Health has been avoiding our house lately. And yesterday, it was CS and Sun who were down and out. So Pete and I headed to New Orleans East to attend the Tet Festival to celebrate the Vietnamese New Year.

There were vendors selling religious statues, irises, art and furniture.

Games for kids of all ages. Here’s one prize fish we all hoped got to his new home quickly:

And there was food.

Delicious phở:

And perfectly fried plantains:

And there’s the unusual.  I knew they’d be serving the fertilized duck egg, and I knew it wasn’t even conceivable for me to try it (I gag on tongue still). But I so wanted to see someone try it.  Pete chickened out too.  I was disappointed.  But then I ran into a friend and her husband.  And doncha know he WANTED to try one!  I asked if he’d mind me taking pictures and gawking; he didn’t.

Once he cracked it and SAW it, he said, “Oh, wow, he’s further along than I expected.”  Oh my.

Undaunted, he took a bite. I looked away. And then back. It was now just gooey looking. Blech.  He said, “Mmmm.” Then took another bite and then another and finished it.

After my face stopped cringed against my will and I regained control of my senses, I asked how it was.   Pete asked if it tasted like a scrambled egg.  He said it did not.  His final verdict: It was really good.  “Except for the beak.” And then I momentarily lost control of my senses again.

Then we stepped to the stage to see the two-men-in-one-dragon dance (there were actually two dragons but I did not get a good pic with both in it) and fireworks.

Overall, it was The Awesome!

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.

New Orleans has rather mild winters, as far as weather goes.  When I was younger, I preferred the summers:  swimming and sno-balls.  But as I get older, the heat and humidity of a New Orleans’ summer gets to me more.  And now I find her winters more preferable.

Winter, and by that word, I mean the period from December 22-March 22 (the true winter season), in New Orleans includes Christmas, New Years, and Carnival.

Carnival season began yesterday, Twelfth Night.  Mardi Gras is early this year, February 16.  It seems it will be a cold one.  And that usually equates to thinner crowds, a good thing to us parade-goers.

I wasn’t in much of a holiday mood for Christmas or New Years.  And, honestly, I am not that excited about Carnival this year.  Maybe it’s yet to come.

I am not sure why the holiday slump.  I am in good spirits otherwise, but the hassle of holidays just doesn’t seem worth the payoff lately.  I’d rather just stay home and knit.  Or build puzzles with Sun.  Or play Little Big Planet on our new PS3.

There’s something going on, my desire for some sort of hibernation.  Maybe it’s just winter getting the better of me.  Maybe when it warms up a bit, and that sun shines warmly on my now-shabby garden, when Spring arrives, maybe I’ll feel that rejuvenation of spirit.

But for now, I’ll work on getting excited about King Cake.

We’ve dropped my mother-in-law at the airport after a three-week visit. What a crazy three weeks it’s been. And now I am home and Sun is napping and my small house feels large, cold and empty. And that mirrors my heart. Mia is from New Orleans and her love of the city rivals mine. She, like her son, is someone I can sit and NOT talk to for hours. We just enjoy being together more than we enjoy being apart.

When I was dating, the mothers of the boyfriends I’d met were all my mother’s age or older. And I always impressed them as a girl you’d keep around. And I always felt a pseudo mother-daughter relationship with these women.

When CS and I were dating, I refused to meet his parents until I had a commitment from CS. His parents live in Ohio and we were told we’d have his sister’s room to ourselves if we visited. There was NO WAY this old fashioned girl was going to share a room, A BED, in her boyfriend’s MOTHER’S house. And when I did eventually meet his youthful parents (I am the youngest of 5, my mother had me when she was 29; CS is the oldest, his mother had him when she was 20), I didn’t envision them as parental figures. Instead, we became friends. And this visit firmed up that fast friendship that began some eight years ago.

Mia wants to return to New Orleans. Her husband is agreeable to a move if he can find work here. I just keep hoping it will somehow happen. It seems impossible. That it isn’t meant to be that Sun will have her youthful grandmother near her the way I had mine as a child.

I know I’ll feel better day by day as the post-visit blues pass. But dammit. I miss her to pieces.

Four years ago.  That’s what’s been abuzz in New Orleans on the news, radio, twitter.

NPR did a story Thursday that will be published this Sunday in the New York Times Magazine.  I tuned in midway through the story, the story about Dr. Pou and the deaths at Baptist Hospital, a story every New Orleanian is very familiar with and has a strong opinion about, on both sides.  Several minutes listening, I thought, ‘Is it today?’

No.  The anniversary was not yesterday.  Nor today.  It’s tomorrow.  The 29th.  The day the storm hit land in southeast Louisiana–the night the levees broke.

It’s very hard for me to hear Katrina stories, to watch Katrina documentaries, to read accounts of the storm.

My immediate situation, my Katrina story, is not a horrible one.  I have relatives, and clients, who cannot say the same.  I have heard many stories of Katrina experiences.  Some that make me cry for the unsung heroes, others that make my teeth set on edge for the ‘what-can-I-get-for-free-from-whomever’s-got-a-handout’ mentality.

But those four-year-old stories of what happened during the storm, the standing water for the ensuing weeks, the utter and complete failure of our local, state AND federal governments?  Folks, I can’t hear it any longer.

I am done.  No more.

Yes, it was bad. Very fecking bad.  I do not in any way minimize the horribleness of those that suffered worse, those that lost everything, those that died.

But that was four years ago.

Life in New Orleans has moved on.  I know it is important to keep the Katrina story alive in the minds of Americans so that we can continue to get the federal support we desperately need.  But what NOLA does NOT need is to sound like a city of victims that cannot or will not help themselves.

Why is it shameful to acknowledge that schools are being rebuilt better and more advanced?  Because some schools aren’t coming back?  That isn’t a good enough reason to me.

Why is it shameful that not all New Orleanians who wish to again live here do not?  Because they found better jobs in other cities?  The same can be said for folks all over this country today due to the economy.  Isn’t it the responsible thing to seek out the location that will best serve you and your family?  My husband and I were facing the question of relocating out of New Orleans BEFORE Katrina.  NOLA’s been losing its youth to other cities for as long as I can remember.  Is blaming it on Katrina at this point even valid?

My point is this, lest I am not being clear:  We need to stop wallowing in what’s done and over and focus still on what’s yet to be done.

The point is no longer how long someone sat on a rooftop waiting to be rescued.  Or about Bush’s inane response (along with every other politician I heard or saw addressing Katrina).  Or about whether or not we even rebuild.

The point now is, how do we finally get the Charity Hospital issue resolved and a new facility underway in the city?  What on this earth will it take to get our Cat 5 levees?  When will the Corp of Engineers be deemed incompetent and a new agency put in place to do right by the levees we have and still need?  Can we elect a mayor this time ’round that can truly work with the City Council and move us forward?  When will the corruption, in politics, in tax evasion, in government contracts, end?  How can we keep the recent (and positive) influx of young, educated professionals moving to NOLA and staying here?  How can we create jobs and housing that will allow those that wish to return the opportunity, at long last, to do so?  How can we get crime under control?  Is it possible to even dream of trusting local leaders ever again?

Yes, the clips of NOLA underwater are compelling to look at.  Yes, it was a disaster of epic proportions.  Yes, New Orleans is still needing much effective political support and leadership.

But, at least for me, it’s time to stop painting NOLA as a victim and instead, at a minimum, as an out-patient that’s making great progress.

Because the heart, soul and spirit of this city cannot be drowned, even when her neck is stood upon in floodwater.  And I have no doubt, none, that New Orleans will, in time, be better than she’s ever been.  Prior to Katrina, it was felt that NOLA’s hayday was behind her.  It was just a foregone conclusion that her biggest industry was tourism and we had to accept that large business was no longer a part of the NOLA professional culture.  Katrina changed that.  And it is my firm belief that her best days are yet to be seen.  And if that is BECAUSE of Katrina, well, that’s one helluva silver lining.

Greta of Kiss My Gumbo extended an invitation to me and three other bloggers (and Chris Shultz extended the same invitation to several other NOLA bloggers) from folks at Ford who are part of the 100 Cities Tour promoting the 2010 Taurus.

It was really great to meet other NOLA bloggers I hadn’t yet met and to catch up with those I now consider my friends.  We had dinner at Mandina’s and then had the opportunity to go for a test drive in the 2010 Taurus, one of only two currently in the entire country.  Cool, eh?

Greta failed to let the nice Ford people know that I buy a new car every 15 years and am still four years out of even hoping to think about a new car.  Nonetheless, I can honestly say that if I find that I do need a new car soon (over even in four years), the new Taurus is in the running.

Aside from the cool keyless entry, the Sirius radio, the sync up capabilities with your cell phone, and the, like, seven funky colors you can select for the inside floor lights (I liked the purple), what I liked best was that it felt solid and controlled.  It handled very smoothly, even on NOLA’s notoriously bumpy streets.  It was also an uber quiet ride.  And then there’s its size.  I HATE large cars and do not think that just because I have a child I need a minivan or an SUV.  Nope, this sedan had more than enough room for my entire family and the stuff we’d take if we’d ever evacuate for a hurricane again, which we won’t but which is now a legitimate consideration New Orleanians have when shopping for a car.

And did I mention the radar on the front end that automatically slows down the cruise control when you approach a slower car and then resumes your speed once that car is no longer in front of you?  Cuz that was just cool and new and pretty awesome.

I wasn’t paid to review this car (other than my lovely meal with great folks).  And I am not running out to buy a Taurus once they are filled on the car lots here.  But for the next four years, at least I now have a vision of what to dream about.

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.

It’s wedding season here in New Orleans.  We’ve been invited to not less than six weddings in six weeks.   Some are the traditional New Orleans’ wedding: Cathedral ceremony and country club reception.  And some are less traditional: all-in-one wedding/reception at a room in a local restaurant.  And several in between: home ceremonies, French Quarter brunches, decadent escapades.

Tonight was the least frilly of them all.  After all, it’s on a Wednesday night. Now, I am not a weepy gal.  I didn’t get teary-eyed when I got engaged, when I learned I was pregnant, or at any wedding I have ever attended.

Until tonight.  Ok, I am lying.  I didn’t cry.  But I did get teary-eyed.  And that takes a lot.  So what did it?

Well, the bride was a lot like me.  She swore off marriage and kids just as I did.  Until it was undeniable.  And that raw emotion showed in her eyes.  And her unsteady hands that had to be held by her beloved during the ceremony.

And the minister was superb.  He called on us in attendance not only as witnesses to the marriage but as advocates of their marriage.  So that when one of the spouses called on us in time, as they will as our friends, facing a rough spot, that it was our duty, OUR DUTY, to vie for the marriage.  To rise against their walking out on the marriage as so many do nowadays.

Being married now, I always listen more intently at the exchanging of the vows.

Do you take this person, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and health, and to be true to in good times and in bad, and to seek no other.

Because when you are taking those vows, health and wealth and infidelity are far from your mind.

They should say, “Not if, but when, this person is sick, and you are too, and money is tight, because that day will come, and when it comes, do you still promise to forsake all others and be true to just this one?”

CS has engraved in French on his wedding band, “You and no other” for the days, and I am certain they exist, that he doubts our survival.  It’s there as a reminder to both of us.  We exchanged vows six years ago and I still feel complete devotion and commitment to those vows.

I do.  I will.

Always.

The back porch is a room unto itself.  Tucked away from the street, the television, the office line.

It is here where we swing Sun, paint Mardi Gras ladders, enjoy a setting sun.  It is here where our parties end up in the evenings and where crawfish boils and birthday parties take place.

It is on the back porch where Sun sits in her stroller and “pretends” to be a baby; where she pushes her wagon and sits in her own-sized chairs.

Louisiana is a hot state.  The winters are mild and the summers long.  It’s almost a requirement of citizenship that you have a porch to get relief from and enjoyment out of the weather.

It helps if you are sipping a Pimm’s Cup, Mint Julip or an icy cold absinthe.