My Name is on the Deed

One of the things I learned as a child back in some social studies class in Memphis, Tennessee, is that bodies, in Louisiana, are buried above ground. That is and isn’t true, depending on the latitude at which one is buried as well as the money one has to spend on burial and whether one has had the forethought to buy/build a crypt. And most of those have a section below ground, which serves its own purpose.

Now, people here don’t usually talk about this. I can’t say that I blame them. Death is only slightly less offensive than burial. On the other hand, I learned, after moving here, that death is pretty much taken as it comes, right along with marriage and birth and whatever major milestones a life might have.

I had never been to a funeral or seen a person after death before I moved here. I grew up in the city and had few relatives in my life circle. Besides which, Granny would have thought it inappropriate to take a child to a funeral. Granny had some very specific opinions on what was and was not appropriate. For instance, you never, ever, for any reason went downtown or to a hospital without “dressing up.” Both occasions, regardless of purpose, were a call for “Sunday clothes” and nothing less. I can still recall the look on Granny’s face the time one of my older sisters arrived at the hospital to visit her after one of her heart emergencies. I thought the shorts and man’s t-shirt were going send Granny right on over. She rallied, though, to reign again and to often remind us of Sister Sue’s lack of respect.

I’m afraid that’s wandering off the subject . Besides which, Granny deserves her own space in this journal. Several spaces, to be sure.

Cemeteries here are filled with mausoleums and above-ground vaults. These vaults are built in rows, like condominiums for the dead, several “stories” high and a basement. Sometimes whole families own a vault and its levels and simply add folks to one of the sections as they die. In some of the more elaborate tombs, the skeletal remains are moved down to the basement to make room for the next one.

There are rules about all of this. These vaults are 10 feet long (deep), huge ovens, standing hot in the Louisiana sun, doing the work that ovens do. Under these conditions the process of decay is accelerated. Even so, law has it, corpses must decay for a year and a day before they can be pushed back to make room for more. Additional vaults are generally available for leasing for those who do not yet have space in the family vault.

I passed my husband’s resting place the other day and recalled a bit of information I discovered when making arrangements following his death. At some point in our marriage he had purchased, from his great aunt, a “level” of the family vault. My name is on the deed.

Tends to be a sobering thought, a humbling revelation. Not one I am particularly equipped for, so I most often think of something else.

Hot, child! Summer in the City

Lisa thought I should include “beer” in the title of this one, but 12 hours later I cannot remember why or what the other words should be. So, I am left to my own invention.

Yesterday was a day in New Orleans. I would like to write this as if I had spent most of the days of my life, since moving to Louisiana, prowling the streets of N’Awlins - but that is not the case. For some years I was intimidated by not knowing where anything is and the aggravation of not being able to get there from here, or vice versa.

The powers that be in “the City” don’t believe in the efficacy of communication. Or perhaps they feel if you don’t know where you are, how you got there and how to get back again, you should stay at home. And for years I mostly did, venturing forth only when I had someone with me who knew more than I did, or when I had detailed, foolproof directions. Until my husband died, I went mostly only as far as the airport and the Esplanade Mall, both really in Kenner, to the west of New Orleans and just as you enter the greater New Orleans area.

A time or two I ventured to the French Quarter with one or the other of my daughters, or One Canal Place or the New Orleans Museum of Art. But most ventures were accompanied by high anxiety and one or two panic attacks when I would discover - to my considerable chagrin - that the roads are not labeled or the signs indicating where one thinks she should be are ambiguous at best.

However, I have, in the last 6 years, made it my goal to overcome the anxiety and panic and venture forth more often. In doing so, I am discovering, in spite of the City fathers’ attempts to lose and confuse me, I can eventually find my way out again. And life is an adventure to be lived and not just read about.

Yesterday was a most pleasant afternoon of bookshops and window shopping. My friend, Lisa, and I began at the signing of a trite mystery novel by one of my favorite fluff mystery writers, Julie Smith. I say that with respect. After a stressful day of teaching and working with teachers or a tiring day of cutting too much grass, I enjoy nothing better than settling against several pillows with a glass or cup of tea nearby - cold in the summer, hot in the winter - and reading a fluff mystery. But even in my choice of fluff, I want something that is well written, with well presented, original characters. Julie provides this for me, most recently in her delightful character Talba Wallis - detective by day who becomes the notable poet, Baroness Pontalba by night.

This is made more enjoyable, to me, as Julie Smith, fair-skinned and red-haired, attempts the dialect of her major character, an outspoken Black female.

From the bookstore, Lisa and I walked the four blocks over to Magazine Street and proceeded to work our way from one end to the other. At least, that appeared to be Lisa’s plan. She was not a bit daunted by the mention of six miles of antique stores and boutiques - which translates to 71 city blocks. I think she seriously thought we could do all 71 in the heat of the day. It was 95 degrees, Fahrenheit, for most of the afternoon. In reality, we walked the nine or ten of those, in what is known as the Garden District, in one direction before crossing the street to return.

I think if we had not noticed “The Bulldog” - “Uptown’s International Tavern,”  we might be walking, yet. But in that moment the temptation of a cold, wet beer was overwhelming. We crossed at the light, headed back in the direction we had come and slipped into the dimly lit tavern. Perching on stools at the bar we each ordered a half-pint of Abita Purple Haze. We were conscious of the many blocks we had yet to walk to where the car was parked and thought to make the journey more enjoyable by frequent stops along the way - to slake our thirst and refresh our demeanor. So, we started slowly.

We were met with disappointment, however, finding that the one block where the tavern is located is the only one in the whole of that section of the Garden District offering a beer break. Not being male in the least, we finally stopped and asked a stranger for directions to the nearest bar. Then returned to the car and drove there, parking within easy crawling distance.

Again we sat at the bar, quickly noting we were the only ones present not showing vast expanses of flesh graced with tattoos of varying quality. Some were quite detailed and ornate and others appeared to have been done on the street - or in prison, perhaps. Feeling conspicuous and a bit over-dressed, in conservative linen pants and blouse, I ordered a pint, this time, of Abita Wheat. (Abita Springs boasts a Louisiana brewery which produces a pleasant variety of beer. I am most familiar with their lighter versions, which are often my reward for a yard well cut.) Lisa went for a Hurricane, having never had one. I advised her to drink it slowly - which she did.

So, there we sat, two schoolteacher types in the midst. One fellow was having a birthday it appeared - as he sailed many times around the room singing, “It’s my birthday! It’s my birthday!” A couple of finer folk who were familiar with local traditions pinned a couple of dollar bills to what there was of his shirt.

By this time, I suppose, Lisa was beginning to feel too conspicuous, as she began to invite strangers in from the street. She said it was because they were dressed more conservatively and would make us look less out of place. I think it was the Hurricane.

Whatever it was, in came Susan and Sandy, who proceeded to talk to us as if we knew why they were there. It seems the ASPCA -American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals - was sponsoring a fund-raiser that very evening in that very bar - Igor’s, by the way. We had happened into a Christmas in July celebration. As if on cue, the stereo began playing Christmas songs of the lesser know variety - “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” for example. Soon after we were offered a Chocolate Santa - the Godiva Santa. He was about six feet tall, wearing a Santa suit, with just a smidgeon of Black nose, cheeks and eyes showing.

He didn’t offer a single “Ho!Ho!Ho!” but he did steer us in the direction of the free Christmas dinner. Of which we partook. We chatted the evening with Susan and Sandy, she who rescues unwanted pets and he who tears down and rebuilds housing projects into something more desirable and sustainable - a mixture of subsidized and non-subsidized housing. We drank our beer and hurricane and sang along with the songs of Christmas.

Best of all we totally forgot, as I often do in my wanderings through life, of the many apparent differences in and among people. We are all pretty much the same - especially with a beer in our hands.

Now if this all sounds too surreal to you, the reader, I assure you it was not. It was and is New Orleans.

First You Make a Roux

There were and still are many things to learn about living way down south, so near the Gulf of Mexico. But one of the first and funnest has been the way of cooking. I don’t, nor will I ever, consider myself a “great cook.” I'm certainly no master chef! I’ve never had that label and don’t expect to work too hard to earn that label. But I sometimes have fun in the kitchen. I make the attempt often enough and experiment enough to have learned early on when cooking a Cajun meal, “first you make a roux.”

A roux is a heavenly, full-bodied gravy that serves as the base for most everything else. You begin by putting flour in your pan and adding a little oil - some people do equal parts, but you can use less oil or even no oil at all, if you really must. The results will be functional but less flavorful. The trick is to cook that over a low to medium heat, stirring and stirring and stirring the pot. You want the flour to brown to about the shade of peanut butter without any bits of it burning.

You should have, standing by, whatever onions, celery and bell pepper you intend to add - chopped and ready to go. The amount, of course, depends on the amount of flour/oil you use, which depends on the size of your finished dish. I can’t tell you all that. I always check a recipe for an approximation before I begin. The secret, however, is in stirring and browning the roux. When it’s ready, when you have it as dark as you want - or as dark as can be without burning - you add the “trilogy” all at once and stir that in. The addition stops the roux from continuing to brown.

You still stir, more slowly, to cook the vegetables. You can be a little less vigilant here, but don’t ignore it for too long or it will not evenly cook. When the vegetables are cooked - if the onions are clear the rest are done - you add your liquid, slowly, stirring well so the base does not clump. The liquid can be water or chicken stock or fish stock, depending on what you’re creating.

This is the base for your finished dish, and the diligence and patience with which you prepare the roux makes all the difference in the world with the final flavor. No matter how you season the finished stew or gumbo or etouffee, if you have not taken time with the roux the taste will tell it. It takes practice to make a good roux, to get it just right. And with someone, such as myself, who does not have the background to be a great cook, it is often a matter of hit or miss.

I’m just sitting here reflecting early morning after the children have left to go back home to St. Louis. Raising children is much like making a roux. The effort we put in shows up in the final flavor.
 
Fortunately, however, when it comes to children, we sometimes get a special grace for our lack of practice and expertise, for our lack of background in preparing the base. If we are blessed - as I have been. A grace that sprinkles like seasoned salt over the finished dish, bringing out the full flavor - as if a master had created her with his own hands.

Just a reminder to keep stirring the pot, gently, with patience and with vigilance.
 
And pray for grace.  

Celebration

I’m enjoying the company of my older daughter and her family this week and have so much less time to write. That is not a bad thing, just a comment on the nature of life, I suppose. It is as my mother always said it would be. As we grow older our children become a different kind of joy that adds dimension to the aging process. And grandchildren! Well, that is much more than just a dimension - it is a whole ‘nother world!

This past Sunday we all went to the Catfish Festival in Des Allemands, Louisiana. First, my apologies to the vegetarians. Cajuns eat everything. Fried fish is one of the more “usual” delicacies. Add crawfish and alligator to that list, along with the usual seafood, all cooked up in gumbos, etoufees and court bouillons, and you begin to sense a flavor of the richly seasoned repast.

Cajuns also celebrate everything. Des Allemands (most commonly pronounced “dez zalmonds”) claims to be the Catfish Capital of the Universe. Appropriately, they named a queen and a court of ladies to accompany her in spreading the word and celebrating the event. My granddaughter had her picture taken with the queen with whom we chatted for several minutes and who is not only a beautiful girl, but a very gracious and poised young lady, even after a grueling weekend in the high summer heat.

The tradition of Catfish Queen is a long and proud one, as noted by the photos of past queen’s lining the walls of the church hall. Her duties, apparently, are pre-advertising/campaigning for the weekend of celebration, with requisite photo-ops and local media involvement. This culminates in the weekend event when she is expected to walk around the parade grounds in casual wear - to accommodate the heat - wearing a sequined sash and a crown emblazoned with rhinestones of various colors all intertwined to set off a striking, blue rhinestone catfish to commemorate the impressive BlueCat.

Besides food, and quite a lot of it, this fair had the requisite music, rides and craft booths. And, as we say around here, all things considered, “I passed a good time, sha', me!”

Sister Sue

I’m feeling bloggish ,which is to say there are words that want to be on paper , appearing to be trapped under the skin, writhing in that unrelenting way they have when too long ignored. They are not nice words or pleasant words or 'look at me and see how socially correct I am' words. They are words of disillusion and impatience and need. And if I could name the need , or had some hope of accomplishing useful alteration, there would be no drive to put it all on paper. So, instead I write. About other things, mostly.

At 6:30 am this morning the heat index was between the mid to high 90’s - that’s in Fahrenheit, not Celsius. If you need to, you can figure the conversion and understand just how daunting that information is, coming so early in what otherwise appears to be a fine day. Then, of course, if you lived here, you would also know that around about noon, almost on schedule, the clouds came back through and the skies opened back up to dump a bucket load of humidity. Great large torrents of humidity, spewed from some unseen fireman’s hose, extinguishing a fire before it started.

But the heat remains.

I found myself sitting on the swing, a tall, wet glass of iced tea at hand - lemon, lightly sweetened - wondering what in the world women of a century ago did on a day like this, encumbered, as they were, under layers of linen and lace. Then, unexpectedly, I recalled when, as a child, I had no bed of my own and instead shared a bed with one or the other of my sisters.

Southern nights before air-conditioning - for those of us not wealthy enough to afford the installation of ceiling fans - were heavy and clinging, smothering you in your own bed, suffocating you before you could find the sweet release of sleep. I always preferred sharing a bed with sister Sue. I would lie with my back to her, and she would turn toward me, softly lifting the hair from the back of my neck and blowing gently to cool me until I fell asleep.

There was enough of an age difference to create the usual childhood squabbles and disagreements and disharmony by day. But by night she was, once again, my sweet sister.

Feelin' Figgy

The figs are ripe. Not just ripe, but plump and sweet and in abundance. I have two trees which produce, I am told, a reasonable number of figs. I obtain this information second-hand because both trees are difficult to get to, involving treks through tall grasses and standing at odd angles on the levee running down to the bayou. Places where snakes and the occasional ‘gator like to roll about in the sun. Places I am not anxious to frequent.

But these trees are plentiful in Louisiana, earning the name “Louisiana’s Backyard Fruit.” It’s difficult to find a yard that does not have it’s own tree.

So, I freely offer the fruit of my trees to a friend of mine. And I go elsewhere, where the pickings are easier. Yesterday I picked the first of the harvest from the tree of another friend. By tomorrow I should have enough to justify the work of making fig preserves. Not that it is so much work, but from fig washing to final clean-up this will take most of an evening. I tend to make a production out of anything to do in the kitchen.

To bolster my mood for all this work, I sat and searched for more information about this culinary treat. I discovered, as expected, quite a lot. Did you know, for instance, that God Hates Figs? And have you ever once considered the truly bizarre sex life of a fig? I have it on good authority, however, that Louisiana figs do not engage in such practices. I learned that the fig tree is related to the Ficus tree, and the figs in California must be pollinated by wasps but not the ones in Louisiana. The varieties range from “Celeste” to “Lalani” to “Brown Turkey” and our own locally developed “LSU Purple” and “LSU Gold.”

Figs are a healthful snack, being nutrient dense and high in fiber. According to the LSU Ag department, fig puree can be used as a sugar substitute or as a fat substitute in some recipes. They also suggest chopping figs into a green salad for sweetness, adding them to oatmeal instead of raisins, and combining finely chopped figs to low-fat cream cheese to spread on your bagel.

My own favorite delicacy is fig preserves on a hot biscuit - with fresh, hot coffee on the side, of course. But I’ve found recipes for Fig Cake and Fig Ice Cream and Fig and Pecan Pie and … well, the possibilities are as limitless as the imagination. And the fruit of the fig.

So, to quote a friend of mine, if you find yourself feeling a bit of a sweet tooth, “Have a fig!”

Summer Awakening

Well, the rain has stopped. For now. I’m not sure how many days we had rain unceasing, as I was out of town briefly at the beginning of June. But I returned on June 12th and know for a fact it rained every day since, up until yesterday. In all honesty, the rain Saturday was but a mist, not enough to deter me from cutting the grass that had grown like - well, like weeds.

The down side to that is now we will have unrelenting heat. At least the rain cooled things off, relatively speaking. As I cut grass, I found myself anxious to make the round and get back to the shade under the trees - a respite all too brief, as I made that curve and headed back, once again, into sunlight‘s beating heat. Sunscreen is a daily necessity when living this close to the equator. We are subtropical, you know - as I remind my children.

The upside is I can plan outings that do not involve umbrellas.

This week the plan is to go with a friend of mine to Grand Isle for the day. We will sit on the beach and discuss The Awakening, by Kate Chopin and how it does or does not apply to life in general and our lives in particular. We will contemplate the ways in which “the voice of the sea speaks to the soul” and discuss the difficulty of living a life in response to our own senses - one that does not necessarily conform to tradition; senses that are not dulled by the demands of convention.

I will continue my contemplation of the role of females in this 21st century South, and wonder if, really, women have come so far from the days of plantations and pantaloons. Or if many are still struggling to breathe underneath the corsets.

And we will let the breath of the sea refresh us.