No matter how you slice it, twelve hours enroute to anywhere is a long ride. We prefer the drive from our house to New Orleans to the drive from our house to the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. The topography of eastern Tennessee is much more interesting than the flatlands of Georgia and Alabama, and the hills surrounding Chattanooga are full of hardwoods, now in their last throes of fall.
We typically start this journey with a ride along the Ocoee, but this has been precluded by a rockslide from the hillside to the highway. This decreased the scenic factor and increased the time factor for an already long one-day trip of six hundred miles. Not surprisingly, Richard does have a protocol for our long drives, trading off driving every hundred miles. This keeps us from falling asleep, except for our butts and lower extremities.
Now, my brain is another problem; the slower my body moves the more hyper my brain becomes. After a while of running free, my brain sets up a pinball machine in my head, bouncing random ideas from one synapse to another. In my usual perpetual motion mode, I can guide the brain balls by bumping the body machine every so often. It’s hard to focus when the nearest goal is hundreds of miles and thousands of minutes away. I come up with some of my most exiting adventures this way. By the time we reached our destination, I needed a nap to recuperate from being a slug.
But a nap was not in the cards. Our first stop was to load Elaine’s freezer with food from Mamie’s garden to share at Thanksgiving. Then, it was across Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River to Pat and Will’s house on the far side of New Orleans, where they were taking us to English Turn Golf and Country Club for Friday’s fish feast. I felt strange entering the club at night without a bunch of boxes.
For over ten years, we lived in a neighborhood near English Turn. Pat and I were very involved in volunteer work with an agency that worked to stabilize homeless families, and our major fundraiser was an annual evening auction and dinner held at English Turn. Our long-suffering husbands toted boxes, collected tickets, and listened to endless hours of grief and gossip while we proceeded to spend months of madness and much money to make our auctions a success.
Unbeknown to me, Richard had become enamored of a particular part of the club’s hardwood flooring, and immediately insisted on visiting the exact spot he had so loved. This was the first time we were all together at the club since Katrina. The agency that we had worked so hard for lost its mission in Hurricane Katrina; Richard and I lost our home; and all of New Orleans lost family and friends.
After dinner, we stayed up until midnight talking, but we stayed away from the topic of our losses of home and community. I guess it still hurts too bad.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Even Santa Gets Grumpy
Okay I’ll admit it; I lied. Richard actually wrapped thirty-two picture perfect packages to load onto Santa’s sleigh. And you may not know this, but even Santa gets grumpy – especially when every time he thinks he’s on the last gift I remember someone that I almost forgot. I could use a few elves right about now; they could begin by sweeping the floor.
We’re taking Mamie, Charlie, Deborah, Mountaintop Mary and Don to dinner at Coker Creek Village the night before we head south. Since our trip is a ten-hour ordeal, we plan to leave before dawn; so everything had to be stuffed into the van before dark. With careful balance and placement, we got all the gifts in with room to spare for Mamie to ride over to the village with us. Between the seats, I found room for some of our Irish potatoes and a couple of butternut squash. The ice chest still has to be loaded and put in the van, as do our toiletry bags. If I grease them up really well, they should slide right on in.
Adam emailed me that he thinks our trip with an overloaded sleigh will be a good test of the integrity of our new motor mounts – the ones we’ve already replaced twice. Richard is threatening to put heavy duty shocks on the van and add extra air to the tires.
Mamie’s ninetieth birthday is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, but we won’t be here to help her celebrate. When I asked her some weeks ago about her favorite cake for her birthday, she requested a pie instead of a cake. A year ago, I had given Mamie a slice of a pear and custard pie made from her son Junior’s pears. She declared it the best pie she ever ate. I happened to have one jar of pears left from last year’s harvest in Junior’s yard, so I recreated the pie to present to Mamie when we pick her up.
We’ll also take the last of our leftovers to Mamie. She says that she’s gotten to where she checks her outside egg refrigerator before cooking to see if we left her any supper. To go with her birthday pie, we hope she enjoys the pork with ginger-cran-pear chutney, whipped sweet potatoes and turnip greens as much as we enjoyed them when they were just made.
We’re hoping that all these mini celebrations of her birthday keep Mamie from guessing that we’re giving her a surprise party the Sunday after we return. As far as any of us knows, Mamie is the oldest person in Coker Creek, so we think she deserves a little recognition for simply surviving. We’re organizing the party because Junior, who would have done it, isn’t still physically with us. Mary Jane called to say that the mayor is attending the party to proclaim the day “Mamie Murphy Day.” I think Junior will be smiling about that.
And, I'm pretty sure he'd be laughing at the sight of his little mama stuffed in with all the gifts as Richard goes on about needing new shocks.
We’re taking Mamie, Charlie, Deborah, Mountaintop Mary and Don to dinner at Coker Creek Village the night before we head south. Since our trip is a ten-hour ordeal, we plan to leave before dawn; so everything had to be stuffed into the van before dark. With careful balance and placement, we got all the gifts in with room to spare for Mamie to ride over to the village with us. Between the seats, I found room for some of our Irish potatoes and a couple of butternut squash. The ice chest still has to be loaded and put in the van, as do our toiletry bags. If I grease them up really well, they should slide right on in.
Adam emailed me that he thinks our trip with an overloaded sleigh will be a good test of the integrity of our new motor mounts – the ones we’ve already replaced twice. Richard is threatening to put heavy duty shocks on the van and add extra air to the tires.
Mamie’s ninetieth birthday is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, but we won’t be here to help her celebrate. When I asked her some weeks ago about her favorite cake for her birthday, she requested a pie instead of a cake. A year ago, I had given Mamie a slice of a pear and custard pie made from her son Junior’s pears. She declared it the best pie she ever ate. I happened to have one jar of pears left from last year’s harvest in Junior’s yard, so I recreated the pie to present to Mamie when we pick her up.
We’ll also take the last of our leftovers to Mamie. She says that she’s gotten to where she checks her outside egg refrigerator before cooking to see if we left her any supper. To go with her birthday pie, we hope she enjoys the pork with ginger-cran-pear chutney, whipped sweet potatoes and turnip greens as much as we enjoyed them when they were just made.
We’re hoping that all these mini celebrations of her birthday keep Mamie from guessing that we’re giving her a surprise party the Sunday after we return. As far as any of us knows, Mamie is the oldest person in Coker Creek, so we think she deserves a little recognition for simply surviving. We’re organizing the party because Junior, who would have done it, isn’t still physically with us. Mary Jane called to say that the mayor is attending the party to proclaim the day “Mamie Murphy Day.” I think Junior will be smiling about that.
And, I'm pretty sure he'd be laughing at the sight of his little mama stuffed in with all the gifts as Richard goes on about needing new shocks.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Stuffing Santa’s Sleigh
Richard’s got the kitchen table jacked up like a redneck’s truck. He put it up on cinder blocks so we now look like true trailer trash. I know it’s to save his back from all that bending, but honestly, what will that man do next?
There’s a blizzard of Christmas paper all over the floor. What started out as forty pounds of candy in various bowls and boxes is now down to maybe twenty-five. Roughly half of what was one thousand sheets of tissue paper have been lovingly folded around individual gifts and candies, and carefully stuffed into crannies for cushioning. No box is complete without Jelly Bellies and at least one jar of jam, and everyone on our list expects some Cajun roasted pecans. Richard’s version of the stimulus package is gold-wrapped chocolate money for all.
Santa’s sleigh will soon be pulled up to the back door for loading, beginning with the twenty-five boxes that will go with us on our trip. None of them will get their complementary ribbons until we reach our destination, so our ten rolls of ribbon also have to fit in the van. We must take an ice chest for the frozen bounty from last summer’s garden that will be served at Scott and Buffy’s Thanksgiving in Mississippi. Somewhere, I’ll make room for our clothes.
In case Richard refused to take the trip down south with me, I had an offer to ride down to Mississippi with Rachel, Larry, Rebecca, Sarah, and Cinnamon in their Ford Escape. But their provision was that I couldn’t take an ice chest. When I got to discussing loading our freezer onto Richard’s trailer and towing it behind Larry’s van, Richard reconsidered. He’s coming along for the ride, sharing the driving of Santa’s sleigh with me.
When we arrive back in Tennessee, there’s a surprise birthday party to participate in before we begin decorating our house for the Holidays in the Holler. There will also be more macaroons to bake and barrels of bourbon balls to prepare for the remaining loved ones on our list. Approximately twelve more packages will be created, and prepared for mailing to those we won’t see during the Christmas season. This is in addition to the gifts that we’ll give to relatives and friends coming to see us before the end of the year. At some point, I’ll get around to cleaning our kitchen before heading to Atlanta to assist Rachel with cooking for her Christmas open house.
I’m not sure how to end the growth of our Christmas list. What started out as surprise boxes for immediate family members and their living-in-the-same-house children has grown to include the new households of married members of our ever-increasing family. We may set a personal record this year, topping the list at fifty boxes wrapped by Richard. And then there’s the “little somethings” that we’ll want to give our neighbors and new friends. But Richard won’t have to wrap these; I’ll just stuff them into stockings for personal presentation.
And to think, I once wanted to buy a Miata. What would we do without Santa’s sleigh?
There’s a blizzard of Christmas paper all over the floor. What started out as forty pounds of candy in various bowls and boxes is now down to maybe twenty-five. Roughly half of what was one thousand sheets of tissue paper have been lovingly folded around individual gifts and candies, and carefully stuffed into crannies for cushioning. No box is complete without Jelly Bellies and at least one jar of jam, and everyone on our list expects some Cajun roasted pecans. Richard’s version of the stimulus package is gold-wrapped chocolate money for all.
Santa’s sleigh will soon be pulled up to the back door for loading, beginning with the twenty-five boxes that will go with us on our trip. None of them will get their complementary ribbons until we reach our destination, so our ten rolls of ribbon also have to fit in the van. We must take an ice chest for the frozen bounty from last summer’s garden that will be served at Scott and Buffy’s Thanksgiving in Mississippi. Somewhere, I’ll make room for our clothes.
In case Richard refused to take the trip down south with me, I had an offer to ride down to Mississippi with Rachel, Larry, Rebecca, Sarah, and Cinnamon in their Ford Escape. But their provision was that I couldn’t take an ice chest. When I got to discussing loading our freezer onto Richard’s trailer and towing it behind Larry’s van, Richard reconsidered. He’s coming along for the ride, sharing the driving of Santa’s sleigh with me.
When we arrive back in Tennessee, there’s a surprise birthday party to participate in before we begin decorating our house for the Holidays in the Holler. There will also be more macaroons to bake and barrels of bourbon balls to prepare for the remaining loved ones on our list. Approximately twelve more packages will be created, and prepared for mailing to those we won’t see during the Christmas season. This is in addition to the gifts that we’ll give to relatives and friends coming to see us before the end of the year. At some point, I’ll get around to cleaning our kitchen before heading to Atlanta to assist Rachel with cooking for her Christmas open house.
I’m not sure how to end the growth of our Christmas list. What started out as surprise boxes for immediate family members and their living-in-the-same-house children has grown to include the new households of married members of our ever-increasing family. We may set a personal record this year, topping the list at fifty boxes wrapped by Richard. And then there’s the “little somethings” that we’ll want to give our neighbors and new friends. But Richard won’t have to wrap these; I’ll just stuff them into stockings for personal presentation.
And to think, I once wanted to buy a Miata. What would we do without Santa’s sleigh?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Bitten by the Book Bug
My dancing days may be over, not that I ever really knew how to dance. Every bone in my body aches. I’d give anything to be able to read and write all day until my achey-breaky body is better, but Santa’s sleigh is pulling out in two days, and I have to help load it. While batches of macaroons bake, I take aching bones breaks. This is when I make phone calls arranging visits with Louisiana friends and check emails.
My first friend call was to Karen and Mickey. Mickey was one of Richard’s partners, and we’ve so enjoyed their family’s reaction to our Christmas boxes over the years that we’ve continued the tradition of “the box” for over a decade. Two of their children are now adults, but we hope they’ll never outgrow the wonder of Dr. Dick’s Christmas gift.
Karen had me screaming with laughter, as usual, over the trials of motherhood when your husband works seventy hours a week and you have four kids. The latest is that Karen is undergoing rehabilitation therapy post-surgery for a shoulder injury. She recently found out that her ten-year-old daughter’s school has been learning about drug abuse, and that they’re now all praying for Madeline’s mother Karen, who is in “rehab.”
We try to see Louie and Janie when we go to Louisiana. Louie, with Elaine’s help, literally saved Richard’s life when Richard had the “big one.” And Janie brought me deodorant and a hairbrush at the hospital. Could you have a deeper bond than that? Even though Louie is Jewish, we began giving him Christmas macaroons years ago. To say that Louie loves our macaroons is quite the understatement. When I called with the news that the macaroons are on their way to town, Janie jumped at our offer to take them to dinner in New Orleans.
All of this is good news, but the most excitement I felt was about my niece Nikki. We’ve been in an informal book “group” for years, trading books back and forth. Nikki devours books and teachers English to eighth graders. She knows I’ve started publishing a blog and that I published Jack’s book. She’s now planning to start a group writing project with her class. This should reap some publishable stuff. But, even more exciting, Nikki has started writing her own book. As soon as the holidays are over, I know how I’ll be spending my time.
Jack already has enough material for another book. My friend Susan has promised to pick up where she left off on the book she started when we both lived in Louisiana, if I continue the book I started back then. Kathleen is blogging, as is her mother Gayle; I hope these blogs will become books. Sherry has been blogging about her Down’s Syndrome son – a book in the making that I hope to help publish. And now, Nikki is providing me with her prose.
I may never have to look out of the window when the weather gets really dreary. I’ll be too busy staring at my computer screen.
My first friend call was to Karen and Mickey. Mickey was one of Richard’s partners, and we’ve so enjoyed their family’s reaction to our Christmas boxes over the years that we’ve continued the tradition of “the box” for over a decade. Two of their children are now adults, but we hope they’ll never outgrow the wonder of Dr. Dick’s Christmas gift.
Karen had me screaming with laughter, as usual, over the trials of motherhood when your husband works seventy hours a week and you have four kids. The latest is that Karen is undergoing rehabilitation therapy post-surgery for a shoulder injury. She recently found out that her ten-year-old daughter’s school has been learning about drug abuse, and that they’re now all praying for Madeline’s mother Karen, who is in “rehab.”
We try to see Louie and Janie when we go to Louisiana. Louie, with Elaine’s help, literally saved Richard’s life when Richard had the “big one.” And Janie brought me deodorant and a hairbrush at the hospital. Could you have a deeper bond than that? Even though Louie is Jewish, we began giving him Christmas macaroons years ago. To say that Louie loves our macaroons is quite the understatement. When I called with the news that the macaroons are on their way to town, Janie jumped at our offer to take them to dinner in New Orleans.
All of this is good news, but the most excitement I felt was about my niece Nikki. We’ve been in an informal book “group” for years, trading books back and forth. Nikki devours books and teachers English to eighth graders. She knows I’ve started publishing a blog and that I published Jack’s book. She’s now planning to start a group writing project with her class. This should reap some publishable stuff. But, even more exciting, Nikki has started writing her own book. As soon as the holidays are over, I know how I’ll be spending my time.
Jack already has enough material for another book. My friend Susan has promised to pick up where she left off on the book she started when we both lived in Louisiana, if I continue the book I started back then. Kathleen is blogging, as is her mother Gayle; I hope these blogs will become books. Sherry has been blogging about her Down’s Syndrome son – a book in the making that I hope to help publish. And now, Nikki is providing me with her prose.
I may never have to look out of the window when the weather gets really dreary. I’ll be too busy staring at my computer screen.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Richard's Wrapping Routine
I had planned on having some of our Christmas boxes ready to go when we went to the wedding. But, I still hadn’t made the bourbon balls and Richard hadn’t purchased his Jelly Bellies or chocolate coins. On the way home from the wedding, we completed Richard’s candy collection. Now, I must get back into the Christmas kitchen and complete my cooking.
All the way to back to Tennessee, I had envisioned spending our first day home creating tasty treats as visions of family fun danced in my head. But, first, we had to unearth the packing supplies which we store in an outbuilding several hundred feet from the house. The storage bins are too many and too clumsy to carry, so I wanted Richard to transport them in the van. And this couldn’t be done until everything we took to the wedding was removed from the van.
Everything we took out of the van needed further disposition to make space for spreading out “Santa’s Wrapping Room.” Suitcases were unpacked -- which led to laundry to wash, fold, and hang. Mail needed sorting -- which created a desk full of filing to be finished. The filing was important because we need every flat surface in our house for spreading out our array of gifts purchased throughout the year. I know you might think that I could just put the files in what Terry Sue refers to as a “Houdini” box until Christmas is over. I did that one year, and only found out that I had inadvertently stowed our unpaid electric bill when Richard came home from work to a house without electricity.
We’ve spent a whole day back and have not one bourbon ball or gift box to show for it. This is what Richard refers to as the “infinite regression of steps.”
After the coconut macaroons come out of the oven and the bourbon balls are counted into cans; once the gifts are laid out for choosing; the tissue paper is stacked within reach; the candy and coins are sorted into categories; and the various tapes are laid out -- It’s showtime!
Those who have never received one of Richard’s surprise boxes may think all this preparation is a bit excessive, but it takes a lot of coordination to get somewhere between thirty and fifty boxes created, wrapped, and shipped in time for Christmas – especially the way Richard does it. Each family gets a carefully selected assortment of goodies and gifts. Each small gift is wrapped by Richard in colorful tissue paper, as is each candy and coin. All these small packages are then strategically placed in the proper size box -- and the detail work really begins.
Each box is sealed with packing tape into which Richard incorporates a “pull tab” for ease of access. He then chooses the right wrapping paper for each recipient’s tastes and for how the pattern will line up on the box. Using his right angle measuring tool, he measures the box and pattern before making the first cut on the paper. When he’s satisfied that the alignment is good to go, he begins taping – making military perfect creases in each corner and end. The boxes are then given to me to receive a color-coordinated bow and name tag. The box is actually one of the most delightful parts of the wrapped-by-Richard gift experience.
He calls himself the best “white wrapper “ that he knows.
All the way to back to Tennessee, I had envisioned spending our first day home creating tasty treats as visions of family fun danced in my head. But, first, we had to unearth the packing supplies which we store in an outbuilding several hundred feet from the house. The storage bins are too many and too clumsy to carry, so I wanted Richard to transport them in the van. And this couldn’t be done until everything we took to the wedding was removed from the van.
Everything we took out of the van needed further disposition to make space for spreading out “Santa’s Wrapping Room.” Suitcases were unpacked -- which led to laundry to wash, fold, and hang. Mail needed sorting -- which created a desk full of filing to be finished. The filing was important because we need every flat surface in our house for spreading out our array of gifts purchased throughout the year. I know you might think that I could just put the files in what Terry Sue refers to as a “Houdini” box until Christmas is over. I did that one year, and only found out that I had inadvertently stowed our unpaid electric bill when Richard came home from work to a house without electricity.
We’ve spent a whole day back and have not one bourbon ball or gift box to show for it. This is what Richard refers to as the “infinite regression of steps.”
After the coconut macaroons come out of the oven and the bourbon balls are counted into cans; once the gifts are laid out for choosing; the tissue paper is stacked within reach; the candy and coins are sorted into categories; and the various tapes are laid out -- It’s showtime!
Those who have never received one of Richard’s surprise boxes may think all this preparation is a bit excessive, but it takes a lot of coordination to get somewhere between thirty and fifty boxes created, wrapped, and shipped in time for Christmas – especially the way Richard does it. Each family gets a carefully selected assortment of goodies and gifts. Each small gift is wrapped by Richard in colorful tissue paper, as is each candy and coin. All these small packages are then strategically placed in the proper size box -- and the detail work really begins.
Each box is sealed with packing tape into which Richard incorporates a “pull tab” for ease of access. He then chooses the right wrapping paper for each recipient’s tastes and for how the pattern will line up on the box. Using his right angle measuring tool, he measures the box and pattern before making the first cut on the paper. When he’s satisfied that the alignment is good to go, he begins taping – making military perfect creases in each corner and end. The boxes are then given to me to receive a color-coordinated bow and name tag. The box is actually one of the most delightful parts of the wrapped-by-Richard gift experience.
He calls himself the best “white wrapper “ that he knows.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Processing the Passion
Whew! I think I have a hangover – and I don’t mean of the alcohol withdrawal kind. All that emotion in such a short time is enough to make my head and heart explode. One of the best things about retirement is that it gives me the gift of time. Even though Richard didn’t retire until he had his near-death heart attack, I was able to retire as soon as Richard “adopted” me. I stayed busy with volunteer work with family and the community, but I was able to pull back and process whenever I felt the need.
For a while after Hurricane Katrina, I forgot about that need for processing time. After this past year of emotional roller coaster rides, I finally put my passions on hold for a two-week period last summer while I floated on a sea of pure pain. For me, even the pleasures of life can be so intense that they explode my over-full heart. Richard has a friend who used to tell me that she had to take breaks from conversations with me because she would become “over-stimulated.” Elaine has told me that I make people tired. Well, imagine if I make other people emotionally exhausted how I make myself feel.
Elaine and I relaxed together for a couple of days before everyone else descended on her. Richard and I were on call for the next couple of days, in case Elaine needed a back-up band of buddies for her pageant production. She really had everything under control, so we took a break the morning of the wedding to take a trip with Scott and Buffy. Nicholas was playing in the last game of his pee-wee league football season. We jumped at the chance to see him and his sister Miya, with the fairy princess hair. , That night, Rachel’s family joined us on the dance floor, where Sarah twirled in her sparkly party dress, and all the young marrieds did some version of mildly dirty dancing. Elaine, Rosita and I have known each other since we were fourteen. At receptions end, we three couples who call ourselves “los tres amigos y amigas ” toasted the end of the party in Elaine’s room -- as we began planning for Rosita and Eddie’s daughter’s wedding in less than a year.
I had planned to stay in family visit mode for two and a half weeks, which would include a visit to my Aunt Mabel on the bayou to wish her a happy eightieth birthday. Lucky for me, Richard insisted on us taking a mental health break between the big, fat Italian wedding and the big, fat family feast for Thanksgiving at Scott’s house in Mississippi.
All the way home, I let the shimmering bubbles of memories of the five-day trip float across my consciousness and pop into magical memories lodged in my brain. It was a nine-hour trip, but I know I’ll be floating for days. Thank goodness, all I have to do this next five days is prepare Christmas packages for family that we’ll see during Thanksgiving week.
For a while after Hurricane Katrina, I forgot about that need for processing time. After this past year of emotional roller coaster rides, I finally put my passions on hold for a two-week period last summer while I floated on a sea of pure pain. For me, even the pleasures of life can be so intense that they explode my over-full heart. Richard has a friend who used to tell me that she had to take breaks from conversations with me because she would become “over-stimulated.” Elaine has told me that I make people tired. Well, imagine if I make other people emotionally exhausted how I make myself feel.
Elaine and I relaxed together for a couple of days before everyone else descended on her. Richard and I were on call for the next couple of days, in case Elaine needed a back-up band of buddies for her pageant production. She really had everything under control, so we took a break the morning of the wedding to take a trip with Scott and Buffy. Nicholas was playing in the last game of his pee-wee league football season. We jumped at the chance to see him and his sister Miya, with the fairy princess hair. , That night, Rachel’s family joined us on the dance floor, where Sarah twirled in her sparkly party dress, and all the young marrieds did some version of mildly dirty dancing. Elaine, Rosita and I have known each other since we were fourteen. At receptions end, we three couples who call ourselves “los tres amigos y amigas ” toasted the end of the party in Elaine’s room -- as we began planning for Rosita and Eddie’s daughter’s wedding in less than a year.
I had planned to stay in family visit mode for two and a half weeks, which would include a visit to my Aunt Mabel on the bayou to wish her a happy eightieth birthday. Lucky for me, Richard insisted on us taking a mental health break between the big, fat Italian wedding and the big, fat family feast for Thanksgiving at Scott’s house in Mississippi.
All the way home, I let the shimmering bubbles of memories of the five-day trip float across my consciousness and pop into magical memories lodged in my brain. It was a nine-hour trip, but I know I’ll be floating for days. Thank goodness, all I have to do this next five days is prepare Christmas packages for family that we’ll see during Thanksgiving week.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
One Wild Wedding
Elaine kept calling it “A Big Fat Italian Wedding.” Whatever anybody wants to call it, it was fabulously fun. There’s really no similarity between WASP wedding and the South Louisiana version of letting the good times roll. All major events in New Orleans are celebrated with song, dance, food, and laughter – lots of laughter. And we pray – lots of praying. The Saints are losing – Don’t worry about it; have a laugh, and say a prayer. The Saints are winning – Let’s laugh, and say a prayer. You’re sick? – I’ll tell you a funny story to cheer you up, after I pray for you. You’re dead? – I’ll tell everybody something funny about you to cheer them up, and I’ll pray for you and your family.
Elaine refuses to face life any other way. In her professional life, she’s a very serious doctor making life and death decisions every day. She works very hard, and plays even harder. Any event Elaine touches has a special sparkle – some of it from the fresh flower arrangements and flickering candlelight, but most from the imprint of her passion for life, love, and family. And now that Elaine’s children are old enough to help plan the pageants, we’re in for a really wild ride.
No New Orleans party takes food lightly. You don’t go to a tailgate party with just a bunch of chips and dips. Every event calls for a fabulous feast – for all the senses. You must wear your team colors; you must bring your team spirit; and you must bring good food – lots of good food. For Mardi Gras, families cordon off picnic spots days before the parades and station a family member to guard their territory until parade time – many complete with living room sofas. All day people are barbequing to go with the gourmet fare they bring from home.
Wedding receptions are smaller versions of Mardi Gras. Everybody gets in on the act. My Godchild Gary coordinated the music with the DJ to optimize the potential for dancing, and dance we did. Everybody who can walk is expected to dance. Who knew that Elaine’s older brother Tony, a very dour doctor, could line dance?
And the food at both the rehearsal dinner and wedding reception was fit for kings (and queens). In the span of two nights, we feasted on velvety oyster soup, lobster ravioli in seafood Alfredo, lamb chops, and crab cakes followed by cannolis and amaretto panna cotta. The reception food was no less divine. I’ve never been to a wedding buffet with prime filets of beef, béarnaise sauce, and mushroom wine sauce – as much as you wanted to eat. And the wedding cake was not standard almond flavored white – it was carrot cake! This was accompanied by a groom’s cake of half lemon doberge and half chocolate doberge lovingly carried from New Orleans Gambino’s Bakery by some of Elaine’s best friends, Rosita and Eddie, built a special wallboard platform to cradle it on its journey. Did I tell you the food is important?
The wedding was as perfect as a wedding could ever be. The bride was a movie star straight out of the forties movies. The groom was the perfect leading man of dark Italian good looks. The attendants were glowing in their wine-colored strapless gowns. The sunset ceremony under a centuries-old oak tree at water’s edge was personalized, solemn, and meaningful. Then, we moved in for the reception.
We get together and blow off steam, and make marvelous memories that will tide us over through life’s hard work and sorrows. Then we pack away our party clothes and head back to our realities, carrying the glow of fun, food, laughter and longing that has to last us until next time.
I do know what it means to miss New Orleans. We’ll be back for Thanksgiving.
Elaine refuses to face life any other way. In her professional life, she’s a very serious doctor making life and death decisions every day. She works very hard, and plays even harder. Any event Elaine touches has a special sparkle – some of it from the fresh flower arrangements and flickering candlelight, but most from the imprint of her passion for life, love, and family. And now that Elaine’s children are old enough to help plan the pageants, we’re in for a really wild ride.
No New Orleans party takes food lightly. You don’t go to a tailgate party with just a bunch of chips and dips. Every event calls for a fabulous feast – for all the senses. You must wear your team colors; you must bring your team spirit; and you must bring good food – lots of good food. For Mardi Gras, families cordon off picnic spots days before the parades and station a family member to guard their territory until parade time – many complete with living room sofas. All day people are barbequing to go with the gourmet fare they bring from home.
Wedding receptions are smaller versions of Mardi Gras. Everybody gets in on the act. My Godchild Gary coordinated the music with the DJ to optimize the potential for dancing, and dance we did. Everybody who can walk is expected to dance. Who knew that Elaine’s older brother Tony, a very dour doctor, could line dance?
And the food at both the rehearsal dinner and wedding reception was fit for kings (and queens). In the span of two nights, we feasted on velvety oyster soup, lobster ravioli in seafood Alfredo, lamb chops, and crab cakes followed by cannolis and amaretto panna cotta. The reception food was no less divine. I’ve never been to a wedding buffet with prime filets of beef, béarnaise sauce, and mushroom wine sauce – as much as you wanted to eat. And the wedding cake was not standard almond flavored white – it was carrot cake! This was accompanied by a groom’s cake of half lemon doberge and half chocolate doberge lovingly carried from New Orleans Gambino’s Bakery by some of Elaine’s best friends, Rosita and Eddie, built a special wallboard platform to cradle it on its journey. Did I tell you the food is important?
The wedding was as perfect as a wedding could ever be. The bride was a movie star straight out of the forties movies. The groom was the perfect leading man of dark Italian good looks. The attendants were glowing in their wine-colored strapless gowns. The sunset ceremony under a centuries-old oak tree at water’s edge was personalized, solemn, and meaningful. Then, we moved in for the reception.
We get together and blow off steam, and make marvelous memories that will tide us over through life’s hard work and sorrows. Then we pack away our party clothes and head back to our realities, carrying the glow of fun, food, laughter and longing that has to last us until next time.
I do know what it means to miss New Orleans. We’ll be back for Thanksgiving.
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