by Kate Christensen | Feb 14, 2012
I associate St. Valentine’s Day with food so profoundly that I keep accidentally calling it Thanksgiving. This wasn’t always the case. As a kid, I loved making Valentines with red construction paper and paper lace. The most elaborate one I made was always, of course, for my mother, the person who inspired my greatest passion until the age of somewhere between ten and eleven. She was guaranteed to love me back a thousandfold. I didn’t know the meaning of the word “heartache” back then.
Then we started using the pre-printed cardboard Valentines with catchy messages, glitter, and cute cartoon drawings. I loved the classroom exchange of cards in little paper envelopes; everyone had to give one to everyone else, so there were no hurt feelings. I was thrilled and bewitched by the one I got from my fifth-grade crush, Tommy Bello – he gave me the special card that came in every box of prefab Valentines, the one that actually said, “I like you” – a prepubescent declaration of love. (After that, we “went out,” an arrangement achieved entirely through intermediaries. We never spoke a word to each other, but everyone in our class knew we were in love.)
Those were simple days. Then came puberty, high school, romantic awkwardness, and the end of the magic of St. Valentine’s Day for me. I never had a proper boyfriend in high school. What I had were painful, unrequited crushes on both sides. I couldn’t talk to boys I liked, because I was too shy, and I couldn’t deal with boys who liked me, because I couldn’t take them seriously. My adolescence was, like many people’s, hormonal agony. St. Valentine’s Day came around every year and just made it all feel worse. And then my twenties brought a series of tortured, protracted so-called relationships; did we even celebrate St. Valentine’s Day, me and any of those guys? I don’t know, maybe, but if we did, I don’t remember.
I got married in my thirties and stayed married till my mid-forties. Like many couples, my husband and I had our St. Valentine’s Day traditions, those cozy, unquestioned romantic rituals that remove all doubt and anxiety from the holiday and cause single people to call married couples “smug.” In any case, we celebrated it every year with a memorable meal at a restaurant where we didn’t usually go. That was the beginning of my association of the day with food — not the gluttonous, stupefying turkey and mashed potatoes and sides of that other food-related holiday, but light, buoying, sensual delicacies, raw oysters being the most obvious of these.
Then my marriage ended, as some marriages do. When the next St. Valentine’s Day came, I had no one to celebrate it with. I reflected instead on the deeply unsettling weirdness of a day that fetishizes romantic love and therefore makes brutally clear, for many people, the lack of it. To return to the Thanksgiving analogy, people who can’t afford turkeys don’t rejoice and give thanks as the entire country tucks into gargantuan roasted stuffed birds. They feel even hungrier. But luckily, there are charities and churches that make a point of serving a Thanksgiving meal to poor people, as many of them as possible, so they don’t feel their lack so starkly. Where are the St. Valentine’s Day charities, the ones who provide the uncoupled with temporary holiday love? They don’t exist, of course. Romantic love is a slippery, inexact commodity. And it’s not just single people who feel it. I know from experience that people in relationships and marriages can be just as lonely.
It’s a hell of a day, a bitch of a day, and we should probably abolish it for everyone over the age of eleven.
But apparently that’s not going to happen, so instead, maybe we should shift our expectations and associations from love to food. You can’t buy love, you can’t make love appear, and when it does, you can’t always enjoy it. Love comes and goes and waxes and wanes and vanishes and changes color. The vicissitudes of romance, to make things worse, don’t calibrate themselves to surge in the middle of February – on the contrary, at this point in the winter, most of us are at our lowest ebb, and all we really want to do is stay on the couch in our elastic-waist pajamas watching movies and eating comfort food. It’s the middle of freaking winter. Flowers aren’t in season, it’s frankly too cold for champagne, and plunging necklines, spaghetti straps, and short skirts are madness in this weather. It’s a bad day for romance, all around.
If this were a food-related holiday, on the other hand, we could all look forward to it collectively, as an anticipated, warm, easy pleasure. “What are you cooking for St. Valentine’s?” we could ask one another, or, “Want to go out with us for Valentine’s dinner?” This strikes me as a sensible way of circumventing much of the angst and irritation this day inspires.
St. Valentine’s Day is, of course, already associated with food that warms the loins — ridiculously out-of-season, decadent delicacies with aphrodisiacal properties. That’s fine and wonderful, of course, but such a meal can also charge the cells with renewed life and provide fuel to get through the rest of the winter. And a social, communal, shared sensuality can be so much more exciting than a narrow, proscriptive mandate to be happy with only one other person.
Groups of people should dine lavishly and convivially together on St. Valentine’s Day the way they do on Thanksgiving. Single people wouldn’t have to feel as if they were missing out on “coupled bliss.” Unhappy couples could indulge in a day of social bacchanalia. Happy couples could widen their circle, which is always a good thing. Instead of reverting every year to the timeworn offerings between twosomes of lingerie, roses, and chocolates, making many people feel pressured, inadequate, or left out, it strikes me that it would be so much more fun if everyone just gathered around tables to flirt and make toasts and enjoy one another’s company and feast all together on a traditional St. Valentine’s Day dinner: raw oysters, asparagus, artichokes, fresh figs, chocolate-dipped strawberries… and then have a big, old-fashioned orgy. Just kidding, I think.
Buckwheat Blini with Sour Cream and Caviar
Well, all of this is lovely in theory, but Brendan and I happen to be alone in the farmhouse today, so there will be no well-populated Valentine’s party around here. Right now, we’re sitting at the table in warm bathrobes, drinking coffee and listening to Bach piano concertos and looking out at snowy fields and bare mountains. Of course, we plan to cook and eat and drink all day, because this is the other Thanksgiving. We’ll drink toasts to all the people we love, the ones we wish were sitting at the table with us.
To 2/3 cup buckwheat flour and 1/3 cup gluten-free baking flour, add ¼ teaspoon baking soda, 1 tsp sugar, and 1 tsp salt. Stir. Make a well in the middle and add 1 1/2 cup buttermilk and 2 egg yolks and mix till smooth. Beat 2 egg whites till stiff and fold them in. Stir in 1 T melted butter.
Drop spoonfuls of batter into very hot butter in a skillet to make small, thick, round pancakes. As soon as you drop the dough in, turn the heat down to low and let the pancakes sit until they bubble on top, then turn and cook them till browned. Slather a thick layer of sour cream on top and garnish with plenty of caviar and chopped chives.
by Kate Christensen | Feb 13, 2012
Just over two weeks ago, I was cutting some fresh ginger root for stir-fried rice noodles with vegetables. I had a good fast hard chop going with the big, sharp chopping knife, vigorous, since ginger is stringy and tough. I was working my way through what’s known in recipe-speak as a “thumb-sized piece” when I hit something else, something the knife didn’t resist at all. It was an immediate transition of my attention. In a lightning-split second, I leapt from daydreamy cooking to animal alertness.
Fingertips are much softer than ginger, it turns out. I took stock of the damage: the knife had gone in sideways, making a nice fat beret-shaped flap of the soft, fleshy pad of the tallest finger on my left hand, missing the bone entirely, cutting up through the top of the nail but stopping short of complete severance. I ran the fingertip under cold water, wadded up some paper towels, compressed them around my finger, and stuck my arm in the air. Brendan brought Bacitracin and Band-Aids, and, when the bleeding seemed to be under control, we swaddled the finger with a good dollop of antibiotic ointment.
There was some speculative discussion about the emergency room, but then Brendan googled the matter and found a clever diagram with dotted lines bisecting a hypothetical digit, showing which fingertip cuts needed stitches and which didn’t. Mine fell just on the side of staying home, which was a relief; the roads were icy, the E.R. is expensive, and we were hungry. So we finished cooking the meal (Brendan did, actually), which tasted even better with the accompanying gruesome jokes about added blood protein and the relative tastiness of human flesh versus more traditional Chinese ingredients, such as, say, cat.
Less than 3 weeks later, things are pretty well back to normal except for a gash in my fingernail and a swollen tenderness on the freshly-healed fingerpad. My mishap was far tamer than the famously awesome injuries restaurant chefs seem to undergo on a nightly basis. If the harrowing accounts of war-zone-like, flaming, minuscule-hellhole kitchens are to be believed, and I don’t see why they’re not, those macho, badass pros in toques have so much scar tissue on their hands from hot grease burns, they can pull a molten pan from a flaming salamander without a mitt and not feel it. They’ve all cut various fingers off at the knuckle, splashed boiling soup into their own eyes, caught their hair on fire, punctured themselves on meathooks, and gouged holes in their own chests with oyster shuckers. Maybe I exaggerate, but not, as far as I can tell, by much. Professional cooking is not for the weak.
As one of the weak, I have to confess that this unexpected injury of mine, paltry and humdrum though it may have been, served as a useful wake-up call. Since almost cutting my fingertip off, I have cooked with the animal alertness I was shocked into when it happened. Here in this sweet, cozy farmhouse kitchen with its huge butcher block cutting surface, handy old knives, excellent pot collection, and simple but effective propane stove, I’ve been approaching cooking lately with a newfound respect and caution and vigilance. These qualities aren’t prominently featured in my character, to put it mildly; I tend to be slapdash and devil-may-care and impatient in all things. But these days, I chop and grate and slice with my ears pricked for predators, stepping softly, sniffing the air.
Pasta alla Norma
This is a southern Italian dish, one of the most ubiquitous in Sicily. It was named after Bellini’s insanely popular 19th century opera, Norma. It works with any kind of pasta, but the best one to use is rigatoni, says Brendan, who taught himself to make it after a trip to Sicily, when he became addicted to it.
Last night, he cheffed up a batch. It was rich and hearty and impossible to eat slowly; the warm, cheesy, eggplant sauce-coated noodles slide down the gullet and immediately demand to be followed by more. We devoured big bowlfuls while we watched the weird, hypersensationalized spectacle of the Grammys, sitting by the fired-up Jotul woodstove, almost too hot in bare feet and short sleeves even though outside it was below zero.
Chop up three Italian eggplants, the smaller ones, into rough 1-inch squares. Fry them in olive oil with salt, pepper, and crushed red pepper until they’re soft, 10-15 minutes. Put them aside in a covered bowl.
Heat salted, oiled water for pasta.
To the same pan the eggplant was fried in, add a little more oil, and in it, sauté a small finely-chopped onion and 2-3 finely diced garlic cloves until soft. Add a box of Pomi strained tomatoes and cook, bubbling, until the sauce is thick and savory, about 15 minutes. Add the eggplant and stir and simmer on low heat. Add salt and pepper if necessary.
The pasta water should be boiling by now, so throw in a pound of rigatoni and cook according to directions, generally 12 minutes. (We use a very good gluten-free variety called Pasta D’oro, made by Sam Mills.)
Roughly chop a large handful of fresh basil. Roughly grate 3/4 cup of ricotta salata cheese – it’s a soft, salty peasanty cheese that’s completely different from regular ricotta – a southern Italian cousin of sweet ricotta. (Watch your fingers on the grater.)
Strain the pasta well and dump it into a large serving bowl. Stir in the tomato-eggplant sauce, the chopped basil, and most of the ricotta salata. Serve with the rest of the cheese with a good Nero d’Avola. It’s a meal in itself, but if you want to finish it with a crisp salad, no one would blame you.
by Kate Christensen | Feb 11, 2012
I can’t stop thinking about New Orleans. Last fall, Brendan and I went down to Louisiana to meet my half-sister Thea and her husband Pop, a singing cowboy, at the Blackpot Festival in Lafayette. Beforehand, we spent three days in New Orleans. We stayed at the Maison de Macarty, a fantastically restored mansion on Burgundy Street in the Bywater. We had the front top room with a four-poster bed and shuttered French doors that opened out to a huge veranda.
The ghost in our room was an old horndog who spied on us from the ceiling fan above the bed, making it chug slowly to let us know he was watching, which made me laugh out loud. He toyed with my Internet connection – not Brendan’s, that worked perfectly the whole time. Mine sparked in and out, mostly out, according to his otherworldly whims.
When we told this to Will Poole, the proprietor, over breakfast, he looked amused and chilled, both at once. “He always does that,” he said. “He loves to play with electronics.” He showed us a photograph he’d taken of a blur of strange light in the mirror of the wardrobe in our room. “That’s him. He’s the former owner. I think he liked our renovation so much, he stayed on. He’s a happy ghost.”
Breakfasts at Maison de Macarty were uniformly spectacular. Feeling, as I always do, like a high-strung neurotic, I had requested gluten-free food. They delivered. During our stay there, we got eggs baked into rings of soppresata on spinach; custardy, savory cornmeal mini-quiches; and a densely packed frittata, all of which we gobbled up, along with the beautiful fruit salads alongside, despite the fact that we were eating lavishly all over town, all day long.
Alarmingly shortly after breakfast one day, we hiked over to the Joint and got heaps of smoked meat so tender it melted on the plate, with perfect coleslaw. We ate our haul at Bacchanal, a sweet, grungy fenced garden near the levee in back of a wine store. We sat at a wrought-iron table under a spreading tree drinking cold Provencal rose and eating barbecue until it was time for a nap and therefore a visit from the Peeping Tom ghost.
We splurged on a dinner one night at the Commander’s Palace in the Garden District. A valet whisked away our econo-crap rent-a-car. We entered under an awning, and it took a team of uniformed waitstaff just to seat us. We got sazeracs to start and then a bottle of white Bordeaux and then, with dessert, tawny port. The place was so perfectly Rat Pack circa 1969, we kept expecting Frank Sinatra to walk in, or at least a low-level mobster in a shiny suit, or at least a crestfallen gambler with a black eye. We gasped over the shrimp and tasso with henican, far and away the highlight of our very expensive, very memorable meal, described evocatively on the menu as “wild Louisiana white shrimp stuffed with spicy Cajun ham, Crystal hot sauce beurre blanc, pickled okra and five pepper jelly.”
By the time we picked Pop and Thea up at the Baton Rouge airport, we were in excellent gustatory condition for the Blackpot. Pop and Thea are expert Cajun dancers, thanks to their friend Millie, who moved north and brought all things Cajun to St. Paul, Minnesota before moving back down to Lafayette. We made our preparations: Pop and Thea taught us to two-step at a barn dance in Eunice the night before the festival, and the next morning, on our way there, we outfitted the car with a cooler, many bottles of wine, some whiskey, bags of ice, potato chips, and plastic cups. We dubbed it the Bar Car, and then we were ready.
The Blackpot is an annual music festival and cookoff at the Acadian Village in Lafayette, a museumlike cluster of restored 19th-century cabins on a bayou. A big stage and bouncy dance floor, with food stands and a bar, are set up behind the village for the bigger bands, with solo performances in the old, light-filled chapel. The cookoff itself takes place in the field.
It all passed in a blur, as these things do. We waltzed and two-stepped until we forgot we didn’t know how. The music was perplexingly wonderful. The musicians, most of them, were young, good-looking as movie stars, shockingly talented — native kids who’d taken to the traditional old ways and revitalized the music – most notably, the Pine Leaf Boys and the Red Stick Ramblers. We managed to catch three old-timey concerts in the church: Tatiana Hargreaves, Del Rey, and Ginny Hawker & Tracy Schwartz. We all danced from early in the afternoon till very late at night, soberly, then tipsily, then drunkenly, then flat-out euphorically. When waltzes were played, the whole crowd moved in a stately circle together around the dance floor like a slowly turning wheel. During two-steps, all our heads bobbed together, down-down-up. I had a rhythmic accordion in my head at all times, even when one wasn’t playing.
The Blackpot cookoff, whose three judged categories were gravy (gumbo or sauce), jambalaya, and crackling, was on the second and last day of the festival. That morning was full of bustle: tents went up, fires were built under them, boxes of ingredients proliferated on folding tables, and huge cast-iron black pots started smelling like Cajun mirepoix – onion, celery, and bell peppers. We made a tour of the preliminaries, asking every chef what he (they were all men) had going on. The answers were as varied as the smells were consistent: alligator stew, venison chili, turtle gravy…
We quickly ferreted out a controversy: a father-son pair whose cookstands were mere yards apart, a competition within a competition. Rodriguez pere, a chatty, charming, sharp-faced smart-ass who was clearly yearning for his own cooking-channel show and a spotlight on him at all times, told us, “That boy’s good for one thing only, making babies.” We walked over to get Rodriguez fils’s side of the story, but as soon as he understood what we were after, he melted into the smoke of his cookfire and wouldn’t say another word to us.
Hours later, after the judges had had a whack at it all and made their decisions, the festivalgoers lined up in front of all the cookers’ tables to get their share. Although he hadn’t won or even placed (the Miller family dominated), Rodriguez Sr. attracted the longest line by far. Earlier, Brendan had craftily, falsely intimated that we might be bona-fide food critics. Now, he fast-talked us to the front of the line and scored us plates of jambalaya and gravy. We ate and rejoiced. Rodriguez Sr. shouted over to us, “Best ever, huh?”
When the furor died down, Rodriguez Sr. escorted us over to his son’s table and had us try the turtle stew, which I couldn’t eat. His son stood apart with his baby in his arms, ignoring us, or seeming to. The father watched with a complex expression as Brendan tried it – proprietary, avidly competitive, hopeful. “What can I say?” Brendan told him. “It’s fantastic.”
Unsmiling, with another complex expression, Rodriguez Sr. nodded to himself.
by Kate Christensen | Feb 8, 2012
I had planned to make an oyster stew last night. I’d been craving it, and I wanted to continue this winter oyster kick I’m on, but I found no fresh live oysters at Hannaford, and I’m loath to use those little tubs of shucked dead ones since I got mild food poisoning from a prior experiment in cooking with them.
What I found instead were some fresh, good-looking New England cod, haddock, mussels, and sea scallops, so I bought them and came home and heated a lot of olive oil in a big thick-bottomed pot and in it I sauteed 4 chopped garlic cloves, 3 diced peeled carrots, 2 diced celery ribs, a diced leek, 4 minced shallots, a diced red pepper, 2 bay leaves, herbes de Provence, cayenne, saffron threads, salt, and black pepper.
When it was all limp and fragrant, I poured an entire bottle of white Bordeaux in there, perversely, in the spirit of happy excess, and because I wanted a lot of flavor. Then I added 4 ripe, peeled, cored, minced-to-a-mush tomatoes, 2 peeled, diced potatoes, 6 minced anchovy filets (to make up for lack of fish stock), and 4 cups of water. I let it all simmer, uncovered, till the wine cooked off and the potatoes were very soft.
While this all happened, I made Dingo do a thing I call the kangaroo pose, a doggy yoga idea where he sits up on his haunches with his paws in mine, looking into my eyes (this is supposedly good for the canine spine; he seems to enjoy it, anyway). Then I babbled at Brendan, who was trying to write, distracting him with great success, but only momentarily. Then I drank a small glass of rioja (for my health) and sang along, with gusto, to Van Dyke Parks’ fabulous, calypso-inspired album, “Discover America.”
When the broth was nicely simmered and cooked, I cut cod and haddock (a pound of each) into bite-sized pieces and added them to the soup along with more water, enough to cover everything plus a generous inch. I threw in an entire bunch of flat-leaf parsley, minced. Then I floated a big piece of butter on top, about two tablespoons, and stirred it in. While I cleaned and sorted and debearded the mussels, I let it all keep simmering. I tasted the broth and added more salt and pepper, and then, when the fish was cooked and beginning to fall apart, I added the half-pound of scallops and colander of mussels and covered the soup and let it simmer some more.
Coming back from New Orleans, especially when Michael was alive, but fittingly, also after his funeral just now, has always set up a feedback loop of twitching and jonesing and waiting for something to happen. Irrationally, kidlike, I wonder, where are the floats? Why am I not in a dive bar? Where did the Dixieland soundtrack go? There’s never any folding any of it back into real life – it all hangs there in my immediate memory, glistening and dark and louche as a curtain of wet silk, while all the real things, bills, laundry, clutter, weather, sit below like cinderblocks. (This is not, by the way, a complaint about my life. I love my life. It’s an observation about returning, in general, from New Orleans, on the assumption that we all feel this way.) Also, I got a two-day hangover from a three-day trip, which doesn’t seem fair or right or, frankly, particularly healthy.
About five minutes later, when the mussels were all opened and the scallops looked firm, I turned off the flame and ladled a cup of broth out of the pot into a mixing bowl. I whisked in half a cup (it was actually more, but in theory it was half a cup) of light cream then poured the liquid back into the pot, whisked, and called it done.
Brendan and I sat at the table and feasted on this luscious, decadent, rich-yellow, spicy, savory, clean-ocean-tasting thing. While we ate, Dingo sat at our feet and stared up with fixed intensity at us and our bowls, probably because we were moaning. It never helps when I point out to him that we humans don’t do that when he eats. We all know who gets better food. And he is no fool.
by Kate Christensen | Feb 6, 2012
Yesterday, I changed planes in D.C. and got on a flight to Portland, Maine and came back to reality, winter, work, grownup life, home. My flight, which took place during the Super Bowl, was almost empty. Far down below the little jet, the Eastern seaboard was alternately spangled and dark. That whole weekend was a surreal, dreamy debauchathon, a fitting sendoff into the afterlife for Michael with a surge of early Mardi Gras parade frenzy. I came home wet-brained, with the shakes, looking forward to a bit of a detox.
Jami picked me up at the airport on Thursday and drove me to her house in mid-city. She gave me her bed and took the couch, and laid in excellent provisions for me – wine, potato chips, cheese, fruit, and chocolate. The night I arrived, she took me out for oysters, uptown, to Pascal’s Manale. We stood at the little zinc bar and talked to the world’s greatest oyster shucker, or so he bills himself, T., a handsome, smiling guy with a lusty gap between his front teeth who doesn’t much care for oysters, himself. But these were possibly the best ones I had ever had. Jami and I ate a dozen each, along with some red wine, and then we were sated and aglow and ready for the rest of the night.
The next afternoon, two dozen or so of Michael’s friends walked in a procession from Vaughn’s in the Bywater along the levee to the river while an accordion-trumpet-guitar trio played “I’ll Fly Away.” We waited by the train tracks for a slow-moving freight train to go by. The band kept playing even though it was drowned out by the screech of metal heaving itself along. Up on the levee, on a promontory by the river, we stood in a big circle and passed Michael’s urn of ashes around from hand to hand, then five of his closest friends sent a little raft out into the water with a lighted candle on it, bobbing away over the waves. Michael’s old friend Mac, who had organized the funeral, scattered the contents of the urn into the river, and then they all rubbed ashes onto each other’s foreheads.
We straggled back to an all-night party at Vaughn’s with a second line sometime in the wee hours over to Bj’s. Bands played all night. There was a lot of good food, spaghetti and meatballs, grilled steak, cole slaw, vegetables, potato salad. I stood talking to my ex-husband, drinking Cuba Libres for some reason, watching the musicians play, eating, and remembering Michael, all our trips to New Orleans to see him through the years, his record store, his shotgun shack in the Bywater, and his famous record collection. We stayed up many nights with him listening to one record after another, everything kickass and varied and wide-ranging, from Arvo Part to “Conference of the Birds” to old R&B. Right after he married his first wife, we four went on a weeklong bender, from Brooklyn to Philly to Atlantic City and back again. We flew down for his second wedding, a picnic on Lake Pontchartrain. We visited him after Katrina and saw the sad wreck of the old house he’d just bought in the lower 9th.
We called him our Katrina orphan. He came to live with us in Brooklyn for a month or two after his house flooded. Jon sent him money to rent a car and drive up with his dog, Bucky, a big, aggressive, untrained, smelly animal with a blunt wet snout who got into the garbage, terrorized Dingo, and ate anything that wasn’t nailed down. Michael never had any money — when we were together, we took care of him. Sometimes we resented this, sometimes not, but there was never any question in our minds about it. He lived with us several times over the years, for weeks or even months at a time. He was a bad influence on us. Whenever he was around, we found ourselves slipping into decadence and sloth. He didn’t eat much food; he chain-smoked, and he was never without a glass of straight Bushmill’s or a beer, from early in the day until late.
He was slyly contrarian and opinionated. He drawled and chuckled and mocked. He wore a baseball hat and slouchy, comfy clothes, and he never moved fast. We often played a cutthroat all-night dice-throwing game called Pinche — the sun generally came up while we were still playing. One year, the three of us plus our friend Scott played at the Trenton Avant-Garde festival, outside in a small amphitheater. We sounded awful, couldn’t hear ourselves or one another, couldn’t come close to getting the life and fizz of our rehearsals. A homeless woman came up and howled along, gyrating. She was the best thing about our performance.
Michael’s funeral was wild and sexy and sad and unrestrained and talkative and warm; he would certainly have loved it. Maybe his ghost loved it. I hope so.
The next day, on our way to Canal Street, Jami and I watched monarch butterflies mating, flapping their wings, drinking flower nectar. Jami had orchestrated the whole day in advance. All I had to do was tag along. We took the streetcar to the Quarter and ate oysters and blackened gator at Felix’s. A monsoon blew in as we were finishing. We dashed across the street for a sazerac apiece at the bar while the rain stopped. On our way over to the Marigny to meet Jon, in the big church in the square where the fortune tellers sit, a wedding burst out of the doors and wound its way through the crowd, bride and groom with parasols, the whole wedding party twirling white handkerchiefs and dancing to a Dixieland marching band.
We had another sazerac at the bar at Mimi’s while people drifted in wearing glittery costumes. Jon arrived and we ordered another round; the bartender squawked a bit (sazeracs are complicated) so we switched to rye on the rocks, left Mimi’s finally, and headed for a pre-parade party where there was a pot of great-smelling, roux-based gumbo on the stove next to a pot of stewed kale. The Krewe du Vieux parade, the kickoff to Mardi Gras, started after dark. It was beautiful and profane, raucous and funny. One float had a papier-mache Bob Barker getting raped from behind by a wicked, Technicolor cat. Prosthetic boobs and asses and penises abounded, lewdly oversized and otherwise realistic. Beads and tchotchkes flew through the air. One superlative band after another came by.
After the parade ended, Jami and Jon and I wandered through the city with our loot, weighed down by necklaces, drinking more rye on the rocks from little plastic go-cups. We stopped in at the Spotted Cat to hear a band play. Starving, we ate cheap, homemade stew with rice in Styrofoam bowls at a crowded bar, then ran into another parade, a brilliant sci-fi fantasy pageant. We ended up at Mimi’s again for hours, watching decked-out young revelers get drunker and talking intently among ourselves. Then, very late, after Jami went home, Jon and I took a pedicab to the Bywater for a nightcap. Our taxi bicyclist, a small, strong girl, rode us through the streets. The revelers were quiet, and the streets were almost empty. We jounced and glided along under a canopy of wet leaves that released droplets with each breeze.
Hangover eggs
Jami, who claims not to cook, put some ingredients into a hot pan, and they alchemized into something sublime. The things in question were eggs, Emmenthaler cheese, baby spinach, chopped onion, and mushrooms. We waved a bag of potato chips over our plates and ate it all and were restored.
