Once...

Once upon a time,
when we were carefree seventeen
we would gather
at the flourescent-lit mecca
which smelled of coffee
and pancakes.
Next to La Quinta.
Aglow in the darkest hours,
an oasis of
syrup and sundaes.

Once upon a time,
we would gather
and laugh and devour
"One pitcher of Dr. Pepper...two!...three!...
Hit us up with a milkshake now...seven straws!"
Don't need the menu, thanks.
Grand Slams all around
Buttermilk, scrambled, sausage, grits
extra butter for the boys...
(our eyes affectionately roll).

Once upon a time
we cleaned our plates together,
brushed off the crumbs of our weekly hurts and confusions at the same time.
Solace in dessert and friendship - best of both.
Comfort in gatherings, comfort in communal ice cream.
Three-scoop sundae, vanilla for him, strawberry for her, chocolate for me
Cherries (extra, please!) atop fluffy mountainous
whipped cream (we always share).
Swirls of chocolate and caramel dance
to the clatter of mingling spoons

Once upon a time
when we were carefree seventeen.
Over now.
Kids, jobs, moves, jail, death.
The aroma of coffee still lingers
on late nights
when sleep is a teasing bully.
Lights still aglow,
laughs still echo,
even when the sundae has melted.

Stubborn

stubborn…
stubborn…
stubborn…

from the Gulf, from the windows,
(old) streets
          reside.
(old) stones
          stand.
                    (the Gulf)
                        but…
peer in the path
and wear
strong. Stubborn. Still.
                        but…
the windows (old), and in the souls,
                        the streets.
In from their paths, reside, stand.
    And still wear…
       And still peer…
          the gulf,
             the gulf.

(paths) STRONG
(paths) STUBBORN
(paths) STAND

the windows peer…(old…)
the souls peer…(stubborn…)

            (…the Gulf…)



(Lines taken from a previous freewrite and revised in the style of e.e. cummings.)

Ah! Crustaceans!

crus(juice)tac(beer)ceans
L O V E
French bread!
L O V E
    swimming…
        butter…
            crusty… (I think still…)
What’s tasty?
Result!
Peppers! end
Lemon! over
Spooned end
      in juice
Is about…
  …onions
    …garlic
      …beer
        …peppers
          …crustaceans
…all.

NOT to result in TASTY!
To result in LOVE!
        (and bread…French…crusty, think I…)

            A h h h h . . .



(Lines taken from a previous freewrite and revised in the style of e.e. cummings.)

Highway

Highway 90 hugging the Gulf,
the tacky glory of Biloxi Beach
brings it all back...

A marriage of necessity,
no honeymoon.
That's what we did.

Angled roofs and odd architecture,
mix-ups, confusion,
laughingly ineffective.

A vicious, violent pageantry
seen through a smudgy, dusty window
defines our history.

Up ahead, I see the pearly gates.
I've got 95 cents to spare.
Oh, how I wish.



This was created by randomly picking lines from previous pieces of writing and tweaking as needed!

Healing

The colors seep through four layers of paint. Five. Six. How many more coats will it take? The little wavering scribbles of purple and green wiggle like ghosts across the dining room wall.

Maybe it's a sign. Maybe it's her telling me that these tangles of color aren't meant to be covered up. But - I just can't keep looking at the daily reminder.

"Mom! Pretty!"
The joyous voice echoed up from the dining room and up the stairs where I was saving the laundry.
"Come see, Mama!"
I sighed and bumped the closet door shut with my hip and dropped the rest of the dryer-warm clothes on the bed. Three-year-olds are a lot of fun, but they can exhaust you like nothing else. I turned the corner to find Maggie in the dining room, little fists clamped around handsful of crayons, grinning at the ribbons of color she'd wrapped around three walls.
This was a test, I realized. Multiple choice. Laugh? Cry? I had to laugh. She looked too proud of herself for me to be angry.

I shake my head to clear it of the memory. A week from today would have been her fourth birthday, and it still feels like she's right here, decorating the walls and my life with her rainbow spirit.

Painting over her "art" seemed at first like a step toward healing, but the fact that it isn't working makes me wonder if I'm making an even bigger mistake by erasing the evidence of her endless vivacity from the walls. Truth is, nothing will ever erase her. I'll always see her peanut-butter-and-jelly grin, hear her chortling giggle, wait for the pat-pat-pat of her Hello Kitty-slippered feet coming into my bedroom just before sunrise, and smell the summertime sweetness of her coconut shampoo.

I put down the paintbrush and pick up her box of worn, torn, half-unwrapped and broken crayons. I dig out the purple, and begin to trace.

Shout, indeed...

August 23, 1992...

"Shout! Lift your hands up and shout! Kick your heels up and shout!"

Chad groaned, leaned over the wine glasses and crumb-covered plates, and stage-whispered to the girl that had taken an empty seat at the table with him. "Well, it's officially a wedding reception now!" She was gorgeous, and he didn't see a ring. If she understood his joke, she may just be a keeper! He held his breath as she looked at him out of the corner of her champagne-sparkling eyes. She leaned back his way and whispered back with a wink, "Nope...they haven't played 'Celebration' yet."

And that's how Chad and Hope fell in love.

Theirs isn't the first story of romance beginning at a wedding. The stage is set so perfectly. Music, slow dancing, candlelight, flowers to pluck from centerpieces and tuck behind ears...how could anyone not feel the flush?

May 9, 2010...

"Shout! Lift your hands up and shout! Kick your heels up and shout!"

Chad looked to his left at Hope, the candlelight still accenting her exquisite silhouette and doe-soft eyes, just like it did eighteen years before, the night they met. He leaned in, his lips brushing her earlobe, and stage-whispered, "Well, it's officially a wedding reception now." She turned to him and what he saw wasn't the smart-alecky, mischievous grin he'd expected, but a smirk, oozing with disdain. "Nope. They haven't played 'Celebration' yet." Her monotone voice and loathing stare stunned Chad.

Hope took a delicate bite of cake and gently placed her fork on the china plate. "Chad, honey, that joke was funny the first time, but I have to say...it got a little crusty after, oh, I don't know...the seventy-third time. Kind of like everything else about you." She was wringing her hands now, watching them as if she weren't the one moving them. "I'm sorry, sweetie." She stood, rested her hands on the table, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. She turned and walked away. He dropped his head and saw her rings lying on the table where her hands had rested.

Soul Mates

Cracked concrete under my worn-down Converse. Sidewalk chunks pitched up at impossible angles. Corners adorned with delicate blue-and-white Spanish ceramic tiles, spelling out "Rue St. Louis" and "Rue Chartres." Centuries-old bricks, softened around the edges by stormy ladies spinning in from the Gulf. Still they stand, strong and stubborn. Old souls reside in these stones, peer from the windows, and wear their footpaths in the streets still. Lacy wrought-iron adorns and embraces fern-draped galleries, galleries whose slatted floorboards shine stripes of delta sunshine into the walkways below. Motley rows of Creole cottages nestle comfortably next to gracious townhomes, an eclectic mix of strength and elegance.

This is a pocket of mystery, of age. A place where Voodoo priestesses and pirates mingled with politicians and generals. A place that bears the scars of floods and fires, corruption and heartache, but has the wisdom to cradle the scars. Scars are reminders to be careful, to choose wisely, to tape x's on the windows, and to keep your batteries charged. Scars beget strength.

I ponder all this and more as I navigate the grid that lays out these blocks. This city, my New Orleans, is who I want to be when I grow up. I see in her all the aspirations and desires I have for myself. I want to embrace my age with grace and dignity. I want to carry the wisdom gained over the years as my guide. When I do sustain damage to my body or heart, I want to be thankful for the second or third chances at survival, or even prosperity. When my bricks soften around the edges, I'll wear the evidence of age with pride. I never want to look, sound, or feel exactly like my neighbors. We have our own colors, our own inner music, our own vibrancy that is unique to us, and the joie de vivre comes not from matching one another's, but sharing it in a joyful melange. Walking Lady NOLA's streets, absorbing the sensory gumbo that permeates her sticky air, my soul is fulfilled in a way that makes me sigh with relief, because I am her, and she is me.

The Quest for Roast Beef Perfection

The roast-beef po-boy. The poster child for NOLA food. An okay one is still good stuff, but to find a truly great one is an experience that makes you believe in a higher power. This summer, I began my quest to find the perfect roast-beef po-boy.

But first...how does one define the ideal po-boy?

The bread. French bread. Crusty, flaky, golden loaves with a chewy and somehow airy inside.

The roast beef. Prime cut. Not too fatty, but a little is fine. Cooked low and slow for hours to tender, juicy perfection. Infused with onion, garlic, and cayenne.

The dressings. Lettuce? Shredded iceberg. Whole leaves are unacceptable. Tomatoes? Creole. Big, fat ones sliced paper thin and piled on. Mayo? Blue Plate. Not too think, though. Just a nice layer to seal up the holes in the bread. Top it all off with a sprinkle of Tabasco, and you're almost done.

The gravy. Lovely, lovely debris gravy. Spicy, garlicky, dark-espresso-brown gravy full of those little not-quite-burnt bits of roast beef that have fallen off. Thickened until it's able to sit on the bread and not turn it into a mushy mess.

But there's more. A meal is defined - judged - by more than its ingredients. It's more than the sum of its parts. A meal is an experience, therefore location and service have to be considered as well. A restaurant without atmosphere is not one worth visiting, and the people there can transform a dining excursion from so-so to sublime.

And so, I present my Top 5...so far.

4th Runner-Up - Mother's on Poydras. Mother's has been around since 1938, and their menu has hardly changed. In this case, a good thing. Often called "the" place to eat a po-boy in the city. I went for lunch with family, and we took the half-hour wait to get in as a good sign. No one's going to waste their lunch break waiting in 100-degree heat for mediocre food. Once inside, we camped at our table and ordered. The interior is almost overwhelming. It would take weeks to read every article and study every picture on the walls. It's a beautiful chaos displayed on the open brick. Every employee, those running and weaving between tables and those taking a breather from the kitchen's heat, seemed happy. They talked to customers, joked with each other, and made it feel more like someone's dining room than a restaurant. Food came out fast, which is always nice. I was so excited to get my sandwich. Mother's po-boys, again, are to be the stuff of legend. However, mine was not. It wasn't "bad," but it was...underwhelming. Gravy was thin and sparse. Toppings the same. The meat was good but could have used more kick. The only two things that got Mother's on this list are atmosphere and the fact that everyone else at the table had excellent food (the catfish po-boy...exquisite). I'm willing to give it another go, though, because everyone does have their off days.
Rating = 2 paper towels.

3rd Runner-Up - Domilise's off Tchopitoulas. Domilise's is another old workhorse in a blue-collar corner of the city. Far off the beaten path, but well worth the drive. The exterior could be described as sketchy at best, with its wonky, hand-painted plywood sign and siding badly in need of a pressure wash. Inside, though, is the type of beautiful that only a native could love. It's dark. It's cramped. The menu boards are a mess. The vinyl stool covers are cracked, foam batting puffing through. The walls are covered in newspapers yellow with age and washed-out photographs, circa 1972. The plastic bathroom utility sink actually resides in the dining room. But. Frosty Barq's. Amazing cooks. Local beer. And the sandwiches. Oh, my. A roast-beef po-boy from Domilise's is a local treasure. Every part of it is culinary joy. Each ingredient on its own is just right, and when joined as a whole, is wonderful. Unwrapping one of these beasts (even the small is quite large) is like Christmas. The textures. Crunchy, chewy, meaty, crisp. The savory, thick gravy. The garden-fresh dressings. The perfectly sliced roast beef (you can take a bite without having to grind your teeth or worry about it squitting out of the other side of the bread!). The only real drawback is the drive to get there. But do it.
Rating = 3.5 paper towels.

2nd Runner-Up - Ignatius on Magazine. Walking into Ignatius can be off-putting for locals because the walls are lined in shelves and rows of Community Coffee, Zatarain's boxes, Barq's bottles, and the like. A tad touristy, but it's kitschy in its own fun way. Our waitress was so attentive and cheerful. She was great about ordering Holland's lunch before mine so she wouldn't be hungry or bored. Along with our carafe of water (genuis!) came a brown paper lunch bag stuffed with crusty french bread and butter. This little goodie could have been the whole meal! The actual meal, though...Holland's red beans and rice were creamy, thick, and in perfect proportion. A few minutes later, I saw the waitress approaching with my po-boy. In a bowl? No paper wrapper? Not on a plate? How odd. Then she set it before me, and when I saw the gravy flowing from the bread, I raised my eyes heavenward and said a little prayer. This was a thing of beauty. It was stuffed. I actually had to use my fork and eat about half of the roast beef to even pick up the sandwich. It wasn't sliced, either. It was cut into thick, tender hunks with just the right amount of char on the edges. Dressings were generous and fresh, and the bread stood its ground with the ladleful of gravy poured atop it.
Rating = 4.5 paper towels.

1st Runner-Up - Danny & Clyde's in Metairie. Yes. A gas station. And home to one of the most generous, juicy, sloppy, wipe your face before, during, and in-between bites sandwiches in creation. A po-boy from Danny & Clyde's is not for the lightweight. One look at the oversized (thoroughly happy!) cooks will tell you most of what you need to know. These sandwiches are huge, huge, huge, and filled to overflowing with some of the tenderest slices of roast beef to be found. The gravy is on the thinner side, but the one-two punch of garlic and onion in it make up for any flaw. Once your newborn-sized, white paper-wrapped meal is handed to you, you could go home, but what fun would that be? Far better to find a spot at one of the orange formica booths and people-watch as you mop your face every 10 seconds. Danny & Clyde's is one of those places where you wouldn't be surprised to see an oil-rig grunt chowing down on a sandwich next to a three-piece-suited corporate attorney from the CBD, both happily stuffing themselves and chatting about the Saints in between bites. Surprisingly amazing food in a surprisingly fun spot are what Danny & Clyde's is all about. No picture of this one because (a) it's been years since I've had one, and (b) cameras don't exactly cross my mind at the gas station.
Rating = 4.5 paper towels.

The Blue-Ribbon Winner - Cafe' Reconcile on Oretha Castle Haley Blvd. Where to begin? The sunny, open-kitchened dining room? The friendliest waitstaff in the city? The incredible food? The restaurant's mission? In order...walking in to this restaurant just puts you in a good mood. Even on the rainy day we went, the dining area was bright and welcoming, with tons of local artists' work adorning the walls. The galley kitchen buzzes with orders flying, food being run, and a dessert display to die for. Not only will your server greet you and treat you like a guest in his or her home, but every other server and manager will, too. They don't care whose table you're occupying. They'll make sure you're content. I wanted to go there for white beans, but they had already run out and it was close to closing time. Instead, I went with the standby and am so glad I did. This po-boy was the best I've ever eaten. Every single piece was divine. I won't list every little bit, but I will say that this overstuffed sandwich was the kickiest one I've had (without having to add anything) and it's cooked to melt-in-your-mouth perfection. The roast beef is cut into hefty slabs, but they were so tender that eating it is effortless. The gravy is something I'd buy by the gallon. Consistency, flavor, everything was just...perfect. And if this food that is proof that a higher power exists isn't reason enough to fall in love with Cafe' Reconcile, their mission is. They employ at-risk teenagers from drug or poverty-ridden neighborhoods, train them in the restaurant business, and "graduate" them into jobs in the city's hotels and other restaurants. In ten years, over 500 people have been placed into careers through the area. How cool is that? No picture for this one, either (WAY too focused on the meal!), but that will be remedied over Christmas!
Rating = 5 paper towels.

The Other Side of Retail

Working in retail sounds like, and sometimes is, a drudge. Day shifts at the mall drag like molasses, with only the occasional mall walker or equally bored soccer mom to break up your day. Canned 80s music on the speakers, the smell of Taco Bell wafting through the air ducts.

Unless, of course, you're employed by the infamous Frederick's of Hollywood. The daily clientele there was a parade of hazy-eyed dancers from the strip clubs in the Quarter, adding to their garter and costume collections. One day, mid-winter, in walked a tall, delicate, cafe' au lait-skinned gentleman in spandex, carrying a supercute purse...

"Hi there! Welcome to Frederick's...what can I help you find?"
"Hey, boo. I needs somethin lacy an...ummmm...paynk."
"Okay...is this a gift?" (Please say yes. Please say yes. PLEASE.)
A bubbly giggle. "Yea, boo! A gif' fo' me!"
(Of course.) "Alllllright. Well. The corsets back on the left wall here are lacy, and we have a few pink lace teddies over here. Are you thinking a hot pink? Or something softer?" (Am I really having this conversation?)
"Whutchoo thaynk would be purttier wit' mah skiyun?"
"Get crazy. Go bright." (What the hell. I'll play along!)

* Insert 45 minutes of hooking and lacing (and UNhooking and UNlacing) corsets, searching for the perfect stockings ("Not dem thaa-haas, tho!"), considering styles of wigs and high heels with each, and whether babydolls are flattering on a man. *

"That'll be $139.78. Have a great day!"
"Oh, boo...I'm havin' a great night!"

This Morning I Met Myself

A boy
Frayed plaid trousers
Hair a mess
Rough around the edges
Eyes eons deep
He had suffered, lived, survived
I yearned to kiss him
Breathe in his stories
He grasped me with his gaze
“This morning I met myself”
I listened

A lady
Wrinkled hands
Mint-green polyester robe
Frail, withered, stunted with age
Ancient eyes, robust
She had brought life and held its dying hand
My arms wrapped around her
Absorbing her wisdom
She tipped my chin up, held my eyes
“This morning I met myself”
I listened

A notebook
Black and white marble
Spine worn thin
Cover fuzzed from carry and wear
Pages hold a universe
Battered exterior sheltering treasures within
My eyes devour the words
Ingesting their messages
Hieroglyphs, syllables, phrases draw me in
“This morning I met myself”
I listened