At The Corner of Canal and the Quarter

We could have had more food and more fun, but I don’t know how we could have fit more into just five days. We definitely could have fit more family and friends into the apartment, if I had only known ahead of time that we’d score this coup.

I was awakened with a call from Roger, our Atlanta attorney friend. Our party is on the front page of the New Orleans Times Picayune. Even in a city with millions of revelers, we somehow managed to stand out. Of course, it’s rather difficult to keep a low profile when you’ve snagged the best corner in the Crescent City -- for Mardi Gras, at that. Now, all our New Orleans family and friends will know that the bawdy broad came back.

This corner is never quite quiet, but it does take a very brief siesta between the hours of four and five a.m. This is when the party people have finally been herded home by the police with bull horns and the street sweepers are still asleep. There is still the occasional sound of a siren, but not as much as when the Charity trauma unit was the emergency clinic of choice for all traffic accidents, broken fists and faces, and other wounds inflicted during inebriation altercations.

Before dawn, the mountains of trash have been bulldozed and swept off the sidewalks and the streets have been washed down. In a city where the success of the season is measured in tons of trash, it is truly amazing to see not a dot of debris once the street cleaners come through. It’s as if a huge zamboni has resurfaced the city for the beginning of a new day.

Everything important in New Orleans comes by the corner of Canal and the Quarter. Everywhere you want to go is accessible with one of the street cars or buses, the St. Charles streetcar for uptown and university sections, and the Canal line for downtown and the quarter. And if your business is in the ‘burbs, cab rides are less than ten miles from the center of the city. The historic Algiers area is a short ferry boat ride away.

It was a joy to have a number of grocery outlets available, with easily obtainable ethnic ingredients. We were so busy cooking and carousing that it left little time for restaurant reviews. All manner of manna is available in New Orleans’ uncountable restaurants, ranging from mom and pop shops to world-famous chef’s tables. One regret about this trip is how little local cuisine we consumed. We’ll correct that next time.

Another thing that we’ll prioritize next trip down is strolling through the many antique stores and art galleries that line the streets of the city. With so much local artwork rolling and strolling by the windows, there was little need to leave the building for more exposure to this wonder of the world called the Crescent City.

The New Orleans That I Know

The last Mardi Gras I saw in New Orleans was the first after Hurricane Katrina nearly wiped New Orleans off the map. It was also the first for my Atlanta granddaughters. It was easy navigating the streets, as there were very few folks in town. The locals had not yet been able to get re-established, and the tourists were unsure that there was anything to see outside of the destruction.

We were able to position ourselves at front and center for every parade, with our granddaughters having little competition for the treasures thrown by the many maskers on the Mardi Gras floats. Although it was sad to see the city so sparsely populated, it was a grand way to introduce these Bible Belt Babes to the pre-Lenten Catholic Craziness called Mardi Gras.

This was four years ago; this year, New Orleans is back! And we have the best seat in the house for reigning like royalty over the city of soul.

Mark and Susan, as did we, lost their home in Katrina. They relocated to Florida, and again to Louisville, leaving their flooded home to their son who wanted to reclaim it. They also left behind a French Quarter building that had been in Mark’s family for decades. I knew they had French Quarter property, but I’d never heard anything about it other than that it housed a touristy t-shirt shop. As I pined for New Orleans, I don’t know what made me ask Susan if they still had the property, but I did ask.

I was informed that, above the t-shirt shop, was an apartment that had been vacant for some time. Susan also let me know that they hadn’t seen the property for many years, and it was probably in bad shape. The main reason I had continued interest in seeing if the apartment had short-term parade rental potential was its location at the corner where all the downtown Mardi Gras parades pass.

As the realtor opened the dirty street-level door to a dingy hallway containing a set of very steep stairs, I was not encouraged. But, I still figured that even a roach motel could be useful as a safe family parade viewing stand – as long as it had a working flush toilet. When the key was turned in the lock at the head of the stairs, I stepped into the French Quarter version of apartment paradise.

The whole front and side of the building is made of windows looking out on the Canal Street parade route on one side and Royal Street on the other. The floor plan is mostly open space, perfect for partying. There are two buffet bars, one in the parade viewing room and one adjacent to the fully equipped kitchen. The immense master bedroom connects to a beautifully appointed bath, and the miracle of all French Quarter miracles, a laundry room with washer, dryer and mud sink.

For five days we’ve hosted friends, family, and their friends and families. We’ve feasted on regional delicacies of Rachel’s chicken and sausage gumbo, Buffy’s red beans and rice, French bread, king cake, stuffed artichokes, and my shrimp and ham stuffed mirliton, and dirty rice. We’re also sharing our summer bounty from our mountain home freezer: field peas with snaps, mixed greens, chicken and cornbread dressing, beef and barley soup.

All of this and barrels of beads -- It don’t get no better than this.

Aunt Mabel’s Table

New Orleanians don’t allow anyone to remain a stranger for long. In other cultures, it’s considered impolite to look at someone on an elevator. Here, whoever is first on the elevator becomes the elevator operator with, “What floor, Dawlin?” This person is just as likely to ask, “Who you goin’ see?”

It’s very common to be in line at the grocery store and have the person behind you inventory your basket and ask for your menu and the details of the function you’re planning. Many times the maw-maws at the registers will offer up recipes for you purchases, whether you ask for them or not.

If you’re not family when you arrive in the Big Easy, you’ll be family before you leave. Everybody is always looking to shrink the degrees of separation. They’ll find something that connects you to someone they’re connected to, if you stand next to them long enough.

I’m one of the lucky ones. I grew up in this area with an honest-to-God Cajun daddy. My summers were spent with my daddy’s mama and sister on the quiet bayou and on the plantation property of my mother’s sister’s family. There could hardly be two more opposite experiences of rural Louisiana living within a couple of hours of the pulsating rhythms of New Orleans.

I still have a sultry sister who’s a singer in the city and my daddy’s eighty-year-old baby sister on the bayou. Aunt Mabel and I are working on a book of her family’s Cajun cooking. She’s asking her kids and their kids to collect their memories, their photos, and their food interests into a memoir of their good times on the bayou.

Aunt Mabel, like her mama before her, has passed down family values with every spoonful of gumbo she’s fed the many who have eaten at her table. Uncle Roman presides at these meals, bringing up topics of interest to him, while Aunt Mabel monitors the conversations for their effects on the enjoyment of the time at the table. She allows very little talk that causes stress during the meal. These are topics to be taken up after dessert.

I, like Aunt Mabel, am concerned that, with so many mamas working outside of the home, the recipes for family meals and family living will be lost unless we make a concerted effort to preserve them. Has there ever been a better way to create strong family bonds than preparing a meal together, consuming the meal around a common table with civil discourse flowing, and cleaning together in the afterglow of the gift of good food made with loving hands and shared with loving hearts?
It may be old fashioned, but Aunt Mabel’s table is still the heart of her home.

The Passionate Pulse of New Orleans

I love the passionate pulse of New Orleans where you never know if the person next to you is going to laugh with you, cry with you, hug you, or hit you. Where rituals aren’t only about religion; they’re about belonging to a tribe -- right now, the Who Dat Nation. Where the chant, “Who dat say they gonna beat them Saints “begins at one end of the city and travels as a wave down the length and breadth of the throngs lining the parade route -- miles and miles of chanting believers.

This is a city that embraces God and fears nothing; where people dressed like the pope parade with signs saying, “Bless you boys” about their favorite football heroes. New Orleans believes in the power of group prayer and the power of group play. Hurricanes are coming, gather and pray; Saints are playing, gather and pray; Saints are champions, get your group and make a joyful noise unto the lord.
New Orleanians mock the powers of Zeus and Toth and the other mythical gods in their Mardi Gras. They mock the power of death with their voo-doo and their cemeteries called “cities of the dead.” They know the difference between adoration and admiration; they cheer for their team and bow to their God.

Fat Tuesday (Mardi Gras) marks the beginning of Lent, forty days preparing for spiritual rebirth. “Dat Tuesday” (also dubbed Lombardi Gras) marks the end of over forty years preparing for the city’s rebirth.

This is a city that celebrates all of their blessings and graciously accepts their sorrows. It’s loud in its joys, and prayerful in its pains. A common response to tragedy is, “Oh, Dawlin’ What you gonna do? I’ll be praying for you” as friends and families roll up their sleeves and begin doing for one another.

Even everyday meals here are small celebrations. The restaurants are full of locals embracing the gift of great food and the talents of the people who prepare them. It’s quite common to observe everybody at any table eating off of each others plates for the sheer joy of sharing good food with their friends.

We’ve cried for New Orleans for over five years, even as we all rolled up our sleeves to help them keep the faith. Many times it has seemed that we were caught in a rip tide, and the harder we fought the current, the less progress we made. There’s a new energy in New Orleans, a renewal of their basic belief in the power of the positive. There’s a new mayor to lead them; their VA hospital is being rebuilt; their beloved Saints are Super Bowl champions. New Orleans is, once again, smiling from one end to the other.

Let the good times roll.

Now -- On to New Orleans

I'm moving on to New Orleans to cheer the Saints back home. The party hasn't stopped in the French Quarter since the beginning of the week-end; it's sure to continue until Mardi Gras day. I'm planning to "be there in that number when the Saints go marching in" -- back into New Orleans.

I'm hoping to rent an apartment for the duration of the week, so my family can celebrate the Crescent City rebirth in comfort and style. For those who have never experienced New Orleans in parade mode, a bathroom is worth its weight in gold, and a kitchen is simply a dream come true. if you're lucky enough to have a flush toilet on the parade route, you're lucky enough.

What's Natural In New Orleans

Who Dat Family?

I have a son
Who is the most fun
He lives to throw parties.
He has some friends
Who are so close
They’ve combined their names
And are now the Yardies.

When Dave returns
With his new son
And his girls – all three
The family name
Won’t be the same
It will then be become
Family Mayardy.

Dave has always been
With them in spirit
While stationed in Italy
He’ll serve our nation
Where duty sends him
But with the Yardies,
He’d rather be.

Scott and Sam, their kids
And the wives
Buffy and Michelle
Are waiting with breathe
That is baited
To welcome back
Dave and Joelle.

New Orleans has long been called "the city that care forgot." Only people who have never survived in a mosquito infested, hurricane prone swamp,in one hundred percent humidity and one hundred degree temperatures could think that care bypassed New Orleans. It's not that New Orleanians don't have cares; it's that it takes some powerful celebrating to erase the pain of ever-impending catastrophic loss.

New Orleans is a predominantly Roman Catholic town. No matter what religion you start off with, if you live in New Orleans long enough, you become a little bit Catholic. It's in the blood and the water; New Orleanians work hard, pray hard, play hard. Mardi Gras is actually the beginning of Lent, the season of self-denial. Nobody celebrates like Saints fans.


There's a huge system of archdiocesan parochial schools. It's an accepted part of the cost of living that middle class families send their children to Catholic schools. The archdiocese cancelled school for the day after the Superbowl,and cancelled evening church services on Superbowl Sunday so that the fans could properly celebrate the Saints. The priests were also given permission to wear Saints jerseys over their ritual vestments.
There was even a rumor going around that the pope flew the New Orleans Saints flag in place of the pope's coat of arms in Vatican City.

There is no way I'd have ever forgiven myself if I hadn't been here for this moment in history. Richard and I spent three years after Hurricane Katrina helping our Louisiana and Mississippi friends lick their wounds and crawl back to having a sense of home. I just had to be here for their victory party. It almost erases the pain of having lost our homes.

We've been criticized for leaving, but someone needed a serene place to process the pain that we all felt. We lost our stuff, our neighbors, our jobs; but we still had our family -- and they were not whole. Now they feel whole.

I knew we were going to win the Superbowl. God promised he wasn't ever going to flood the world again. He flooded our world over four years ago, and this was His way of making it up to us. Anyway, that's my take on our win.

Who Dat say they gonna beat them Saints?

Gone Pecan

Richard created a sensational salad,
And a marvelous malted milk cake.
I went to collect Jack’s stories,
In which we all have a stake.

Mountaintop Mary made pizza dough,
While Richard and Don stoked the fire.
We had hours of laughter and fun --
My need to celebrate was dire.

Richard’s got his dog tag on;
Charlie and Deborah checked in.
The snow flurries are beginning;
Time for good-byes to begin.

I’ve got all my ducks in a row,
With Adam and Josie on call.
It’s was time to head down south
For a Saint-sational “Who Dat” ball.

I’m gone pecan;
See you later alligator.
Take care of each other;
Dinner’s in the ‘frigerator.