Mardi Gras Memory

One summer many years ago, my father had some work around New Orleans and not much money, so he brought my mother and me along and turned it into a holiday. We stayed in what must have been the French Quarter, in a smallish room with wood-slatted shuttered windows opening out onto a narrow balcony.

The street smelled of dust and August heat -- a heat that stunned, turning me alternately soporific and whiny. We walked to a bakery where my father took me and said I could have anything I wanted. Heat-wilted, all I wanted was a lemonade.

We went to Brennan’s -- my parents’ big splurge. My mother fell in love with oysters rockefeller. I fell asleep at the table. I was six and the concept of fine dining was lost on me. We came back to find a maid had come for turndown service, leaving chocolates on the pillows, which were squishily soft by the time I ate them.

The next day, my parents decided to ditch me. In what seemed the worst kind of betrayal, they casually announced they were going out that evening. They took off for a good time, leaving me in the care of a woman I’m sure had an enormous heart. She had an enormous everything, spilling out of the armchair, filling the room, sending me to retreat to my rollaway cot by the window. She had thick glasses with greasy fingerprint smudges on the lenses and a plastic Barbie-colored hearing aid. I’d never seen one before and it frightened me. The two of us smiled at each other or bared our teeth the way our sparring Paleolithic forebears were said to do, to show we were evenly matched and needn’t try to dominate each other. We attempted neither play nor conversation.

I went to sleep before my bedtime, wishing this woman away. By morning, my wish had come to pass -- she was gone and my parents were back from Bourbon Street. What’s there, I asked.

My mother, who’d patiently explained sex to me the year before, now smiled showing all her teeth, the way she did when she wanted to convince me of something, the same way the babysitter and I’d smiled at each other. Men like to watch naked ladies dance, she said. My mother had never lied before but I couldn’t see the truth or wisdom in this. Until later that night.

We walked by a bar and honest to God, there was music blaring and up on a stage, a hoochie mama wearing an inch or two of something green and sparkly, danced, pranced, strutted. Her boobs bounced.

I don’t think my parents rushed me past the door -- they were progressive and cool and all that. But I was only six. I was too embarrassed to stare -- blushingly embarrassed for the girl, mortified for myself. New Orleans seemed a place of betrayal and depravity and I was finished with it.

Fast-forward a few decades and my husband, a Tulane alum, took me back to New Orleans for homecoming. It was May, it was muddy -- the city a sea of mud. I promptly ruined a new pair of shoes I’d gotten just to beguile my husband’s fraternity brothers whom I’d never met and withstand the scrutiny of their wives.

The shoes didn’t matter. My husband’s old college friends took me in, as did their wives, as New Orleans naturally does. They would have done regardless of footwear. They could have thrown me a parade and I wouldn’t have felt more welcome than I did by this. Yes, New Orleans is all about laissez les bon temps rouller, letting the good times roll, but it’s also about laissez faire, letting things be. New Orleans happily take you as you are, however that is (see April 27 ’09 post).

The things most people love about the city -- the bars, beignets, Bourbon Street -- they’re all there, but it is to me other delights -- the lacy wrought iron balconies on the Victorian homes and the strangers who toast me from them, the mule-drawn caleches. Mules endure New Orleans' heat and humidity better than horses and don’t object to me petting and cooing over them, either.

I am amazed by the Jazz and Heritage Festival, accommodating 40,000 people with five stages spread out on a race track. Somehow, there is room for everyone, the sound from the Elvis Costello stage doesn’t carry over into the Gospel Tent, and for every band you’ve come to hear, there’s another one you stumble upon and fall in love with. You can't get fast food burgers in the food court, but there's oyster po' boys, crowder peas and okra and dirty rice, with bottles of Tabasco at every kiosk.

We go back at least once a year now and I ruin a pair of heels every time. Sometimes the mud does it, sometimes it’s from walking the French Quarter’s cobblestone streets. The sensible thing would be to wear sensible shoes, but New Orleans is tolerant of your pleasures. If you want to wreck your shoes, go ahead. It indulges everything, including your own brand of madness.

As a child, I was a harsh judge of New Orleans. New Orleans never judged me. I, so intolerant of my own weird quirks, am utterly disarmed by this place that says, hey, you’re fine, we love you like you are. This wisdom comes from age and is not a lesson I could fathom as a little girl.

New Orleans has had to learn its own hard lesson. After the wreckage by Hurricane Katrina, it set about doing what it did not want to do -- resurrecting itself, but settling into the task with a grim determination. It is still recovering, but Mardi Gras beads keep the city shiny. So does hope. The Saints' Superbowl victory wasn’t just about football, it was about the joy of winning by being who you are. Happy Mardi Gras.

Down and Dirty Rice

Traditionally what makes dirty rice dirty is the addition of fowl gizzards. Um, no thanks. Chopped eggplant, a Louisiana crop, takes the place of organ meat in this super-satisfying veggie version Not spicy in itself, but you can make it that way. That’s what Tabasco is for.

1-1/2 cup rice (white or brown)

5 cups water or vegetable broth, divided use

1 bay leaf

1 tablespoon olive oil

6 cloves garlic, chopped

1 large onion, chopped

1 medium eggplant, chopped

2 ribs celery, chopped

1 green pepper, chopped

1 tomato, chopped (or 1 15-ounce can diced tomatoes)

2 teaspoons paprika

1 handful fresh thyme leaves (or 1 teaspoon dried)

sea salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

juice of 1 lemon

1 bunch fresh parsley, chopped

optional -- 1 cup edamame

Pour 3 cups of water or broth into a large pot. Place over high heat and bring liquid to boil. Add rice and bay leaf and give a quick stir. Cover and reduce heat to low and simmer for 30 minutes (brown rice may need an additional 10 minutes) or until rice is tender and all liquid is absorbed. Remove bay leaf and set aside.

May be done a day or two ahead and stored well-covered in refrigerator. Bring to room temperature before proceeding.

Heat oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add chopped garlic, onion and eggplant. Saute, stirring for 5 minutes, or until vegetables soften. Add chopped celery, green pepper, tomato, paprika and thyme. Continue cooking another 5 to 8 minutes, stirring occasionally. Stir in rice and remaining 2 cups of water or broth.

Reduce heat to medium and cook another 10 minutes until mixture is moist but all liquid is absorbed.

Stir in salt, pepper, lemon juice and chopped parsley, and for a pop of protein and bright green color, fold in optional edamame.

Serves 6 to 8. Keeps several days in the fridge, flavor improves over time.

Roadwalker Gumbo

Once upon a time, there was a Pulizer Prize-winning author, a woman who drank Jack Daniels, shot ducks and wore diamonds with equal nonchalance.  Her name is Shirley Ann Grau and she was my magical guide around New Orleans a few years back.

"I'm quite a dull, conventional person," she warned.  This was a lie.  

She picked me up in a long maroon car which in burnished memory was a Cadillac, treated me to a fancy lunch (I don't recall the food, I do recall the wine, the warm glow of chardonnay in the glass) and showed me the sights, including New Orleans' system of pumping stations and levees.  They lacked her glamour and talent to fascinate but, she said, "One of these guys breaks and it's all over." This, which she told me six months before Hurricane Katrina, turned out to be true.

Grau, now shy of 80, had lived by herself in the French Quarter in her 20s.  After her 1955 debut story collection, The Black Prince, the Klan burned a cross on her yard.  Or tried to. "They had forgotten to bring a shovel," and her hard-packed ground would not yield.  "They had to lay it down," she recalled.  "It was kind of silly."

In 1965, she won the Pulitzer for The Keepers of the House, a novel confronting race in a way genteel white women weren't supposed to do.  She'd stared down every hurricane of her life by staying put, a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shotgun by her side.  Until Katrina.

Shirley waited until mandatory evacuation, then loaded her dogs into the car and took off for Houston, where her daughter lives.  When we spoke shortly thereafter, she reported her house was ruined, the manuscript she'd been writing was lost.  On the upside, her dogs were fine, she had a new wardrobe since she'd fled like a refugee without so much as a change of clothing, the weather in Houston was lovely and she had plans to see Eugene Onegin.  

"It isn't my favorite opera, but what the heck, it's civilization."  She sounded close to her tough, resolute self but before we hung up, she confided she felt "like hell."

After that, she took off like the character Baby in her 1994 novel Roadwalkers.  She vanished, or seemed to.  I'm hoping she's back in New Orleans or has set down roots in Houston.  I'm hoping this gumbo can call her to the table from wherever she is.  

 

Gumbo is a dish rich in tradition and soul and everyone thinks they make the best.  Some add file' (sassafras powder) as a thickener, some add okra, many eschew both.  I don't see how you can make an okraless gumbo, since gumbo gets its name from the Bantu word nkombo, meaning okra.  With a bit of acid (lemon juice or vinegar), okra has no slime factor. It's rich in folate, fiber and vitamin A.  

I added a pound of collards because they're growing out of control in my garden.  You can add the same amount of duck, shrimp, andouiille or crawfish.  It's pretty nervy of this Miami girl to make gumbo for Shirley, but she'll appreciate the nerve, if not the gumbo. She'd no doubt add crab, duck or even squirrel she'd bagged herself, and if that's what you like, I'll show you how to do it.  Still,  I hope this vegan version sums up her spirit.  Serve over rice.  Keep the Tabasco handy.  Also the Jack Daniels. 

Roadwalker Gumbo

1/4 cup unbleached flour

1/4 cup canola oil

3 onions, chopped

3 ribs celery, sliced

3 cloves garlic, minced

3 carrots, chopped

1 large green pepper, chopped

1 pound okra

juice of 1 lemon

1 handful fresh parsley, chopped fine

1 teaspoon dried thyme

1 teaspoon paprika

1/2 teasoon cumin

1/2 teaspoon cayenne

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

6 cups vegetable stock

sea salt 

1 pound of collards, stems removed, sliced into thin ribbons or a pound duck meat (cooked) or seafood or sausage of your choosing

First step's making your roux -- this is key.  Heat oil in a large soup pot over medium-high.  Stir in flour.  Keep stirring occasionally, for 15 minutes or so until the mixture turns the color of an old penny.  Do not saunter off. You risk roux burn.  When this happens, there's no way back but to start over.  You don't want this to happen to you.

From here on in, things ease up.  Add the onions, celery, garlic, carrots and green pepper to the roux, stirring well so the vegetables are coated.  Reduce heat to medium and allow vegetables to cook until softened, about 10 minutes.  If you're sausaging, add it now, and let it brown.

Meanwhile, rinse okra well and blot dry.  Slice into bite-sized bits and squeeze lemon juice over them.  Then add the okra to the soup pot.  Stir in well, then add vegetable stock, parsley and spices.  Bring to boil, then cover. Reduce heat to low and simmer for an hour and a half.

At this point, if you're me, you add chopped collards.  If you're Shirley or indeed most other people, this is the point where you add duck or seafood.  Cook another 10 minutes and you're good to go.

Lagniappe

While the gumbo promised in my last post is simmering, here's some lagniappe, the Creole term for a little something extra, no charge. Walking past New Orleans' Jackson Square Friday morning, I saw this boy wearing a suit and Mardi Gras mask. Why? Who knows, but he was as utterly at ease in his outfit as I was in my t-shirt and jeans. This is why I love New Orleans. Whimsy is just part of the deal.

That sense of whimsy must have gotten hold of my husband, because he ordered bread pudding at lunch. Bread pudding is a New Orleans tradition he's never gone for. My husband has spurned bread pudding, rice pudding, tapioca pudding or any kind of pudding that is not chocolate. And yet he ordered the bread pudding with whiskey sauce at Bon Ton Cafe. It arrived, a dense, golden square in a puddle of sauce so boozy you could smell it from a table away. It made him happy. Since then, he's tried a lighter, fluffier French toast-esque bread pudding served at Creek 28 on Miami Beach. That made him happy, too. He now maintains he's never had anything against bread pudding, but I've seen him sneer at it enough times. That's why I've never bothered to make it for him. Until now.

Vegan though I am, I am a great believer in the benefit of puddings and custards. There's something nursery food about them, soft and sweet and primal. They evoke memories of childhood and for me, a bit beyond. I recall being in the infirmary with mono my freshman year of college (oh, don't ask). The clinic nurse kept bringing me bread pudding from the cafeteria. It was the only thing I could swallow.

Here is my own bread pudding recipe, which skews towards the light and fluffy. It will be a gorgeous puff when you take it out of the oven, then deflate a bit. It's received spousal approval on its own, but I've also included the whiskey sauce from Bon Ton Cafe to make the bon temps rouler. Enjoy. Now if you'll excuse me, I must get back to my gumbo.

French Toast Bread Pudding

1/2 cup raisins

1/3 cup bourbon

1 loaf brioche, challah, panetonne or other soft egg bread, crusts trimmed, cut into 1-inch pieces

1-1/2 cups milk

3/4 cup cream

3/4 cup sugar

4 eggs

1 tablespoon cinnamon

Combine raisins and bourbon in a small bowl or jar and macerate for one hour or as long as overnight. Do not drain.

In a medium saucepan, pour in milk and cream and heat over medium-high heat until warm. Add sugar and whisk to dissolve. Remove pot from burner. Beat in eggs and cinnamon.

Butter a large baking dish. Place bread in dish, pour egg mixture over bread, add raisins and bourbon, mixing gently to coat.

Cover with baking lid or wrap tightly with foil and refrigerate for 4 hours or up to overnight.

Remove from fridge an hour before baking to allow pudding to come to room temperature. Then bake at 350, covered, for 1 hour. Then remove cover and return pudding to oven for 10 more minutes, so the top turns golden-brown and ever-so-slightly crusty. Remove from the oven and serve hot, warm or room temperature.

Serves 6 to 8.

Bon Ton Cafe Whiskey Sauce

1 stick unsalted butter, room temperature

1 cup confectioners sugar

4 tablespoons whiskey

1 egg

In the top of a double boiler over simmering water, stir together butter and confectioners sugar. Keep stirring until confectioners sugar has dissolved and the mixture becomes creamy. Do not let butter melt. Remove from heat. Whisk in the egg and continue beating to allow sauce to cool. Stir in whiskey. Spoon over pudding. Yee-hah.