly because I dropped an equally as financially-impacting ball, too.  And with each ball dropping, my base, my sense of security, the etching of my very soul, gets chinked, rubbed.  And now it has been chinked and rubbed so much, so regularly, that I am raw, exposed.

And we both want to get back to where we were.  We both want to rediscover each others’ original design and beauty.  We love each other, even on our worst days.  But that love isn’t enough to carry us to the finish line.  Nor will me bathing in patchouli fix this.  No; there is no quick-fix to this problem.  There’s work to be done; time needed to heal, rebound, regroup.  But we are up for the challenge, determined to do the work.  And that resolve is there because of our love.

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.