New Orleans 2009--Episode I Attack of the 8-legged Appetizers

Hello All!

I am realizing that I have not yet blogged about the trip home and to New Orleans.

Let's begin with home....

The trek from Houston to Simmesport was uneventful, except for the fact that both driver and passenger were both lethargic and required frequent coffee stops....therefore, when that lone interstate McDonald's appeared, there was much rejoicing...yay.

We made it to Simmesport at about 7:30pm, just in time to visit and eat some of the best chicken and rice n' gravy known to man...my mother's. She's super at this, and, green beans as well, spectacular. AND...all done without consuming ANY alcohol (she's given it up for Lent) so, kudos mom. We visited for a bit and talked about what had been going on lately in our lives and then the conversation turned (as it usually does) toward..."what are we going to have for supper tomorrow night?" Now, if you've read my previous blog entitled "Mudbug Mambo" you know my affinity for crawfish...and, I was completely saddened by the fact that this has been the worst crawfish season in ages (lucky me) and there was a 99.9% chance that consuming crawfish on this visit was not to be. So, I resigned myself to settle for oysters on the half shell and crabs (not a bad 2nd place). Then, low, the clouds parted and the birds began to sing as my father said "Yeah, I thought we'd have oysters and shrimp....(deliberate pause for effect) AND A SACK OF CRAWFISH.....aaannnnddd commence with the Snoopy Happy Dance...go.

We were very excited and I had dreams of the stuff and couldn't wait for tomorrow.

We watched a movie with dad and then all headed to sleep. Mom had to go to work the next day and dad had the day off but had a dentist appointment, so, needless to say we were nice and lazy throughout the day...building up our endurance for the crawdad trials. (Although, it was incredibly nice to wake up to the coffee already brewed and the TV to yourself, if only to see what kind of crazy movies dad is watching these days...we decided we'd investigate a few Tru Blood episodes...bizarre to say the least) Later in the morning, the crawfish man drove over in his mud-caked Ford and handed over the booty...Viswa got the see them live and squirmy in the sack, I think he thought that they would be dead already.

Dad came home and piddled around the house for a while and mom made it back in as well. Viswa wanted in on the crawfish prep, so he observed the process of transferring and purging, etc. Mom and dad aren't fans of throwing all the potatoes and corn in w/ the crustaceans, so we boiled them separately in a pot inside (which was still magically delicious). My Granny came over to join us, so that was a nice treat to get to visit with her. OH, also, the pre-crawfish appetizer was fresh oysters on the half shell (and a few bbq'd) shucked by dad and Viswa in turns. I was almost too full to eat crawfish by the time they were done, but I made it work. Dad also threw some huge shrimp in with the crawfish boil.

*******************CUE FLASHBACK*********************************************************************

Some of my favorite memories growing up were from crawfish boils at Papa's house. I was lucky enough to live right next door to my maternal grandparents, and they knew how to have a boil. Although, my beloved Maman had contracted an allergy to crawfish and I think she missed being able to eat them. I remember Papa in one of his many hats (the trucker kind with the mesh in the back, he used to collect them...I think he even had one w/ pinchers coming out of the top) and we'd boil away near the workshop and play in that expanse of green grass and flowers between my house and theirs...life was good.

But, that Thursday at mom and dad's w/ Viswa and Granny was a sublime day, too. We had our beer, mom made the dip, and we dove in for some of the best mudbugs I've had in ages. SO GOOD. Dad is the man. We ate, and ate, and ate, picked on Viswa for his peeling skillzzz, then ate some more...laughed a lot and just, in general, had a blast.

Here are some photos below for your enjoyment :-)

Here are a few more....Notice the pile size of your seasoned crawfish peeler (aka MOM) and your novice attempt (aka VIS) :-)

Viswa Vs. Mom

A view from my seat

Mom and Granny (I think mom's had that shirt since i was in middle school)

After we stuffed our bellies full we decided we should probably begin the clean-up process before we all looked like big balloons and floated off into the mystic. We popped a generous number of tails and uneaten shrimp into a bowl to be used later in scrumptious dishes that I would not be there to taste, unbuttoned our jeans and waddled inside. I was high on life. Viswa was re-thinking his statement made weeks earlier of "I don't know if I like this crawfish stuff" and replacing it with "You were right, your dad is the man, and I'm a crawfish fan"

In the morning we were as swollen as well-fed ticks, but happy for the experience that preceded the agony. (retaining water in a 3 hour car ride to New Orleans, I don't advise doing that)

We went to visit my grandfather in Marksville and had a nice, long chat and stayed for lunch. Papa introduced us to everyone he knew and all the nurses he loved to buzz around. They all seem to love him and he appears happy there, which in turn, makes me happy. I remember smacking him on the arm and saying "Papa! You are such a flirt!" to which his response was "Gotta do something to keep busy and from being bored around here" ...I love my Papa. I miss Maman, too. Especially when I go to visit him and I see the old photographs of the two of them...especially when they were younger. He was a handsome war hero and she was beautiful in the way that women were beautiful in those days, just classic.

Anyway...no time for being sad, it was a great few hours and, according to Papa, he's looking and feeling fine so that's what we celebrated.

Ok, it is time for me to close now...I'll write more about the actual New Orleans part, soon.

Until next time.....

Lache pas la patate

Mini Vacation

Headed to Louisiana this afternoon to visit the folks and grandfolks and to take Viswa to New Orleans!! Woo hoo!! I can't wait!

Mudbug Mambo!

Oh crawfish that I love so dear....I'm craving these juicy little ditch-dwellers this time of year. Can you tell that I'm missing home? I am a native Louisiana girl, and crawfish season just gets me all worked up...

There's nothing quite like pulling into the drive of your childhood home, and smelling that seasoned water wafting through the air. Your dad in the back yard with his imminent mission...a brew and bag.

Waiting patiently as we listen to the purr of the butane tank and the soft bubbling boil of some of the best stuff on earth...crawfish. We all grab a beer and head to the patio to talk about life and our goings on of late. Dad signals that the hour is near as he stumbles out of the shop with that classic enormous roll of brown butcher-esque paper for the ceremonial table-draping. Yes....it's getting closer now and all the folks are getting antsy. And I'm sitting there wondering "What do people do with that big roll of brown paper when they're not using it at crawfish boils as their "easy-cleanup" solution?" Maybe they fashion kites with it? Is my thought, then I shrug and take another sip and offer to help dad start hauling 'round the trashcans that will serve as the resting place for our soon-to-be discarded tails and heads of the dearly departed.

After the table is "set", everyone dives in for the perfect spot...close to the trashcan for easy head-tossability, and close to the door for sink and ice-chest access. I get stuck in the middle because I am usually inside making "crawfish dip". For those of you who aren't crawfish connoisseurs, on most occaisions, this concotion is a requirement for consumption. It's a very mystical melding of both the sour and the salty, a labor of layering the dense and the fluffy, it's...well, ok, it's just a cup mixed w/ 1/2 ketchup and the other 1/2 mayo...but it's.just.so.good. Nothing like a tail dredged in it.

So...I take my sawed-off cups (those red platic ones cut in half, so you're not reaching your entire upper extrimity in and not properly accessing the dip goodness) and join the troops rallied around the steaming pile of ruby-red cajun critters that my dad has so lovingly dumped upon our picnic table. That's the best smell, ever. The bugs piled high with the potatoes and corn (and occasional odds and ends thrown in...e.g. mushrooms, sausage, whole chickens, etc...it can get pretty crazy). The rule is that it's rude to take the biggest crawfish first, but I don't care...come to mama.

Speaking of mama...MY mama is the fastestgunslingerintheWest equivalent of a reallyfastcrawfishpeelerandeater. She taught me well. Not only do we eat at ludicrous speed, but she cleans WHILE she's eating, it's impressive. My dad and brother aren't so bad either, but, I must say I think my father makes the best darned boiled crawfish on the planet.

Anyway...if there is ONE thing I dislike about eating crawfish, it's not the smell, or the mess, or the grit under the fingernails, or the occaisional poking via claw and the the resulting fire-like burning that spreads through my digits courtesy of Tony Chachere's...no...it's the poop.

Yes. That's right. I said it. The poop vein. Ick. Ack. Uck. My dad and brother ignore this pesky little bit of pestulence. I, however, must remove it and then wipe off the remaining mustard-yellow fat. I think my sister-in-law may High 5 me for this because I think she is also a member of the "thank you but I don't eat poop" club. Father seems to think it provides erm.."flavor" ...I vehemently disagree.

What I do enjoy that some despise...is the head sucking. Mmmmm. Spicy heaven in a head.

As I'm thinking about this I recall as song that I was a huge fan of during my childhood. It was called the Cajun Rap Song. Complete with really great "coon ass" accents. I still remember almost all the words. It was by the Cypress City Band and there were 3 of them...ala Beastie Boys style, but not quite as effective. I couldn't believe (and could believe at the same time) that I found it on YouTube! I laughed until I cried thinking of Lee and I running around the house singing that song. I posted the link for your listening pleasure...

Cajun's finest...ENJOY, sha.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w29UQGZQkCw

:::my favorite parts:::

" I eat couscous...I like dat, me, and barbequed possum is a delicacy!" (not really)

"We boil da crawfish mais, in da bucket.And we pull of da heads, and den we suck it!"

We owned it on a cassette tape. Those were the days.

After we've eaten POUNDS and POUNDS from the table, we all decided we are "K-O'd" and decide to call it a night. By this time we are all straining to see the tails we are peeling since we have been noshing for HOURS and it's dark outside and we only have this one little measly flood light pointed at an angle AWAY from the table...phew. So, as is custom, the remaining little soldiers offer up there tails in a chorus of "pops" as they are removed and tossed into mom's big yellow Tupperware bowl for future fare. More than likely they will be made into etoufee', or pie, or put into a gumbo. But they will never be wasted! Well, unless they are the dead ones, nobody eats those. You Cajun's know what I mean.
Even though I'm bloated for days, I can't scrape the black bits of spice from my fingernails nor can I Shout out the orangy stain on my shirt from the feasting, it's all so worth it for those few moments, well, hours, of bliss.
I hope my folks read this and can scrounge up a sack or two in the weekend to come, as I am coming in for a visit! Accompanying me will be crawfish virgin, Viswa Subbaraman. I can't wait for him to marvel at the speed and accuracy of my de-shelling abilities! I'll have to do as my mother did when I was a child. My wee little hands were unaccustomed to the motor patterns required to stealthily strip those pesky bits that get in between the eater and the eaten. But, I'm sure he'll learn. In a way, it's not only the taste of the crawfish that I want him to experience, but the family aspect as well. All the conversation, the joking, the laughter. The way everyone slips into their Coon Ass accent with ease. Being close to the people that matter most. It's a tradition, it's love, and it's home.
Mais, I can't wait!

The World of the Arts

Houston, is, by far, a vast arts mecca. One of the largest outside of New York, in fact. It is with much pride that I am an active part of a very innovative arts scene and work very closely with Opera Vista. Houston's cutting-edge contemporary opera company.

http://www.operavista.org/



I am in awe of what opening the doors of the opera world has done for me and for broadening my artistic spectrum and culture.

I still find myself a bit lost in traditional opera, but this is because I'm watching the performers and listening so intently that I completely neglect the audience-friendly supertitles that translate what is taking place on stage. But I enjoy listening so much more than looking up-looking down-looking up-looking down, etc. It's the same when viewing a TV program with the closed captions on. Although, I can't help but look at them, then...at the opera, I am completely capable of helping it.

The great aspect of what goes on with Opera Vista, is that many of their operas are in English. So, even the opera newcomer can actually watch the entire opera without keeping their eyes in the rafters. As they are expanding, Opera Vista is taking on more international works. Yes people, this means the return of the supertitle; however, I don't know that I'll mind. Contemporary opera is rarely the 3 to 4 and 1/2 hours long that is traditional opera certainty. These operas are more like 45 minutes to possibly an hour and a half or so and spilling over the brim with rich story lines and intriguing (and sometimes bizarre) elements that manage to keep me rivited. Not to mention that some of Houston's best home-grown singers participate to fill the characters' shoes. That's right, no flying in fancy pants folks from New York or L.A....Opera Vista is Houston talent all the way, and I think it's fantastic that these sublime voices have another avenue of performance in H-town outside of singing in the HGO chorus, teaching voice lessons, etc. Also, because Houston is so massive and diverse, there are unique arts companies everywhere and they are all supportive of one another. It's nice to see so many non-profit organizations surviving and putting out great work.

Huzzah for the arts!! And booooo to the evildoers who say putting money towards the arts in the stimulus package is wasteful spending.....I'd take my boyfriend's conducting baton and shove it right up....well....nevermind.

Sympathy for the Devil

Sympathy for the Devil...we've heard this phrase multiple times before.

After some events that took place yesterday, I will no longer demonstrate sympathy for anything remotely devil-like or demonic. You can stay in hell.



A situation was brought to my attention last night at about 9:30--in short, someone that I admired was reprimanded for exercising her right of free speech. This infuriated me to the point of tears and I was so upended that I had trouble relaxing into sleep last night.



When did it become a rule that you have to take the fall if you're going to make a stand?

Upholding your ethical beliefs and protecting your livelihood should not be grounds for a emotionless sayonara, but it happens, and it's detrimental to my psychological well being.



I realize I don't have all the specifics...and my opinion at this point is one-sided. But, that being said, and known, do I want to hear the other side of the story? I'm not sure I do.

Friendships are now teetering on the edge of awkwardness, professional ties have been severed and professional opinions of certain authoritative figures obliterated.



What can I do?

What would you do?



I don't want to turn a blind eye, I want to start pushing through and trying to right the wrongs in the best way possible and with all my capacity to do so. But now, I fear if I do this and start the tiniest ripple permeating the flat ground we're all treading on....that I'm gonna get canned.

And here's the thing...things that are happening are wrong, we are "in violation" of several things...and if that got reported, everyone, including me would be facing that fire unprotected.

I am determined to find my place in the pecking order and peck my way to salvation...

My First Blog

The initial blog, the blog virgin. C'est moi. I don't know why I'm blogging, I really have no time to blog.

A Speech Pathologist by trade but an artist by design, I've decided that the time has come to partake in age of virtual diaries, information sharing, of subscribing to...the all -encompassing blog, and make a bold attempt at using this as my creative outlet.

Right now I'm sitting in my office, clackety-clacking away at the keyboard waiting for my 5:00 appointment. Right on time, he's 15 minutes late. As the buzzer sounds the preemptive message cattle calling us therapists to the waiting room to claim our victims, I sigh knowing that droning voice over the intercom will summon me.

"Lowren, your patient is here, Lowren" says the Columbian accented voice on the com.

So, I regret that this blog is cut short; however, I will hopefully make it back here.

Farewell for now.