Satsuma Me Redo

Okay, get out all the I told you so's. And I'll get out all the I'm sorry's. Because I am not afraid to admit when I am wrong. And, in the case I was so so wrong. I denigrated the Satsuma, I ripped it to shreds, I proclaimed it unworthy of being included in the citrus family, I swore it was never ever going to pass my lips again. And then it did.

Now how did that happen. It was too easy, my neighbor, who is a joy and delight and shares all the information and bounties of the earth he cultivates made me an offer I couldn't refuse. He offered me some lemons, which I love and can never get enough of. And then he offered me some grapefruit, and then, he offered the Satsuma. Well, how could I refuse. I had accepted  the lemons and the lovely pink grapefruits, and how could I possibly in all graciousness refuse the Satsuma. So I took them and dutifully carried them home. I figures I could give them to some one else. That very same day, my daughter came in with two delightfully orange very pleasant looking pieces of fruit that looked delicious, I asked her what they were. She told me a long winding tale of how someone had brought in a tub of the golden fruit and nearly caused a stampede and because she was unfamiliar with the fruit she only took the two pieces. As she sat down to enjoy one, and share it around, she took the first segment of the fruit and announced it delicious  and sweet.

As I tried it an agreed, she said, it is a Satsuma. What, a Satsuma. What, this bore no resemblance to the wickedly bitter fruit I had given too many chances to. I could not have been more surprised. this could not be what I knew as a Satsuma. This little fruit tasted great, it was pretty and delightful. Wow, this was a Satsuma, I liked it and I could not believe this was it's true taste. I had to investigate. I had to find out if this was really the true taste of the legendary Satsuma or a fluke. Well, I did have a whole bunch of Satsuma that my neighbor had just given me. Challenge, let's see if this is truly the Satsuma, or just a lucky break by nature.

Well long story short, it was not a fluke of nature it was true, ding ding, ding. This was what nature made and it was delicious. It was sweet and delicious and wonderful and deserving of being the fruit legends are made of. In my delirium, I offered Satsumas to everyone that came to the house. And, before you knew it, I was down to three Satsuma, the fruit of legends had flown out of the house like the treasures they are.

So I stand corrected, the Satsuma is a delicious, delightful piece of citrus, worthy of all its accolades. Satsumas for everyone. I stand forever corrected. Excuse me I am sorry I was wrong.

The Happiest Place On Earth

I'm back. Yes I have been away too long but it is not my fault. I have to blame it all on Southeast Louisiana, now it is said Disneyland is the "Happiest Place On Earth", put I have to say that is misinformation, Southeast Louisiana is that place.

Now, I am not dissing any other part of the lovely state of Louisiana, they are just as beautiful and I am sure fun as well, but here in the Southeast, they get it in. Mardi Gras was such a whirl wind of fun, folks, food, and parades. The overwhelming plans and preparation and the never ending gymnastics associated with "Throw Me Something Mister", it is just unbelievable. I have had such a ball ripping and running dodging and catching going and going. What with never wanting to miss a parade and reconnecting with friends and family by the time the last doubloon falls and the last necklace caught you are definitely ready to enter into the quite penitent period of Lent.

And just when you are regaining a sense of quite and calm, St Patrick starts it all up again. Who knew. Well sure lots and lots of folks knew, but I have always been away working somewhere and never aware of the fabulous fun that awaited the celebration of St. Patrick and the Irish. Never ever have I had the joy of catching cabbages and potatoes and carrots and onions and garlic along with the myriad of green cups, beads, throws, things that light up and things that make noise and cuddly stuffed toys in such abundance that one literally gets tired of catching things. I hauled home enough vegetables to create a magnificent St. Patrick's Day Feast; everything but the corned beef.

Now if that wasn't enough, the block parties and dancing in the street didn't diminish, the Irish teamed up with the Italians and took the party to levels unheard of. I am sure I witnessed the longest parade in the history of the world, catching goodies all the way! Thank goodness for St. Joseph Day, it created a place of quite that could return you to the contemplation of Lent. But just as the contemplation began, so did my churches Fish Fry. I arrived just in time to get some of the best fried catfish and join the wobble line. And even though I am not any good at a line dance, if my church is wobbling, I'm there. And yes, I am Catholic from the cradle to the grave. Though I grew up Catholic in Los Angeles, being Catholic in Louisiana brings a much more complete appreciation of the religion. So all and all as we approach the most sacred time in Lent for Catholics, this has been for me, a raucous, crazy great time.

So, while Disneyland professes to be the "Happiest Place On Earth", Southeast Louisiana does it for me.

Though historically the Mason/Dixon Line is the demarcation of the Eastern part of the United States that would remain free states and the Southern part of the United States that would be slave states, in popular culture the Mason/Dixon line is that empirical boundary that separates the North from the South and for my soul stirrings, from the West as well.

Crown Stones are markers placed at every fifth mile of the Mason Dixon Line bearing the family coat of arms of the state it faced.

Throw Me Something Mister!

I’m excited; today, I am a tourist in the beautiful City of New Orleans and surrounding areas. It is Mardi Gras season; the air is redolent with the smell of sweet icing and cinnamony King Cake. There is a rustle of adventure down every street, at any corner you may get lucky and see a Social and Pleasure Club “coming out the door” with some great Brass Band swirling around them. Or be gifted with some surprise Mardi Gras paraphernalia, like a rolling cart with throw bag attached that also is a folding seat!

There are King Cakes everywhere you go, and big banners promising to send them off in any direction you’d like, and then there is the planning, what parades, what strategy, what food to take, where to set up and when to arrive, it is never ending, and the anticipation is just an aphrodisiac to the event. But these wonderful things are just the tip of an incredible iceberg of Tradition.

Standing on the street with the throngs of merrymakers, yelling “throw me something mister” and artfully snatching beads, doubloons and other throws out of the air, especially the highly prized ones, is definitely a thrill. Seeing the spectacular floats, and wonderful marching bands and every quixotic group in between is a heady concoction, but the joy of watching these Krewe Parades is only the climax of an incredible season.

What we as tourist in this magical land miss, is the beginning for these Krewe’s, the start of carnival season, the mystery of it all, the choosing of the King and Queen and the courts, that revelation, and their introduction to the body of the Krewe. There is the Celebration of particular characters in the Krewe, and the luncheons and balls introducing this year’s group of debutantes or maids. The pageantry and spectacle of each Krewe is legendary. For those, and that would be most, not a participant in the heraldry and pageantry of these events, there are glimpses on television and cable to mollify those who would like to get a closer look at the definitive world of Carnival.

This year I hope to move closer to the magical world of Krewes and Carnival by attending a favorite ball! I want to lose my tourist, “throw me something mister” status and get a better look behind the veil of Mardi Gras! I’ll let you know! In the mean time don’t look for me on Bourbon with the throngs; I’ll be on my favorite corner with chair, food and beverage being a tourist!

These are the musings of my straddling the Mason/Dixon Line, and while they might draw ire and criticism or laughter, you can easily find me.

I will be sitting, in the meantime, on the Crown Stone.

Though historically the Mason/Dixon Line is the demarcation of the Eastern part of the United States that would remain  free states and the Southern part of the United States that would be slave states, in popular culture the Mason/Dixon line is that empirical boundary that separates the North from the South and for my soul stirrings, from the West as well.

Crown Stones are markers placed at every fifth mile of the Mason Dixon Line bearing the family coat of arms of the state it faced.

Satsuma Me

I’ve eaten gator, and turtle and squirrel, and carp, and possum, and coon; but, of that list the only curious thing eaten here was gator. And, I don’t think breaded and fried on a stick with 14 different spices at a booth at the Breaux Bridge Crawfish Festival is an exacting way to neither judge alligator nor consider it unusual and exotically treated. But the point I set out to make was really about eating unusual and exotic which brings me back to the Satsuma.

Dramatic pause, I am waiting for the chorus of heavenly voices to quite before I continue. Yes, the Satsuma the jewel of Louisiana, found elegantly displayed at every Farmers Market and touted for its heavenly taste, both sweet and tart at once, from Grand Isle to Ruston. It’s delicate sweetness, enveloped by a bright tartness, its fragrant aroma. Sincerely the poets wax lyrically in odes to the Satsuma, brought from Asia and nurtured lovingly by a devoted citrus grower now to be revered by all who plant, grow and share this jewel.

I say, are you serious! For me the Satsuma has been pimped by the southern office of Madison Avenue. For me it is no sweet talked up jewel. Drinking the kool aid, when I first heard about the Satsuma, I bought a huge bag. Fail, but I was undaunted I knew the jewel resided there so I tried again and again and again to experience the fairy tale I was sold. Instead I encountered a beautiful, puckery, and limited on sweet, piece of citrus. Now I am not discounting the romantic history of the Satsuma, nor the predilection for a regional favorite, but for me, I’ll stick to my California Navel Orange with its sweet, sunny swag until something else prevails.

I will be sitting, in the meantime, on the Crown Stone.

Though historically the Mason/Dixon Line is the demarcation of the Eastern part of the United States that would remain  free states and the Southern part of the United States that would be slave states, in popular culture the Mason/Dixon line is that empirical boundary that separates the North from the South and for my soul stirrings, from the West as well.

Crown Stones are markers placed at every fifth mile of the Mason Dixon Line bearing the family coat of arms of the state it faced.

The Kindness Of Strangers

 

The Kindness of Strangers! Ahhh, yes, the kindness of strangers. Until I moved down here that was just a clever little rhetorical line uttered by Blanche Dubois to bounce around when one wanted to appeal to a friend for an obscure favor. But here, the kindness of strangers has a completely different status.

Here, people who do not know you and are not seeking any favor, obscure or otherwise, come to your rescue unexpectedly. Hands full, can’t grab the door handle; suddenly a generous smile has the door open, while you mumble a very foreign, ‘thanks’.  Friendly hands guide you into a tight parking spot, rather you sought assistance or not. A wondered out loud comment sends you off in the direction of a store, a product, or object you really could not locate; often with a wonderful story to share with someone else. Need a good doctor or dentist, count on the person at your swim class or post office to know the perfect person, who calmed their dentist challenged nerves.

Now this may not seem like a phenomenon to you who claim this as your birthright, but to me, a stranger in a strange land, and coming from a land where everything but a neon sign flashes never, ever, ever, ever interact with strangers for any reason at any time; these little acts of kindness have gone far to make the almost insurmountable mountains of daily living into molehills of the mundane.

But it goes farther and deeper than that. These “random acts of kindness” invade the Grinch zones of your heart and almost before you have realized it, or have formally addressed it, you have become acclimated to proffering a hand, or, delivering a genuine smile along with some simple information. Then, presto-change-o you are feeling like a nicer, more trusting and approachable person overall.

No, I still will not leave my car keys in the ignition to dash over to the mailbox, nor will I leave my cell phone in plain sight while parked. But I will however strike up a conversation while waiting in line, share information about something wonderful, return a shopping cart for the lady with the two small kids and help an elder into her car with her bags because, now, I do respect and reciprocate the kindness of strangers.

These are the musings of my straddling the Mason/Dixon Line, and while they might draw ire and criticism or laughter, you can easily find me.

I will be sitting, in the meantime, on the Crown Stone.

Though historically the Mason/Dixon Line is the demarcation of the Eastern part of the United States that would remain  free states and the Southern part of the United States that would be slave states, in popular culture the Mason/Dixon line is that empirical boundary that separates the North from the South and for my soul stirrings, from the West as well.

Crown Stones are markers placed at every fifth mile of the Mason Dixon Line bearing the family coat of arms of the state it faced.

Insurgents in Our Mist

Insurgents!

 I live a whisper away from the sainted city of New Orleans. A place steeped in history, draped in the Spanish moss of parasitic mystery. A place where one can get lost in magic, the magic of the architecture of the French, Spanish, Italian and Portuguese; the music of Africa, Spain, France and their fused souls; and, of the food, a strange and beautiful a gift of the land and waters that surround it, and made soul stirring by the hands that touch it lovingly.

And, then, creeping in like the low fog off the mighty Mississippi is the increasing fear of the insurgents. Yes, insurgents are afoot in this beautiful city of New Orleans. The society it seems is now being threatened at every corner by the insidious insurgents that grow like a plague in the city. While government grinds slowly forward to find solutions, and headlines blare scares of “tourism revenue may be lost”, the armed insurgents roam the city killing and maiming at whim. Meanwhile, we hold our pain and watch the insurgent fog, and pray to the pantheon of deities, that the problems that have created the rise of insurgency can be discovered and explained and reconciled. Then, peace, or at least a semblance of normalcy can be restored. Certainly other cities have had to fight the insurgents that leave the collateral damage of shattered families and lives to mourn. Here under the flag of jazz funerals, which seek to ease those left behind into the river of healing, death seems less damnable, but hearts don’t heal any faster and loss threatens to turn us all into refugees in a familiar land.  Where are the answers, how do we return to peace time and, how do we turn back the fog? Start the fires along the rivers so the answers can find us through the fog of insurgency and return us to our New Orleans state of mind.

These are the musings of my straddling the Mason/Dixon Line, and while they might draw ire and criticism or laughter, you can easily find me.

I will be sitting, in the meantime, on the Crown Stone.

Though historically the Mason/Dixon Line is the demarcation of the Eastern part of the United States that would remain  free states and the Southern part of the United States that would be slave states, in popular culture the Mason/Dixon line is that empirical boundary that separates the North from the South and for my soul stirrings, from the West as well.

Crown Stones are markers placed at every fifth mile of the Mason Dixon Line bearing the family coat of arms of the state it faced.

Reconciled Roots

I am not a southern girl. I am a northern girl with southern soul and family roots. My spirit is rooted in the South. Every goodthing in my life emanates from southern soil. My sense of family, love of Catholicisim, joy of cooking and my delight in gathering my big, small family around me. My sassiness and my swag all eminate from my Southern roots.


And therein lies the conundrum. Had I been born and raised down here, I would have been graced with the ambiguity of this place called south. Embracing secrets and burying family lies until the truth rolls out slow like dark molasses, giving off its sweet smokey complex flavors found deep in those time honored wooden barrels. But alas I am a northern girl, filled with the complexity of getting to the bottom of things, and hanging the truth high from banners across the landscape of the metro pole.

Blending my Southern soul in the North was easy. The sway and magic of Louisiana filled the pots with aromatic flavors and peppered treasured stories. All grounded by Northern sensebilities. But here in the South East of Louisiana, combining those two elements, Southern sensebilities and Northern pragmatisim

 has presented a grueling proposition, yet full of observations and reflections and a lot of confounding opportunities.

First, living here has made me an advocate of dispelling such trite rumors such as “southerners move so slow,” as perceived by my northern compatriots. Bring your haughty I don’t want to sweat self down to this steaming burg, and see if that east coast/west coast speed racing doesn’t drench you in a malarial like fugue of sweat and prayers for deliverance. And.Why do “they” wave at strangers driving past? Friends, drive anywhere down long highways, and seemingly isolated stretches of road for awhile then see how delighted you are to see a smiling face and friendly wave, reaffirming you are still in civilization, not lost, and probably headed in the right direction. All the while you’ve missed the beautiful breathtaking flora and fauna surrounding you, the way the cypress bend low to dip their leaves in the cool bayou waters, and the graceful egrets gliding to the banks of the bayou, or the dramatic brown pelican rising to claim these beautiful southern skies, and of course you missed the eagles nest with the new babies.

And what about the theory that southerners are “so casual. They just don’t take anything seriously. Time is of the essence.”  Such naive an observation, if you don’t live here, and didn’t grow up here, you have no idea how silently the wheels of getting it done move, one person enlist several other persons who expand that network and in a very short amount of time it is accomplished, and the unknowing can’t conceive at how it was accomplished.  Yet another delightful mystery of my southeast Louisiana.

These are just the beginnings of my musings of my straddling the Mason/Dixon Line, and while they might draw ire and criticism or laughter, I will be sitting, in the meantime, on the Crown Stone.

Though historically the Mason/Dixon Line is the demarcation of the Eastern part of the United States that would remain  free states and the Southern part of the United States that would be slave states, in popular culture the Mason/Dixon line is that empirical boundary that separates the North from the South and for my soul stirrings, from the West as well.

Crown Stones are markers placed at every fifth mile of the Mason Dixon Line bearing the family coat of arms of the state it faced.