"The past is no insubstantial, thready thing, sunlight slanting

through shutters into cool rooms, pools and standards of mist

adrift at roadside, memories that flutter from our hands the

instant we open them. Rather is it all too substantial, bluntly

physical like a boulder or cement block growing ever denser,

ever larger, there behind us, displacing and pushing us forward.

And yes: in its mindless, rocklike, solid, unstoppable way, 

it pursues us."

--from Eye of the Cricket, James Sallis

The Meadow Mouse

1.

In a shoe box stuffed in an old nylon stocking

Sleeps the baby mouse I found in the meadow,

Where he trembled and shook beneath a stick

Till I caught him up by the tail and brought him in,

Cradled in my hand,

A little quaker, the whole body of him trembling,

His absurd whiskers sticking out like a cartoon mouse,

His feet like small leaves,

Little lizard feet,

Whitish and spread wide when he tried to struggle away,

Wriggling like a miniscule puppy.

Now he's eaten his three kinds of cheese and drunk from his

     bottle-cap watering-trough--

So much he just lies in one corner,

His tail curled under him, his belly big

As his head; his bat-like ears

Twitching, tilting toward the least sound.

Do i imagine he no longer trembles

When I come close to him?

He seems no longer to tremble.

2.

But this morning the shoe-box house on the back porch is empty.

Where has he gone, my meadow mouse,

My thumb of a child that nuzzled in my palm? --

To run under the hawk's wing,

Under the eye of the great owl watching from the elm tree,

To live by courtesy of the shrike, the snake, the tomcat.

I think of the nestling fallen into the deep grass,

The turtle gasping in the dusty rubble of the highway,

The paralytic stunned in the tub and the water rising --

All things innocent, hapless, forsaken.

--Theodore Roethke

I've been pondering what we saw last week when we toured

the flood-damaged miles-and-miles of New Orleans, and no words

spring to the page when I attempt to write about it. Thankfully,

my loving husband has done this instead. Check out his account

of our experiences here.

The Power of The Blog

As a reaction to a comment last week from frequent-commenter

Pamela concerning a request that $100 worth of beignets

be delivered to her door, and because she hit the mid-century mark 

yesterday, and because her amazing and gracious daughter

staged a surprise birthday party for her, I arrived at her door

yesterday evening with beignet makings in tow: a bowlful

of pre-made batter, a deep cauldron (after all, this beignet-thing

contains its fair amount of voodoo), canola oil, rolling pin, 

flour, powdered sugar, sieve, dough scraper, paper towels and apron.

Reilly and I set up shop on the deck where we heated oil

to 360° on the propane burner attached to the grill. I rolled out

my spongy dough on the picnic table, sectioned it into neat squares

with my scraper, then plopped (gently!) four little pillows

at a time into the oil, where they bobbed and bubbled, browning

quickly. Steaming, too hot to touch, I sieved a generous cloud

of powdered sugar on each puffed confection. Friends began

to gather, drawn by the scent of fried dough. Each beignet

was snatched up almost as quickly as I sugared it,

and over and over again I warned: "Hot!" 

Because they contain so much air, 

because  the ratio of crisp to puff 

favors puff hands down, beignets are the kind of --

well, let's face it -- doughnut -- that defies the customary image

of a fat-laden, artery-clogging, gut-stuffing blue-collar pastry.

Therefore, one may consume as many as one's heart desires

with no negative consequences. (Warning! This may not be true!)

The best part of all this, after Pam's birthday and the joy

of cooking with my son, was the fact that I was 

cooking to an audience and contributing, once again,

to the swoon-factor of the human race.

Feed someone well -- and I mean

really tap into that primitive desire

to be sated, set off all those bells and whistles

in the brain, and before long

you will have that person at the ground

in front of you, kissing your feet.

Celebrity Sighting....

or maybe not, but last Tuesday at the House of Blues in New Orleans,

I left Paul standing up by the stage in front of the booming speakers

and sought a slightly-less ear-splitting perch from which to listen 

to the soulful, melancholic blues of James Blood Ulmer. I perched

myself on a velvet settee and settled in to the music, sipped my

vodka tonic. Before long, a very handsome young man -- looking an

awful lot like the one pictured above -- asked me if it was okay

for him to sit beside me. I motioned for him to sit, and he did,

and he then attempted to strike up a conversation.  The music was

very loud -- we had to yell. He was dressed in a black suit, white

shirt open at the neck. I noticed his shoes (I always notice shoes)

and they were black, polished, expensive. He was charming in a 

Cary Grant kind of way, and really wanted to talk to me about the

music, which was nearly impossible. This went on for several minutes,

when a tall woman with long dark hair came up and swooped him away.

All I thought at that point was, wow, he certainly was cute! And how

sweet of him, chatting it up with this middle-aged woman! A bit 

of an ego boost, I must admit. And I didn't think much more of it

until, the next day, on our flight to Texas, Paul pulled out 

the American Airlines in-flight magazine and there he was, on

the cover. Now, I can't say I've necessarily been a fan of his;

in fact, I've never even given him a second thought. But the man

who sat beside me at The House of Blues was a dead-ringer

for this man. Demi Moore, move over. 

 

Dream: Oscar Wilde and several other boys/men

came to a party I had in the old family manse

(that's a lie, it was a wonky 3-bedroom, cut-up &

added-on-to rambler in Renton) and they stripped,

ran through the house shrieking and whooping

before plunking their bare asses down in the hot tub.

(Again, a manufactured detail. Hot tub? In the house

where I grew up?! Bathtub, more like it.) I have absolutely

no idea what predisposed me to dream of Oscar Wilde.

But I was concerned when the rest of the guests arrived

and I hadn't yet sliced the log-sized salami and coppacola.

Hmm. Perhaps symbolic. You think?

From Rosa's garden, Kingsville, Texas.

I've been on six planes in the past nine days

and I don't care what scientists and engineers say --

I believe that flying is a miracle. 

There is that moment just after takeoff

for a few seconds when, just skimming the trees,

it feels like one of my dreams of flying:

my ability to fly depends on how well

I can will myself to ascend, and if I lose the concentration

I quickly  drop to earth. Fabulously exhilarating!

(Especially when the dream goes on and on....)

If only airplane travel had the same effect.

But how lovely the vertebrae of the mountains,

and the flanks of the foothills stretching out,

the loops and twirls of rivers.

And how marvelous to be home again, in my own bed.

I tire of the public crush of humans in airports,

the frantic push through security, zip zip zip.

The seating which prevents a recumbent posture!

The same tired bananas and red & golden delicious! apples.

No real food, nor air.

Corpus Christs beach birds, new sisters-in-law, new family!

Photos of the barber shop where P. used to get his hair cut as a child.

One dollar per cut. The Andrews Barber Shop sign looms like a giant

abandoned crucifux. As P.'s brother Jim says, "This part of Texas is 

populated by rednecks, surfer dudes and Mexicans. It IS Mexico." 

And it is so unlike anywhere else I've been.

Had a vanilla ice cream soda at Harrel's Drugstore at the lunch counter

in the back. If you are itching for a snack, here are three options:

egg, any style, $.60

tortilla, $.20

gravy, $.40

Also on the menu is a Phosphate.

This is another universe.

98 degrees this afternoon, according to one bank, 93 at another.

By 8pm it had cooled down to 83 and actually felt cool.

I usually melt at any temp. above 75. Don't know what is up.

Joe (a brother) and I made dinner tonight chez-parents:

broiled scarlet snapper, steamed broccoli, a salad of mixed greens,

spinach, avocado, tomato, cuke, green onions, shaved parm.

It felt to good to be handling vegetables, to feel the velvet

slip of the avocado in my hands, the firmness of the cucumber.

And to let those bright vegetal colors into my consciousness:

tomato-red,  avocado-green, pale-green-onion. Realizing how much

I miss them when I'm traveling. Of course, eating out is wonderful

and I love every minute of it, but food prep. is its own pleasure,

its own joy.

I had to spend some time cruising the aisles at heb-mart,

where massive bloody hunks of beef brisket were on sale

for $1.49/pound, and dried pinto beans were available

in a giant bin, for scooping. There were gallon jars of

pickled jalapenos as well as pickled cactus, many varieties

of mole. I picked up a small jar of Mexican vanilla extract

for $2, and mangoes. I love mangoes. 

Kingsville,

Texas. Too small to be on this map (pop., 25k) but if you can find

Corpus Christi (Body of Christ!) down in the south on the gulf,

then just imagine a burg about 40 miles southwest, and flatter than a

griddlecake, peppered with mesquite trees.

We are here to celebrate Paul Sr.'s 80th birthday.

(Paul Sr. is here because 41 years ago he accepted a job as head

librarian at Texas A & M. ) I noticed upon entering town this morning

that the Terrorist Risk in Kingsville today is Yellow. (Just thought

I'd let you know.) The big claim to fame here is the King Ranch, which

encompasses more square miles than the state of Rhode Island. 

Once known as the Wild Horse Desert, Kingsville, founded in 1904,

lies in the middle of land once part of the Rincon De Santa Gertrudis

Spanish Land Grant. Captain Richard King was a steamboat captain

who became enamored of this landscape when traveling by horseback

from Brownsville to Corpus Christi. He set up camp on the Santa

Gertrudis Creek, therefore establishing a base for one of the most

celebrated legacies in international ranching. We must not forget

his wife Henrietta, who donated land for the town site,

and who was instrumental in luring the St. Louis and

Brownsville Railroads, connecting Kingsville to the larger universe.

Miss Henrietta also decreed that Kingsville be dry, owing to

Richard's excessive guzzling of fine likker. 

This law persisted into the 1970's.

Besides the university, Kingsville is home to a Naval Air Station.

That aside, Paul assures me that there is not one fine-dining

establishment between here and Corpus Christi. We lunched

at Young's Pizza, home of P.'s first job. They serve some kick-ass

sandwiches -- mine was coppacola, provolone, pepperoncini

with a light horseradish mayo, served hot. A perfect combination

of flavors. Iced tea in pint glasses, graffiti over EVERYTHING inside

save the table tops, which the management requests be left clean.

The local grocery store is the H.E.B. and not a soul pronounces it "heb."

I've been referring to it as Heb-Mart, to P.'s dismay. Speaking of marts,

when odious Wal-Mart moved in some years back, it essentially

shuttered the old downtown. There are a few holdouts, including

a drugstore which houses a 1950's-era lunch counter in the back.

And of course, a visit to Kingsville wouldn't be complete

without a visit to the King Ranch Store, which sells dinner napkins,

handbags, silver bracelets, boots, porcelain, scarves, belt buckles, skirts,

placemats, saddles, sofas,  a sedan chair(!), carved-horn business 

card holders, and chaps: all emblazoned with the Running W brand. 

As far as I'm concerned this store contains just about every 

Texas cliche imaginable, plus some really cool stuff 

one would most likely not find anywhere else on the planet. 

New Orleans was like someplace out of one of my

wacky dreamscapes, where the colors are wildly out of control

and every storefront offers something outrageously more intriguing

than the one before, every taste transports the dreamer

to food-time, exclusive of anything/anywhere else, 

while around every corner is yet a different set 

of musicians slinging a tune, plucking the strings

of a washtub bass, or letting that trombone/trumpet wail.

Voodoo, Catholic, altars in remembrance of deceased cats.

Bougainville, hibiscus, plumbago spilling from balconies,

voluptuous lures, pollen-laden stamens drooping in the heat.

Pink shotgun houses, purple gingerbreading, blue scrollwork.

Irregularly-cobbled sidewalks, potholed. Sonambulistic mules

harnessed to carriages in Jackson Square. Confectioner's sugar 

clouds at Cafe du Monde. The bric-a-brac trinket show

at the French Market, nearly everything under $10.

And the t-shirts:

"I got bourbon-faced on shit street."

"I want to be Barbie -- that bitch has everything."

"Don't make me poison your food!" (On an apron.)

On and on.   

From the French Quarter....

FYI -- If you click on a picture, it should enlarge!

We took a low-key (non Greyhound) tour of areas

devastated by Katrina this afternoon, including

the Lower Ninth Ward. All I can say, at this point,

is that I am profoundly silenced by what I've seen.

I also finished the Billy Sothern book, Down in

New Orleans, and feel beat up, and I have no right

to feel beat up. I enjoy a comfortable life, I have

a home, I am on vacation. When I started talking

to a gallery owner here about my experiences

this afternoon, she said, "Oh, don't be sad! I used to live

in the Ninth Ward. Did you see my house...."

And then she started to cry, wiped her eyes.

Our tour guide (who showed us her destroyed home)

said the best thing people like us ("us" meaning those 

in the van) can do to help is to spend money -- and lots of it,

in this town. Okay. That we can do.

Dinner at Antoine's

A short walk from our hotel, Antoine's first opened

its doors in 1840, and is "the oldest restaurant in the

United States operated continuously by the same family

for five generations." Paul was dressed de rigeur --

in jacket and tie -- or so we thought. A tradition that has

existed as long as Antoines's has been serving its nightly

Oysters Rockefeller has been swept out the door along with

the debris that Hurricane Katrina left on its doorstep.

Instead of turning down improperly-clad gentlemen

in the early post-K. days, Antoine's let tradition slide

and did away with the thirty varying-sized sport coats they kept

in case an unprepared guest dared enter its esteemed front doors.

I'm all for casual comfort, but Antoine's is Antoine's: I must

admit that the flip-flops, polo shirts and jeans were a major

disappointment for this Seattlite raised by an east-coast mother.

Rules are rules, but please, let's not mess with tradition.

Our over-the-top charming and most unpretentious waiter

tut-tutted along with us, and before long the maitre d' made

an appearance at our table, and with much wringing of hands

expressed his dismay at the loss of classic elegance

a coat and tie symbolizes.  Midway through dinner he appeared

again at my elbow, asking my first name, which he inscribed

in Antoine's Restaurant Since 1840 Cookbook:

"All the best always from the Antoine family and staff.

So very happy that the winds from the west blow in class

unlike the eastern winds."

And I haven't even begun to describe dinner!

As an appetizer I chose Ecrevisses Cardinale:

shrimp/crawfish tails in a white wine sauce with a hint of tomato.

Paul had Oysters 2/2/2: Oysters Rockefeller, Bienville & Thermidor.

(He was a bit dismayed that I didn't want to share an order

of escargot with him, but I've just never been able, inspite of being

the foodie that I am, to get one of those tiny slimy curls past my lips.)

(And don't tell me they aren't slimy!)

Salad was a mix of chopped asparagus, tomato, hearts of palm

and romaine with a lovely light vinaigrette, which didn't overpower

the delicacy of the asparagus and hearts of palm.

Paul -- ever the more adventurous, had alligator bisque.

My entree was a Pompano Ponchartrain, a white fish

sauteed in butter with a generous topping of lump crabmeat.

Paul's Filet de Truite aux Ecrevisse Cardinale was even more

savory than my pompano.  Accompaniments included steamed asparagus

in butter and their famous puffed potatoes, which are flat strips

of potato deep-fried, cooled, and then tossed back into the very hot oil

again, where they puff like souffles. We finished off the evening

with Baked Alaska, which unfortunately was not flambeed.

While extremely visually pleasing -- with "Antoine's" piped

in meringue on its flanks -- the flavor was just kind of bland

and frozen. Baked Alaska must be served hot from the oven!

After dinner we were invited to wander the restaurant's 15

dining rooms at our leisure. There were very large rooms with

floor-to-ceiling windows and sweeping chandeliers, like the one

where we had enjoyed our dinner, and smaller, even grander 

private dining rooms, all brightly painted, containing one long table 

elaborately decked out in silver and crystal for the next soiree. 

(Not unlike the private apartments of Marie Antoinette in La Louvre.)

In one empty room, we spied a nearly concealed door

at the opposite end. After hearing from our waiter about 

secret doors leading to drinking parlors that existed during Prohibition,

I couldn't resist opening this -- an walked head-on into a private dinner

of perhaps twenty people, who of course all turned to view

my ungainly entrance. If I'd had enough presence of mind 

and hadn't been so surprised I would've recited a poem 

from memory, bowed, then retreated back out the "secret" door.

We collapsed in laughter once I had made my exit and closed the door. 

(I don't think I've ever heard Paul laugh so hard.)

We decided to hang in the Quarter this morning/early afternoon,

keep an eye on the weather. It was hazy, warm, humid; black clouds

loomed in the distance. We discovered a bookshop --Kitchen Witch --

that specializes in new and vintage cookbooks: heaven, for me, 

at least. Many of the older books had recipes cut from newspapers 

slipped in between pages. Many of the books I have at home were here,

some in better shape than mine, others worn and food-splattered

from years in some cook's kitchen. The owner stood behind the counter

and explained how to make a good roux to some young Asian women.

There was a shrine for his recently departed cat, "Bob," on a kitchen chair

with candles, photos. His black lab, "Sophia," slept curled on an

upholstered dining-table chair, hanging off the edges, oblivious.

Here's an excerpt from The Virginia Housewife or Methodical Cook,

copyright 1860:

To roast a fore-quarter of shote: joint it for the convenience

of carving, roast it before a brisk fire; when done, take the

skin off, dredge and froth it, put a little melted butter with 

some caper vinegar over it, or serve it with a mint sauce.

Our next stop was Faulkner House Books, a lovely alley-of-a-store

with shelves all the way to the very high ceiling. Mostly new books,

save for a glass case of Faulkner early editions. I was delighted to find

a copy of my Seattle friend Peter Pereira's book Saying the World.

So nice to run into old friends when far from home!

We stopped for pralines: I say praw-leans, Paul says pray-leans.

I say that I'm right and he says that he's right. Don't ask why

we didn't ask the sales clerk how she says it...and we stopped

for PRAWlines twice. So.

The French Market was overflowing stall after stall with ticky-tacky

imported tourist crap: polka-dotted luggage sets (come with a guarantee

that the zippers will break first time you use them), faux African masks,

piles of voodoo dolls for $1 each, feathered masks, plastic mardi-gras beads

by the thousand. Peppered about were a few actual artists with

their own work, but few is the key word here.

We stood on the sidewalk for about 15 minutes and listened

to a teenage brass band -- two trombones, trumpet, tuba,

two drums -- as the clouds pushed in darker and darker

above us, finally to let out tremendous booms of thunder

and a few scattered raindrops which quickly increased

to a massive downpour. We ducked into Fiorella's

for some lunch. As two cockroaches flicked in and out

of the newspapers beside us on the counter, the storm outside

continued to grow until there appeared to be a waterfall

just outside the door, descending over the awning.

We moved to a table slightly away from the roaches,

and  when our food finally came, after a very long wait

(and the cook neglected to make my deep-fried dill pickles)

it was worth it -- fried chicken, red beans-n-rice, stewed cabbage

with a vinegar tang.  Iced tea. Paul had an oyster po'boy.

I took a long time to eat, tucked-in there from the storm.

Fiorella's (which has been open since 1936)

was a bit of a dive the last time I was there, in 2003,

and seems to have suffered post-Katrina. There were huge

water stains along one wall extending from the ceiling

to about halfway down, peeling plaster, chunks missing

in the plaster. Very run down, dingy.  But after a few bites

of that chicken, and those beans, and that cabbage, I noticed

nothing but what was in front of me. It was one of those

food moments where you exist in only food-time, shut off

from the rest of experience.  I made Paul wait as I savored

and chewed, the perfect blend of flavors and -- dare I say it -- grease!

I'm reading am amazing book: Down in New Orleans,

Reflections from a Drowned City, by Billy Sothern -- 

a transplanted New York attorney who moved to NO

four years before Katrina to defend death-row inmates.

I've already read a hundred pages....

There's a glimmer of sunshine in the street outside,

and we're keeping our fingers crossed that it persisists

long enough so we can see Irma Thomas, Al Green, Elvis Costello

and Beausoleil. I think that perhaps I should purchase

a voodoo doll in a cloud formation and load it up with pins.

New Orleans. Torrential rain. Thunder. Lightning.
BUT IT'S WARM. We got rained out of the Jazz Fest
this afternoon after listening to Chief Iron Horse &
the Black Seminole Mardi Gras Indians and Hadley J. Castile
and the Sharecropper's Band. The food was amazing --
while not there long enough, we did have time to try
boudin balls and hot tamales. Oh oh oh. Yum.
The forecast for tomorrow is more of the same.
(Same food, same rain.) Plastic ponchos were sold out
at all the booths, but a generous man sitting at a table
with us gave me an extra one he had stashed in his backpack.
Paul -- ever the gentleman -- insisted that I have it.
He got soaked to the skin on our way out of the fairgrounds,
and we shared a cab back to the Quarter with four other people --
it was a sauna in there, with all those dripping bodies.
But there is plenty to do/see even in the rain,
which doesn't seem to stop anyone in this city.
Stepped into Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo tonight
to check out the chicken-feet keychains and skeleton amulets.

Heading off to New Orleans tomorrow where the temperature
is 83 degrees and god only knows what the humidity is.
On the agenda: New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival,
dinner at Antoines, beignets at Cafe du Monde, voodoo, a hotel on Bourbon Street, but no aligator for me. Nope.
We hope to get out of the city to see some of Katrina's devastation.
On one hand, it seems kind of voyeuristic to act the tourist
and snap photos of destroyed homes, obliterated neighborhoods.
But on the other hand, it also seems necessary.
More on this later.