Flambeaux Royalty

 

Flambeaux Royalty

He know the real colors of Carnival
not be king purple, doubloon gold or cash green
but be bright spark, gravestone ash and blue black flame,
silver glint of coins tossed in an arc when
he dance extra fine and make the blazing torch pulse
to the trombone-drum-trumpet-tambourine,
silk-blazoned, hat-topped, metallic-bead-draped, slightly-drunk Second Line
crowding him to strut and shine
and make his way.

He don't feel the pinpricks of heat, splashing kerosene
and tarnished metal cutting into his shoulders.
He wrap a tattered cloth round his face
to stop embers from burning too deeply
and done make him even blacker
more beat up than the day before.
He know on this night,
Rex be no bigger king
than him leading the parade

in fire and flame, mask and blister,
iron, spark and flash,
the true colors of Mardi Gras.

-Aileen McInnis

Nikki's Dress

Katie McInnis-Dittrich (absolutely related to editor Aileen) lives in Boston, MA and went on to eventually become a professor at the  Boston College Graduate School of Social Work years after her stint in New Orleans.   I still have a strand of Mardi Gras beads she caught off a float in the 1970's that she eventually gave me. Here's a bittersweet story of memories gone by.

---

"Where did you get this?" I said with shock, eyeing a gold sequined gown amidst the tattered old cotton dresses and ragged sweaters in the big cardboard box that served as her closet. The whole thing smelled musty and dusty and just plain old.

"It's not mine, it's Nikki's," Lily mumbled, choking on her response. "She wore it when she was Zulu Queen five years ago. She was mighty fine. She looked like an African queen."

Lily started to cry, softly and silently. Lily was 61 years old and looked 100. She was a proud but worn-out old woman whose body had been battered by the birth of eight children (only two of whom were still alive) and the toll of hard domestic servitude to an Uptown family, with low pay and long hours. I suspected she had been slapped around for a lifetime by lovers and boyfriends. She didn't bring it up and I didn't ask.

"I wish I could have buried her in it but you know…" she blurted out.

Yes, I knew. Nikki, Lily's daughter, was murdered by her pimp three years ago and by the time anyone noticed she was gone, reported it to the New Orleans police and the body was found, there wasn't enough of her left for the sartorial splendor of the gold sequined gown. Even in the Pre-Katrina years, New Orleans was not easy on the living or the dead. How could the Queen of the Zulu Krewe go from gold sequins to a body bag in three years? From a brief shining moment to …

Lily was my client when I was a social work student at Tulane University 30 years ago and worked in the St. Thomas and Central City Housing Projects in New Orleans. Lily taught me a lot about social work and being old and how the streets claim the young and innocent.   She also taught me how to eat a king cake without swallowing the plastic baby (but not before I had ripped up the inside of my mouth and chipped a tooth). And how to tell if it was worth smacking a little kid for a pair of cheap beads thrown off a float (very specific criteria). And how to ease a rum hangover (so we didn't know how bad the hangover would be when we drank all night at Pat O'Brien's and a kind stranger paid the $90 bar bill). And why cross-dressers have a strange opening in the back of their gorgeous gowns for the French Quarter Parade (ok, I figured that out by myself). I am not sure what, if anything, I could teach her.

"Lily, would it be better if we boxed up Nikki's dress and put it away?" I asked one day. "Better yet, do you want me to try to sell it at one of the consignment shops in the quarter? It probably could get some great money. Or contact the Zulu Krewe and see if they want it for some museum or something?"

I was painfully aware of how difficult it was for Lily to survive on a small general assistance check and a handful of food stamps. It is my greatest asset as a social worker to suggest a million ways to take care of people and then get angry when someone refuses to take my advice. Nikki's dress reminded me of the excess and debauchery of Mardi Gras that seemed to ignore the city's other painful problems, especially the poverty, drug abuse, and crime issues I saw every day in the projects. On this particular day, I had stepped on some crushed beads with one foot and a discarded hypodermic needle with the other. The millions spent on floats and balls seemed to be a flagrant and flippant message from the haves to the have-nots. The cost of liquor consumed on any given float far exceeded the yearly income of much of New Orleans' poor.

Don't get me wrong. I had a fabulous time at Mardi Gras as a student and several times since. It's just that after all the hoopla is over, Mardi Gras feels like the post-fight Lola in Barry Manilow's song Copa Cabana. Jim Metcalf, the late Louisiana poet and journalist, referred to New Orleans as an "aging whore, a tired and fading beauty but with a suggestion of its past finery." No one who sticks around after Mardi Gras would wonder how he came up with that metaphor.

"Girl, what ever are you saying? I ain't sad about that dress." She responded with absolute confusion in her eyes. "Why do you want to take it away from me?"

"I don't want to take it away from you. I just thought it might be less painful for you if it wasn't always there to look at, reminding you of Nikki's death. Grief can be very painful and encumbering; robbing us of the energy we need for other things." I blurted out. Geez, did I ever really talk like that?

"It don't remind me of Nikki's passing." Lily stated with a big smile on her face. "It reminds me of a day when Nikki was more beautiful than any girl in the parade; when there were no devil boyfriends or drugs or whorin'. When I'm cryin', I ain't sad."

For a moment, (and only a moment, mind you), I was silent. Didn't she see the tragedy of a young, beautiful woman decked in the splendor of the glitz and glamour of Mardi Gras one minute and dead from the drugs, violence, and poverty that is New Orleans much of the year the next? She must have read the look on my face.

"Carnival was a good time when Nikki was queen. But it is a good time all the time. People are happy. People ain't happy much here anymore," she said. "It's the only time when other troubles don't seem to be so bad."

"But don't you get angry when the city seems to find the money for extra police on duty to protect the tourists but not for decent housing? Doesn't all the excess of glitz make you crazy when it is hard to find money for medicine? Don't you hate all the tourists coming into town in-costume to get drunk and get crazy, then leave?" I stammered in disbelief. I was at my best fighting social injustice and inequality. After all that is why I was going into social work.

"They ain't costumes. They are masquerades. Costumes make you look like somebody or something else but you are still you. Masquerades let you look and be someone else even for a few hours. Pitiful people can be pretty. Old people can be young. Even that old Miss Elway with all them burn marks on her face from her old man can be beautiful. Ain't no medicine can make you feel that good." The defiance in her voice was clear. "And we are all happy when the tourists leave and the extra police as well. All the police really do is keep 'us' away from 'them.' And they all be too busy to cruise the projects looking for some kid to beat up and arrest."

She was angry. Her eyes were burning with the hatred I saw too often when the black-white issue in New Orleans came up. She continued. "You know how the Bible says that in heaven there won't be no cripples or crooks or cryin'? Ain't none of that during Carnival either. Ok, maybe some crooks still working but black ain't black, poor ain't poor, old ain't old. It gives me a glimpse of heaven. And there ain't nobody walking down the street looking at me and others in the project thinking how sad we are and trying to fix us."

I am not sure she intended that last comment for me as the do-good social worker but I got the message. Of course by now, I was sure I had rendered permanent damage to the "therapeutic relationship" with Lily and she would never let me in her apartment again. I was about ready to cast off graduate school and go back to the idea of being a travel agent.

"You don't know no better, you're a Yankee. You all have some crazy ideas." She smiled at me with a kind, knowing look-I swear it was pity or at least that is how I remember it. She reached under her bed and brought out a box, tattered and dusty. It was a spectacular Mardi Gras mask adorned with gold sequins and green, yellow, and purple feathers. She put it on. She was beautiful. She lay down on the bed and asked me to leave her alone for awhile. I quietly left her apartment, humbled as well as humiliated.

I would see Lily many more times after that day and the conversation was never mentioned again. I didn't leave social work. Lily never got well and died some years later of natural causes: old and tired. And I found out later Nikki was never queen of the Zulu Krewe. I shudder to think what Nikki really got that dress for but it doesn't matter-didn't matter then, doesn't matter now. Lily believed what she needed to believe.

But she taught me a lot about social work and being old that I still teach my own students these years later. And she taught me why I should not hate Mardi Gras because of its garish, manic chaos that feels tawdry and sparkly and fake. And why an old woman kept a gold sequined dress to remind her of the splendor of Mardi Gras. And why old, poor, and sick people probably love Mardi Gras the best of all. A brief shining moment…

Bayou Bourbon (and Beer)

 

Ken Waldman is a writer, poet and fiddler who lived in Alaska and in Louisiana and has travelled around the nation.  He wrote a great tune called "A Week In Eek." I don't know where Ken calls home anymore though we see him occasionally up here in Alaska.  But he survived a plane crash and lived to write this poem and a hundred more.

---

 

Bayou Bourbon (and Beer)

My man's working
and I'm tired of my life
washing and folding
everybody's laundry.
Hey now. Give me a bourbon,
a beer, an accordion player
who plays my music:
that wild-ass zydeco.
I want a good time here tonight.
I want to do more than iron
some man's pants.

Getting Closer to Black: Making the Perfect Roux

So after Joe Karson's story laden with Louisiana cooking, it is only fitting that the next piece dig into some of the culinary secrets that abound.   So first, we are going to make a roux.... This is a story I wrote in the "food column" of Killer Rubboard.     I like to think I make a pretty good chicken and sausage gumbo and I have my scars to prove it.  Enjoy!

 

Roux is the basic ingredient in much of traditional Cajun and Creole cooking. So making a roux should be the simplest thing in the world. One New Orleans cookbook states the recipe in its totality like this: "Make a roux with equal parts oil and flour to desired color."

That is the standard. Fifty-fifty proportions of oil and flour. Cook until it is the color you want it. Don't burn it.

And that is where the agreement ends.

Do you mean vegetable oil? Lard? Butter? What is the best color for your roux? Cooked on the stovetop or in the oven? Stir constantly or consistently? High heat for a short amount of time or low heat for a long time? Creole or Cajun cooking? You are not supposed to burn it, but how can you tell you've burned something or not when you cooking it to an almost black color? Do you get a better roux if you put just a little bit more flour than oil? And can a roux made without butter or oil or made in the microwave really be called a roux?

I love to quiz people about their rouxs and gumbos. If a cook considers his or her gumbo to be good (and every cook who spends the hours it takes to make a gumbo does), then I know he or she is certain to have a strong opinion about the right way and the wrong way to make a roux.

You don't eat roux by itself. Roux is a base that you add ingredients to and is used in all kinds of cooking, all around the world. (My Wisconsin mother remarked, "Oh yeah, that's how you make a white sauce!") Louisiana cooking uses mostly a darker roux for the nutty, kick-ass flavor that makes a gumbo really taste like a gumbo, or gives an etoufee that distinctive earthy flavor. "First you make a roux" has prefaced so many recipes in Louisiana cooking that it has become a cliché. "How does a Cajun make love?" the joke goes. "First he makes a roux…."

Words describing roux often follow a mixture of color and food: white, blond, peanut butter, pecan, milk chocolate, fudge, bittersweet chocolate, mahogany, red black, noir. Each step down the color continuum brings you nearer to the Holy Grail-the Black Roux. Closer to black. Closer to perfection. Closer to disaster.

Making roux as a base for sauces, gravies and gumbo goes back centuries in the south. Traditional roux is made by very slow cooking. Paul Prudhomme says his mother used to make a roux that cooked for several hours. Most contemporary cooks use higher heat and constant stirring to get a very good roux in a shorter amount of time. Butter based roux needs to be stirred at low to medium heat and are often used for etouffées. To make a butter based roux to create a dark gumbo, you settle in and make a commitment to stirring long and slow. Vegetable and peanut oil can withstand higher heat, so a good dark roux can be made in a shorter amount of time. But alas, this process is not for the faint of heart. When referring to making a dark roux over high heat, most cookbooks use the instruction (I quote) "Stir like hell!"

Paul Prudhomme devotes four pages in Chef Paul Prudhomme's Louisiana Kitchen of how to make a good roux and includes an additional two full color pages with comparison photographs of the different stages of roux. The color photos are a great guide. 2a Is your light brown Roux uses for light sauces and gravies. It's almost yellow, and sometimes is called Blond Roux. 2b. is your Medium Brown roux-the color of a rich peanut butter. 2c is Dark Red Brown and here we are getting into gumbo territory. And 2d, well, it's Black Roux and is "used when you want stronger flavor than dark red brown roux. …It's takes practice to make a black roux without burning it but it s really the right color roux for a gumbo."

Cook it until it's black but don't burn it. It is the First and most repetitive Commandment of this intense little Cult.

On the point of avoiding burning the roux, Chuck Taggart of The Gumbo Pages writes "Use your eyes and nose; if it's gone over to being burned you can smell it. It's like the difference between really dark toast and burnt toast. You also have to take it off the heat slightly before the roux gets to the color you want, because the residual heat in the pan (particularly if it's cast iron) will continue to cook the roux….."

I came to gumbo later in life and I took my first recipes off The Gumbo Pages. Being from the Midwest, I'm a bit chicken myself around the cooking a roux, so I started out making a 20 minute roux over medium heat and it turned out the color of peanut butter. My gumbo tasted pretty good to me and I was hooked. I turned the heat up a little bit and the next few times cooked a nice looking roux the color of milk chocolate and the gumbo was even better.

I have now worked my way up to a cast iron skillet, and make a 60 minute plus red black roux just a shade darker than the Hershey's Cocoa container which I put out on the counter as a guide. It's between illustrations 2c and 2d in the Paul Prudhomme cookbook "Louisiana Kitchen" and that's what I like the best. I've switched over from using a regular whisk to using an old fashioned gravy whisk, the kind my mom used to make chicken gravy, though some cooks prefer a spatula. I use oil, not butter. I feel I am not at roux perfection yet each new roux as a chance to push it a little farther, and get closer to black. Without burning it, of course.

The gold standard for gumbo in Alaska seems to be the Double Musky in Girdwood whose folks learned in the restaurants of Paul Prudhomme. The gumbo is about as dark as a gumbo can get and almost a bit grainy. The Double Musky uses a butter based roux and developed its recipe working with some of Paul Prudhomme's chefs who make roux the way Chef's mother used to make it. The roux is cooked for about 30 minutes until its color reaches a dark nutty brown. Then the cook tosses in a cup of shrimp shells and at that point, the roux start turning darker quickly. The roux is stirred until black. "Don't burn it," Bob Persons, owner of the Double Musky, has been quoted. "or you'll just have to throw it out and start over."

The darker the roux, the less thickening agent it has, so a good dark gumbo is usually quite thin. A lighter, peanut butter colored gumbo comes from a lighter roux and tends be thicker. The Bourbon Street Diner in Wasilla used a lighter colored roux for their gumbo and it is very thick.

The Kincaid Grill in Anchorage makes their roux in a 500 degree over, using a shallow pan and stirring occasionally. It takes about 45 minutes and isn't as labor intensive as the stove top variety. The oven technique was learned by an employee named Roberto, who later opened his own place called The Gumbo House on Ninth. When asked about his roux, though, he smiles and swears he learned how to make a roux from his Mexican grandmother.

Now Steve McCasland, chief brewer at the Homer Brewery who is well known for his halibut and shrimp gumbo, swears by the slow and steady approach. He is a butter-based-roux man and sets aside a whole morning when he is cooking his roux. He takes his roux and his gumbo very seriously. That brings us to another lesson I have learned. If someone is cooking gumbo and invites you over for a bowl, always say yes. Anything that takes that much time to make is going to be worth every spoonful.

Roux is an event from beginning to end. You set aside time and effort to make a good roux. Like setting out on the spiritual journey, you hope to push your roux making skills just a step and an insight further each time you make it. Stirring 500 to 600 degree cooking oil has an element of danger to it. Prudhomme's people call their black roux "Cajun napalm" to remind themselves to be respectful of its lethality. Many a cook wears his scars from a splattered roux-in-the-making with a twisted sense of pride, but they are scars nonetheless.

I love the rhythm and the mystery and the challenge of making a roux. It starts out slow and pokey until it reaches critical mass, and then it jumps from Prudhomme's Illustration 2a into 2b. Then it lingers in that Color Plate for awhile, until you start getting distracted or thinking maybe you are stirring it too much and not letting it cook. Then it shifts into high gear and starts getting darker quickly, maybe too quickly. Just at the point where it transitions into the 2d Color Plate Illustration (oh, Holy Grail!), the one labeled Black Roux, the phone will ring. It never, never fails. Whatever you do, don't answer it. Again, let us consult the Gumbo pages, "Roux must be stirred constantly to avoid burning. Constantly means not stopping to answer the phone, let the cat in, or flip the LP record over, and if you've got to go the bathroom ... hold it in or hand off your whisk or roux paddle to someone else. If you see black specks in your roux, you've burned it; throw it out and start over."

At the point you have reached your comfortable level of perfection, throw in the Trinity (celery, onions, peppers) to stop the cooking. Now you are no longer making roux. You've moved onto gumbo. Or etouffeé. Which is a whole 'nother story for another time.

© Aileen McInnis. 2007

One Night at the Rendez-Vous Café

 

Joe Karson is author of many works including "Dining With Hitler and Hemingway" and "Nineteen Unicorns." His home now is in Juneau. I hope he is writing more stuff for us even as we read this story. Inspiration is all around us, especially when Cajun cooking is involved.   "Dud, mon frère, what's on your bill o' fare?" This is from Beau, easing through the café door like he does. Always got some snappy line for the folks in there. Smell that cologne? Beau drives clear into New Orleans just to buy that cologne. Hear the click! of those heels? Oh yeah, no mistaking when it's Beau walking through the door. Everyone around here comes to the Rendez-Vous---Beau arrives. Dud, he's standing behind the counter with his hands (magic hands, some say!) on his hips, staring at Beau and rolling his eyes like he does. Beau knows that bill o' fare from head to hock---knows it about as well as Dud knows it himself. Of course, that's no small feat. Most nights Dud's bill o' fare is likely to be as long as anything Beau's read in his life. But not tonight. "Got that glide in my stride," says Beau, "now I need you to cook me up something gonna put a little pep in my step." It's Saturday night and Beau's all chalk-stripes and painted silk. Wearing his two-tone "spades" with the stacked-up wooden heels for that just right click! Got his pants "draped" and "pegged"---belt loops dropped low and cuffs tight around the ankle. Creases looking about sharp as one of Dud's butcher knives. Got a fresh gardenia in his lapel shining bright as a flashbulb---bright as his brand-new '52 Buick convertible parked out front. Shining bright as the eyes of the young women when they watch Beau step out of that famous machine. Only car in town with wire wheels and dual chrome tailpipes. That "spinner" on the steering wheel is made from a solid ivory cue ball and it's not just for show. Needs that knob for navigating one-handed down those twisty back roads. You ask any lucky gal he's given a ride home from the café. Dud still staring at Beau. He's wiping his hands on his greasy old apron and just staring at that boy. It was Beau Broussard and his crowd, of course, who gave him his name. The only name he's known by around here. Not that his true Christian name, Dudley Fecteau, was anything to crow about. Especially the "Fecteau" part. The Fecteaus have been long notorious as the most worthless sorts in the area and Dud's mamma, Angel Fecteau, was no exception. She abandoned him when he was just a child, and, since his daddy was not known, he had to bear the further shame of becoming a Fecteau by taking the name from his mamma. That's how they do it around here. Anyway, Pep Bergeron, owner of the Rendez-Vous, took Dudley in. The Bergerons got so damn many kids it seemed that one more would hardly matter. Room being scarce as it is in their home, Pep (short for Pépin, or seed, another community-bestowed name) raised Dudley in the café and it was there he discovered that the boy had a gift. Dudley could cook. Makes no sense at all, but even as a little boy, he could cook. Sure didn't learn it from his mamma. Didn't learn it from Madame Bergeron, who was more concerned with how to feed fifteen children with one rabbit than what sauce to put on it. Didn't learn it from anyone in that wandering tribe of greasy-spoon cooks that used to work the Rendez-Vous kitchen just long enough to buy a jug of wine. And, no, just like what Beau's got, what Dud's got you can't get from a book. There's no explanation for it---and it's best to leave it at that. Of course, you'll find folks living out in the black water that claim there's some sort of juju involved here. Well, they can believe what they want. What I believe is, some people are just special. They're put on this earth for a purpose, and Dud was put here to cook. Simple as that. Good thing young Dudley was gifted like that, too. Being so slightly built, there wasn't much else he could have done but help in the kitchen to earn his keep. Pep, he wasted little time turning Dudley's childhood playground into his workshop. Can't really blame him. When you got someone around with such a gift, it's only natural to take advantage of it. So, pretty soon, Dudley, he's running that kitchen where he used to just peel potatoes and stir the gumbo. (Folks here will swear on a Bible that the first time Dudley stirred the gumbo, customers asked Pep if he'd finally hired a real cook). Before he was even a teenager, that skinny, nervous little kid had become a genuine chef. I guess it's been a good ten years now that everyone in this small town has just taken the fine fare at the Rendez-Vous for granted. Come to expect it like the rising sun. And if Dudley Fecteau missed out on a real childhood, or if he didn't exactly learn all the social graces---if he had to become "Dud," well, maybe that's just the price you pay for having a gift. Now let me tell you something more about this gift. I'm just going to have to take the time to do that because . . . . well, let me give you an example. Every mother's son around here, legitimate or otherwise, can whip up a proper roux. They'll cook all the different roux in the book. But Dud, he's got a red roux that makes people break out in freckles and the most beautiful chorus of Danny Boy you've ever heard. People that never sung a note before in their lives! He's got a blonde roux that after one taste is going to put you on a bear-skin rug with the Northern Lights swirling around your head. Folks in the café know to wear a sweater when Dud cooks with that roux. His roux noir can turn your hair nappy and every song on the jukebox into jungle drums. Now, now you see what I'm talking about? You see why maybe I'm not so anxious to be discussing this subject? And there's more. The boy's etouffée doesn't smother those shrimp, just massages them into a mellow mood so they'll crawl onto your spoon, curl up and purr. His sauce piquant sets them dancing on their tails. (Leaves on their rear legs for the cancan). And his sausage! He doesn't stop with a boudin blanc and a boudin rouge, oh no. He's got a baiser premier, his "first kiss" sausage, and a bris d'pretemps, his "spring breeze" sausage. His "mother's smile" sausage, his boudin sourire l'maternel, has been known to leave the biggest, toughest men in the parish dropping tears into their plates. He knows the secret of the mélange, too---knows how to make the just right combinations. Like, you ever go walking with your sweetheart on a frosty fall night and stop to give your sweetheart a hug? You ever reach inside your sweetheart's coat for that warm, bundled-up body, and at the same time press your face against your sweetheart's cool cheek? Well, if you've ever done that, you'll know about Dud's spicy Creole chicken with the chilled vinaigrette on the side. And you'll know why he calls that dish Octobre Nuit. All his young life, Dud's been in the kitchen cooking up those fantastic meals. But not tonight. Tonight, Dud's just standing there, watching Beau Broussard work that crowd like he does. Always knows what to say, that boy. Always gets the folks laughing. "Need something nice," says Beau, "like some sticky chicken and dirty rice." Beau, he's making like a rooster now. Dud's already told Beau that he can't have whatever he wants tonight. Any other night, you want some sticky chicken and dirty rice and it's not on the bill o' fare, no problem. Dud's going to cook you up whatever you want. Heck, you sick of sticky chicken and dirty rice? He'll cook you up some dirty chicken and sticky rice, if that's what you want. But not tonight. Pep himself is in the café tonight, been over talking with that stranger sitting alone at the counter. Skinny guy with his hat brim pulled down over the side of his face. "Don't know who that guy is," Pep says to Beau, "but he seems kinda familiar. Sounds like he's from over in Alabama somewhere." Beau's shaking his head. "Whoever he is, he sure looks like he could use a meal. Wonder if he can pay for one." "Oh, he says he's got all the work he wants. Just likes to go out sometimes and 'drift'." "He's sure drifted into the right place if he wants to fatten up a bit---but not particularly tonight. What's wrong with ol' Dud, there?" "I don't know," says Pep, scratching his chin. "Told me not to worry. Says he's got plenty food cooked up, but it's a 'limited menu' tonight. Says the food's all cooked up and ready to go, but he's leaving the café early. Never known him to that." "Damn!" Dud's taken his apron off, thrown it back in the corner. He's sporting some new "chino" pants and his penny loafers look like he's been buffing them half the day. Must be the first time folks here have seen Dud in anything but jeans and that nasty old apron. They been steadily bugging him about this 'limited menu' thing, but, Dud, he's sticking to his guns. He's got some good local specialties cooked up and that's just going to have to do. Can't be stuck in that kitchen all night---not tonight. Dud's heading for the countryside to visit a certain little someone he's met. It was out at the farm where he goes to pick up his honey, that's where he found something sweeter than all the honey in the world. A nice country girl, not like those girls that hang out with Beau and his crowd. Not some girl who's been hanging out late nights at the Rendez-Vous with the smoke and the hot, sweaty bodies all pressed together. Never danced to that throbbing bass and the chanky-chank of the frottoir. He likes her family, too. Hard-working folks to whom he's still Dudley or Monsieur Fecteau. Beau and the others, they're still going on about their food, but Dud's already stepped out from behind the counter. He's got the night's fare cooked. He's got those three dishes all cooked up, and he sings out loud and clear just what they are. Sings it out so everyone in the café can hear. Customers, now, they're are all grumbling and asking what's happened. Folks around here get set in their ways, you see. They want Dud to tell them why things are different tonight, but he's sick of dealing with those folks. Sick to death of them. That's why he likes having a little secret from them. That's why he walks over to the stranger and says into his ear, " 'cause tonight I'm gonna to see my. . ." Stranger just looks up at Dud and gives him this big smile. © Joe Karson 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Capitaine

Often folks think of Mardi Gras as the New Orleans bacchanal of parades and beads, but to the West, there is more country version of chickens, and cloth costumes,  whiskey, music and horses.  Here's a fine story echoing this tradition. 

Written by Bob Banghart, Co-Capitaine of Visa Quest Fame, who lives in Juneau and plays a mighty fine fiddle himself.

*****

Capitaine It was late morning. The heat waves rising up from the green earth into the blue sky twisted the horizon like a slow turning garden snake. After a late night of tunes in Eunice, I was driving north on Highway 13 headed for Mamou and Fred's. Saturday morning boudin, beers and dancing to a Cajun band were on the day's agenda. Air conditioning on ... check; ice cold morning margarita in the right hand ... check; tunes on ... check; rear view mirror empty ... check; cruise control set ... check; one week 'til Mardi Gras and all indicators in full party mode ... my world was in perfect balance. I drove past the sign before what was painted on it struck me. "BEST MUSUEM IN THE WORLD - $1...TURN NOW". I eased my dented rental ride onto the shoulder of the road, took a long pull on the morning margarita and swung back round to find the appointed side road to the "musuem". The arrow on the sign pointed down a one-lane dirt track framed by fields and fences. "This," I thought, "I can't pass up." Fred's would have to wait. No buildings were in sight but all roads lead somewhere as the front end of my rig began to smooth the center ridge of grass. Flat does not describe Southern Louisiana. It is as if the earth has a dent in it ... there is no curve here ... the fields and rutted dirt road I am slowly making my way over are no exception. The green fields closed in around me as Highway 13 disappeared in the rear view mirror. Cruising speed now reduced to a crawl, the driving tunes of Boozoo Chavis seemed out of place. At 5 miles an hour I can just break into second gear and keep the margarita in the cup. Any faster and the floor would be drunk before I arrived. I switched off the CD and rolled down the window. Hot wet air poured into the car and sweat formed on my entire body simultaneously ... so much for air conditioning. It was 1.5 margaritas from the turn off to the tin roofed shotgun shack and assorted out buildings I was approaching. One tree, one house, one chicken shack, one cinder block garage ... this had to be the place cause there was nothing else around. The road swung into a cleared area around the buildings and stopped ... it only needed the END OF ROAD sign like we use in Alaska to restate the obvious ... this was it. I drove into the yard, pulled up in front of the cinder block garage and cut the engine. Now I knew this was it ... painted on the tin garage door, in the same hand as the road sign, was "BEST MUSUEM IN THE WORLD-$1 ... HONK". Great sign, the marketing committee at work should do so well. I tapped the horn ... one short hello honk. The horn seemed too loud for the situation ... like an overly friendly drunk at a funeral ... but that is what was called for. I waited. Arm out the window, chin on arm staring at the front door of the house for a sign ... my mind running through old Twilight Zone episodes trying to remember if there was a scene like this and thinking if there was I should stay in the car until someone came out. Nothing. No movement, no breeze, no chickens ... nothing. I tapped the horn again, twice this time ... still being polite about it and waited. No movement ... no nothing. The .5 of the margarita that made it to the driveway was almost extinguished and a decision was needed; one more tap on the horn and if no answer just leave or get out and walk up to the front door and knock. Just as my straw started sucking air from the bottom of the Dixie cup the front door opened and a thin shadow stood behind the screen door. "Alright, someone is home ... howdy!" I said and waved. "Be right down ... just gots ta gits my boots on...and stay in yer car till I gits the dog staked," the shadow said. "Not a problem." I replied thinking how the margarita just saved my life by delaying an exit from the front seat. The yard was hard, flat and saw little traffic from the looks of it. Paths wound through the grass to the privy and one to the chicken shack next to the tree. The tree was big, old and offered shade to the two chairs and crate made into a table. I bet around sundown or sun up when the air is cool and the light softer, that would be fine spot to sit and assess the moment. The screen door opened and my host came into view...one bone thin, weathered old dude... moving fast and sure, directly to the garage door. He never looked in my direction until he had the garage door up and stuffed a two by four into the jamb to keep it that way. He walked over to the car and held out his hand. "Ya got a dollar...then ya gits 10 minutes," he said. I gave him the dollar and inquired about the dog. "Ain't got no dog...honk when yer done," he replied, as he walked back towards the house. I watched him retreat then climbed out of my car right as he opened the screen door...our doors closing together. My eyes took a few moments adjusting to the darkness in the garage...my nose did not require the waiting period. "He sure seems to be up on the current trends in museums," I thought. "Low light levels and olfactory stimulation to enhance the visitors experience. Phew." Taking one last breath of air from the present, I stepped deeper into a single room lined with shelves, the floor set with tables and narrow aisles and stuff hanging from the roof rafters. There were rusted tools, old work clothes and boots, harnesses and hay cutting equipment, car parts, tires, cans and jars of stuff long evaporated...just what you expect to find in such a place...even a pinup calendar with its months torn off but the important parts still there shining through the gloom. "He could use a bit of work on the labels," I thought, as I poked around the mounds of the static past. I got used to the heavy smell after a bit. It was damp, organic and petroleum product, sweet ... like a wet cow pie coated in engine oil. I worked my way to the back wall of shelves picking up and setting down an assortment of items ... no problem with object relocation ... the dust outlined placement perfectly. I was about to leave, as my 10 minutes was rapidly coming to a close, when the contents of a half opened closet called out. The tall closet door looked more like the lid to a standing coffin...a thought I quickly tried to dispel with a step or two closer. I slowly pulled the door open ready for it to fall off its hinges and a desiccated corpse to plunge into my arms...but nothing happened. The contents was a costume and mask from the old style trail ride Mardi Gras...the party held on Shrove Tuesday, the day before Lent begins. "The old man must have been a capitaine," I thought looking at the finery attached to the baggy suit with fringe. His painted screen face stared blankly at me from the closet door. "Ya got another doller...then ya gits 10 more minutes cause ya first dollar time is up." His voice made me jump back from the closet like it was coming from the mask. I looked toward the open door and saw only my host's outline against the daylight. "You bet" I said making my way back to him holding a dollar in my outstretched hand. He took the bill and was turning to go when I asked if he was a front capitaine or a rear capitaine. "Whacha know of these things?" he asked, turning back, looking straight into my eyes. "Not much, but I do play some of the tunes from around here and have friends that talk about the old ways of marking the day. Sounded like a great party." I said looking at the ground to break his stare. "Well, it ain't that way no more...old ways end up in da museum"...the words forming and releasing as if the air was being let out of his body. He didn't move nor did I. For a long moment I thought my second dollar was going to be spent with me looking at the ground and my guide staring through me. "I was da rear capitaine," he said, "had da best horse in da parish ... spent more time on her decorations than on myself. Did da bridle and saddle to match my costume and put stars all over her chest ... she was a big ole mare that always found her way home ... even if I had ta tie myself on and was hanging down ... she knew what to do, never shook me off no matter how much drinkin' I be doing." "Da Sunday before Mardi Gras, dey call that da "little Mardi Gras." da old man Bode would gets a white flag on a bamboo cane, and he'd go 'cross the fields with twenty-five to fifty little boy Mardi Gras. Dey'd be waitin' for us. I first ran when I was six years old. All day we'd run all over Tasso. Den da women, dey take the chickens and make a big gumbo. We had a dance at night. Da big Mardi Gras, we would ride horses, and just sang for da music, we didn' have instruments on da run. Dey had a buggy to pick up da chickens. We'd ride horses around all day, drinking, hollering, raisin' holy hell," he said, still staring through me. "But dem days is done, no more like da old rides," he said, turning towards the open doorway. "Now days its all da tourists in New Orleans thinking dey keeping things in balance with the spirits. Dey don' have no idea...no idea at all." "Ya want another 10 minutes?" he asked looking down the road. "It's on the house this time." © 2007 Robert Banghart

Throws from Carnivals Past

 redux

 I was cleaning out some old computer files and ran across the files for my Mardi Gras project many years ago called "Killer Rubboard."  It was a fun journey through a series of wacky Mardi Gras mysteries featuring people I know and love.  And one year, I published a "zine" featuring writing from invited contributors.  Re-reading those stories, I realize how great they were.  I wanted to re-publish them during this season when the Krewe of Gambrinus will not be marching, and the Krewe du Roux has laid down their forks and it will be a quiet parade season.

So I'm walking down the halls of nostalgia.   I'm going to repost some things through the season from the Killer Rubboard Zine and maybe some new stuff. If you are missing the totality of the Mardi Gras season,  maybe this will help keep the torches high.  And if you know some good writing about the Carnival Season or want to write something yourself,  throw it my way.  Enjoy!