New Orleanians are notoriously late showing up, if they show up at all, because by and large they don’t keep calendars.  Calendars are tools for managing the future, and in New Orleans the future does not exist. . . .

As for money, New Orleanians like it well enough, but not so they’d bend their lives out of shape to get some.  They have more time than money, and that’s how they like it.  Ambition isn’t a virtue in the lowlands between Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River. . . . To the extent American’s strive to make their tomorrows brighter than today, New Orleanians really want nothing more than for everything to stay the same.

~ Nine Lives: Death and Life in New Orleans, Dan Baum

In a new ranking by Businessweek.com based on data from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS), Louisiana claims the top spot as the country’s laziest state. To be clear, by “lazy” we do not mean lacking work ethic or engagement. Rather, it is a measure of leisure time spent doing sedentary activities compared with activities that require more physical effort, such as exercising and even working.

~ Businessweek.com

When I read Dan Baum’s introduction to Nine Lives, a portion of which is quoted above, I was both offended and complimented.  We don’t keep calendars?  News to me.  Everyone I know has one (or more) and uses it.  But I think he’s right that we don’t chase the dollar the way others in America do and that we cherish our time more than other Americans.

Then I read the BusinessWeek article and had the same reaction:  We are honest, hard workers but enjoy our relaxation.

But seems I am in the minority.  Most NOLA folks (at least on twitter) take great offense to the BusinessWeek piece.  While at the same time, they applaud Baum’s description.  I still take issue with both.

Here’s why.

We here in Louisiana, not just New Orleans, ARE hard workers.  I myself have worked into the wee hours of the morning, and countless weekends, as a student and as a lawyer.  I missed Jazz Fest for the first 30-some odd years of my life because it fell during exams and I was devoted to studying.

In the work force, I have NEVER had issues with NOLA folks not, well, working.  At least not any more so than folks in other states (with the exception of the week during last year’s Super Bowl).  We take our work very personally.  We may not WANT to move up the corporate ladder, say, from administrative assistant to president of the company, but don’t let that suggest that we don’t take great pride in our work.

The BusinessWeek article admits it does not mean our work ethic is poor.  So this bit of defensiveness about our work is against Baum’s perception of us.  “Notoriously late, if they show up at all.”  WHAT?  My best friend in high school had perfect attendance for her entire academic career–and that means neither absent nor late ONCE in 12 years of schooling.  And that’s not atypical.  Many of us, me included, had years of perfect attendance.  I don’t know where Baum’s characters worked, but every job I’ve had, many of them hourly paying, would routinely fire people for incessant tardiness or absenteeism.

Now, let’s shift to the bigger issue of RELAXATION.  BusinessWeek ranks us at the bottom of the “Active” category.  I have to question this.  Really, what I question are the questions they asked in the study.  For example, did they ask:  How many miles do you walk per week? OR How many parades do you march in each year?

See, we here in Louisiana, we relax in ways that are simply foreign to our brethren in the rest of this great country.  Mardi Gras is the best example.  You in, say, Nebraska assume Mardi Gras is a day, or maybe a week long.  But in fact, its preparation takes all year.  Some parades require their riders to build their own floats.  So, each weekend for many months, the riders go down to a warehouse where the bones of the float are and literally BUILD the float.  They design, cut wood, mix plaster of Paris, sculpt, shape, paint, and otherwise make their float.  Were those folks asked about these long, numerous weekends?  Are the non-riders asked about the time they spend building, painting their child’s ladders?  Or the countless creations we’ve made to have the ice chest on wheels while at the same time being able to be stood upon when the parade rolls by?

But it goes beyond Mardi Gras.  Let’s take the next most epitomized Louisiana past-time, the seafood boil.  Those silly reporters.  They check this off as Four Hours of Sitting, Eating and Drinking.  But do they take into consideration the HOURS, nay, DAYS of preparation that goes into a boil?  We are proud to traipse all over the State to track down one key ingredient.  Or travel to EVERY grocery story and go up and down (on foot, mind you) every aisle for the precise seasonings.  We gather the borrowed boiling pots and burners; we cut countless veggies; we lug copious levels of ice to ice chests to cool beers.  Were THESE activities asked of in this study?

Louisianians treat food as a contact sport.  We celebrate it and worship it; we use it to worship; we use it through worship.  And consequently we spend a lot of time in the kitchen, whether indoors or out, preparing food in celebration.  Celebration of a hard week in the office; celebration of Bonnie not becoming a hurricane and worsening the oil spill disaster; celebration of the baptism of a baby.  And each of these requires countless hours of standing, walking, moving.

So just because we don’t walk on treadmills to nowhere does NOT make us lazy; it makes us Louisianians.  Maybe BusinessWeek needs to, em, work a little harder on its questionnaire.

My pal, Leendaluu, mentioned to me that she planned on making gumbo for the Superbowl.  This was a week and a half ago.  Clearly she already believed the Saints would be in the game.  And so did I.  And her being in upstate New York makes it hard for her to buy filé powder, poor dear.  So I offered to send her some.  Well, not wanting to send her plain, ol’ store bought stuff, I asked my foodie friend, René, if he could help.  He emailed the coordinator of the Tuesday’s Farmer’s Market.  She said that the guy who sells the powder is usually not there regularly except during the holidays, but that if it was a “filé emergency,” she may have had a jar she could get her hands on.

Now, not wanting to overstate the case here, I asked René his opinion on what, exactly, would constitute a “filé emergency.”  In the end, all three of us agreed this was a true filé emergency and if there as a jar available, it was mine.

But then last Tuesday, I got an email informing me that Lionel, the filé guy, would in fact be at the market and I could buy it straight from him.  So Sun and I were given the treat of seeing the sassafras leaves pulverized before our very eyes in the biggest, smoothest wooden mortar and pestle that can possibly exist.  It was a slice of heaven.

Hmm, slice of heaven.  KING CAKE.  After having procured the filé powder, I knew I had to send Leendaluu a Saints Game Care Package.  So Sun and I then headed to Haydel’s to get a king cake.  Though Leendaluu can assuredly bake one that’s delicious, it’s always nice to have one delivered to your door.  And what’s king cake without chickory in your coffee? So next we headed to CC’s.  Now, to tie it all to the SAINTS, I added to her package the now infamous (at least on Twitter) Fleurty Girl’s #WHODAT t-shirt.

Then came the hard part.  I had to keep my big mouth SHUT til she got it! TWO WHOLE DAYS!!  But got it she did!  And she wore her shirt Sunday and, well, y’all know the rest of the story.

Looking back, there could never have been a more dire filé emergency. I hope she enjoys her gumbo as she watches the Saints win the Superbowl. I know my running around town getting all her items was the best day I’d had in a long while.

I spent the day with my nieces (my brother’s girls), my sister and my daughter.  Not the eight girls we were prepared for, but close enough.

We ate out for breakfast, then bought some cheap craft items to do during Sun’s nap.  Then we went bowling — my nieces’ choice.  I forgot just how bad I bowl!  I think Sun scored more points than me, and that’s with all of us using bumpers.  But I wasn’t there to score points on my bowling game.

And then there was dinner.

Let me back up here for those not following me on twitter.

I am on the hunt for a cookbook published by D.H. Holmes Department Store in the mid-80s, “Bayou Banquet: Recipes From a Potpourri of Cultures.”  I took a chance that my grandmother may have had it, and I looked at a few of her cookbooks last time I visited my grandfather.  She did not have my Quest Book.  But she did have another nugget of NOLA cooking love: “The Picayune Creole Cook Book.”  Her’s was the Fifth Edition from 1916.  I asked my grandfather if I could have it; he said yes.

This book had to be either my grandmother’s mother’s or her mother-in-law’s, either way, my great-grandmother’s.  Inside the cover, there is a handwritten note that reads, “Pg. 48,” and a check mark next to a recipe on page 48. Here’s that recipe (modified by me not as to ingredients but only as to updating how to prepare):

Beefsteak Smothered in Onions

3 Pounds of Round Steak
6 Onions, Sliced Fine.
1 Tablespoon of Lard (I used vegetable oil).
1 Tablespoon of Flour.
2 Tablespoons of Vinegar.
2 Sprigs Each of Thyme and Bay Leaf.
3 Sprigs of Parsley. 1 Clove of Garlic.
1 Pint of Water.
Salt and Pepper to Taste.
Beat the Round Steak well with the rolling pin or steak hammer; cut off the outer skin and press the meat back into shape.  Place the tablespoon of lard in the deep frying pan and let it melt.  Then lay in the beef-steak, which has been well seasoned with salt and pepper and dredged with the flour.  Cover closely.  Let it simmer over a hot fire for a few minutes and then turn the steak on the other side.  Let the flour brown well.  Remove steak from pan.  Add the onions to the pan and cook until translucent.  Place steak on top of onions.  Add remaining ingredients and enough water to cover the steak.  Bring this to a brisk boil and set the pot back where it can simmer gently for about 2 hours.

My sister did not stay for dinner. My brother and his girls did. His finicky girls went back for seconds; he asked for the recipe. My husband asked that I make it again.

My grandmother was in my kitchen tonight. As was her ancestor too. There was something very powerful about cooking a dish, a simple dish, that was cooked using the same recipe some 90-odd years ago by my great-grandmother. To my recollection, my grandmother never cooked this dish for me. I suspect it was probably more of a Sunday dish she’d prepare for her children and husband. It’s been decades since this recipe has probably had my family’s eyes on it.

I am certain to make this dish again. And I am pretty sure I will not only always think of my ancestors when I do so but also my own siblings and children now too.

That’s one hell of a day if you ask me.

A few questions arose about the logistics of my worm bin.  I am nothing if not a sharer.  So here’s what I’ve learned so far.

Your standard leaf compost pile is good.  But for ubanites that don’t have enough “brown” items, primarily dead leaves, then your pile will be too “green” and not compost so easily.  Instead, it can get moldy or attract roaches, rats and the like.  Ewww.

So, for those that don’t have a lot of leaf-raking going on, the worm bin is more ideal.  That ratio of brown:green goes down.  The red wigglers EAT that green a lot faster than the leaf-pile can break it down without the brown leaves.

Companies sell both indoor and outdoor worm bins.  Some are small enough to fit in the cabinet under your kitchen sink.  Having storage issues already, we opted for outside.  Just find a place that is shady.

Now, worm population.  I honestly don’t know how many worms I started with.  More than five, less than 5,000.  Probably around 250.  As they find a comfy home with good food, they will reproduce.  But not beyond what the food supply is to feed them all.  So there will not ever be an issue of overcrowding.

When the bin gets full enough of castings, my bin also came with a grate with handles.  I’ll place the grate on top of the worm pile; place fresh food on it; wait.  The worms will rise to the new food.  After 24 hours or so, I’ll pick up the grate (with all my worms in the new food on top of it) by the handles, place it aside, dump the rich castings wherever I want it, then return the worms back to the bottom of the bin and start over.

I can place in the bin raw veggies and fruit, and their peelings, coffee grinds and filters, tea bags, grass clippings, egg shells, newspaper, etc.  (I wonder if they’ll eat nutshells… probably so, I’d guess.)  I CANNOT put in it cooked food, meat, oils, cat litter, dirty diapers, etc.

You do need to take care to “bury” the new items a few inches into the bedding, and to monitor that you aren’t over- or underfeeding them.  How will I know if I am doing that?  Primarily by smell.  It should NOT smell bad or attract flies.  If it is smelly, I have too much food in it and the worms can’t eat it fast enough.  Slow down and put the scraps in the freezer to let the worms catch up.  Not sure yet about underfeeding them.  Can’t see that happening.

And if I go on vacation? No worm-sitter needed.  They can eat what’s in the bin then survive on their castings for a few days too.  So, I can go at least a week with no worries.

Lots of this information I got online or from Grant at the Laughing Buddha Nursery.  Though not (yet) an expert, I am happy to take other questions you may have.

So far, it’s a breeze.  And it feels so good to take that food to the worms and not the trash can.

And there’s the names!  So far (from Twitter), there’s Daisy, Mr. and Mrs. Wigglesworth, Slimy Squigglesbury, III, Esq., and Huey P. Worm.  Aren’t those great?!  There’s also Joshua, Nolaiscrazy, and Rene.  NOT my faves.  But.  I still need at least another 245 names.  Anyone want to name their own worm?   Leave a comment and consider it done!

Some have called me crazy.  Some have given me puzzled looks and asked, “real worms?” and others just blink and stare.

Hi, I’m Nola and I’ve got worms.  And I like it that way.

After researching, twittering, talking to experts, sleeping on it, debating, hemming, and hawing, I made a decision and took the plunge today.  I bought a worm bin to compost my edible trash.

I bought it from the Laughing Buddha Nursery. It’s a 30 gallon barrel with holes drilled in the bottom and top.  They even provided the red wiggler worms in their bedding and saved me that trouble of getting their bedding just right.  All I had to do was place the bin in a shady spot and cover the bottom holes with newspaper:

In it will go what I think of as “prep veggies”—you know, the roots and skins of fruits and vegetables you end up with when cooking.  Nothing cooked goes in it.  Today, coffee grinds, including the paper filter, and banana peels, along with a few slices of banana Sun did not eat for breakfast.  Tomorrow will go the “trash” from the veggies we cooked with tonight: skins of garlic and onions and the innards of green bell peppers.  Oh, and the stems from parsley, parsley grown in my garden.

And what will become of these items?  The worms will eat them and then, well, you know, they will poop it.  I will end up with worm castings.  Castings that will make the best fertilizer/dirt blend.

It’s a win-win situation.

I sincerely thank all of you who have supported me in this endeavor.  And there have been many that have supported me.  And to those that did not? Well, you can just thank me for taking one for the evironmental team.  Come back in a year, and if me and my worms are still a-going, I want an apology from you nay-sayers.  Kay?

So, we all know I started a vegetable garden this Spring.  It has been a great new hobby for me.  I have been diligent on slug patrol, watering, tending, witnessing new growth.  I have also rekindled some of my aspiring do-good endeavors, namely, becoming more green.

Let’s take the slugs.  I got lots of advise suggesting which pesticide to use to kill them.  I didn’t want to use a chemical that would be dangerous for us to later eat the vegetables I am growing, or for my pets or child.  So I Googled it.  They sell “slug traps” that you fill with beer.  I called EVERY nursery, Home Depot, Lowe’s and specialty gardening center in the New Orleans area. NOT ONE had these.  They generally recommended a pesticide or salt. I’d have to go online if I didn’t want to make my own trap or if I didn’t want to continue to just use shallow bowls.  I am sill using the bowls.

One nursery, Laughing Buddha, the one that promotes itself as green, offered Sluggo, a non-toxic slug bait (its active ingredient is iron phosphate).  After researching what this product is and isn’t, I have added it to the slug-eradication equation.

In the course of battling the slugs, it slowly struck me what’s bothering me:  What the hell is wrong with our society that nurseries are NOT green?  I mean, really? You sell plants and vegetables and you aren’t green?  On the whole, nurseries have some serious chemicals in there stock, many that are dangerous to pets and children; many whose half-life will result in their being here decades after my garden is gone.

Prior to looking for the slug traps, I was looking for copper slug tape.  It is another non-toxic slug control product. Again, NOT ONE nursery or gardening center had it in stock. Most had no idea what I was talking about.

Laughing Buddha has the market on a “green nursery” in New Orleans, and they are wonderful. But even they don’t stock all the “green gardening” products that are out there.  I forgive them, however, because they are so knowledgeable and truly believe the products they have are the most superior in the market.  That may be true, but I guess I like options.

While at Laughing Buddha yesterday, the store owner, Grant, and I picked up a conversation we started a few weeks ago about composting.  He’s a huge advocate of the worm bin method.  I have slowly been coming around to that method over the traditional method.  As a matter of fact, he finally convinced me and I am going back next week to buy a worm bin!!

As I was leaving the nursery and we were wrapping up our conversation, I said that co-workers were teasing me about my garden and idea of composting, “They keep asking me if I am trying to change the world,” I said.  And Grant said, “Well, you are.  The first step is to change your own personal habits.”  Indeed, I thought, as I humbly walked to my car feeling a wee bit better about the footprint I will leave, or not, on this world.

thyme

parsley

creole tomato

artichoke

mirliton

My vegetable garden is coming along.  I have several tomato buds;  my cilantro and parsley are quadrupling in size; my shaky basil is regaining strength.  All is well.  Almost.

Enter the slug.

Yes, I my garden has slugs.  So I filled a couple of caps full of beer and placed them around the garden.  Then it rained and washed my beer away.  And the next day I had even more slugs.

Ugh.

Today, I revisited the garden not less than eight times.  And found slugs EVERY. TIME.  My solution?  Throw them as hard as I can across the yard and scream, “SEE YOU IN FOUR YEARS.”

And tonight I placed bowls, not small caps, of beer around the garden.  If I see even ONE slug tomorrow, it will be the end of all this nicey-nice.  I will resort to chemicals.  *Sigh*

But all I can think in this struggle is, I must be growing a good garden if it’s attracting slugs, no?

If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need. ~Cicero

We recently had our backyard cleared of bushes and tree stumps that have been needing to go.  Overall, the yard still needs help.  The previous owner had an in-ground pool and just threw dirt in it when they didn’t want it anymore.  So now we have a big cement crater that just needs to be broken up and taken away.  But hiring someone to do what is considered a small job? Hard to find.  But it’s too big for us to do ourselves.

Nonetheless, our backyard is coming along.  And it has afforded me the opportunity to finally plant my vegetable garden.  I have been so excited.  Researching what to plant, how to plant (we went with a square foot garden), when to plant, then planning, procuring, and executing.  It’s all been wonderful.

We started with this space:

We cultivated the hard ground, added Metro-Mix, safe fertilizer, stepping stones (more to come in the garden so that we don’t step on the roots) to define the area and got this:

Then we planted 2 creole tomato plants, eggplant, mustard greens, artichoke, thyme, basil, parsley, cilantro, and lemon verbena (to detract bugs safely) and got this:

We will also be adding mirliton, okra, cucumber, and cayenne peppers.  It will take a lot of attention.  But I LOVE the idea of fresh vegetables and herbs, and the idea of tending to this garden, and that I’ll get to play in the dirt.

New Orleans is so darned fecund.  It’s been rated as one of the greenest (not “green”) cities in America.  We have trees on patios of skyscrapers.  Left unattended, the weeds and vines in this city will not only encapsulate an entire building, I am certain if you stand still long enough, they will capture you, too, and tie you down with roots too strong to be broken.

So am I hopeful this garden will flourish? You bet I am.

Sun found her father’s small stash of cigars.  Most were given to him the day she was born.  She brought the Ziploc bag to Nola, who, in turn, thought to herself, “Why, yes, thank you.”  Nola then sat on her darkened front porch and enjoyed the autumnal weather and a cigar.

The next evening, Pete began preparing dinner in Nola’s kitchen, grillades and grits.  Nola sat on the front porch sipping a sazarac watching Sun walk up and down her next door neighbor’s walkway enjoying the high hedges.  She spied the half-smoked cigar from the night before, grabbed a lighter from inside and lit up.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

She noticed that all of the neighbors’ houses were dark and quiet.  It wasn’t yet six o’clock at night and this elderly neighborhood was already sealed in for the night.  All, she realized, but one.  The yellow house nearby, whose owner she had met during Gustav (and whose name Nola, ashamedly, has already forgotten), was ablaze with lights and activity.  The front door was open, and nicely dressed women and children were spilling out of the house and into their cars.  Nola assumed a baby shower was ending.  Soon, this yellow house, too, was darkened and the shades drawn tight.

And as Nola sat on her front porch keeping watch over Sun, awaiting the return of her husband from work, hearing Pete pounding away at the grillades in her kitchen, enjoying the very domesticity of her life, she did just what she could to capture the quiet peace of the moment.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.