College

     I want to go back to college. Odd as it may sound, every few months, I dream that I am going back to college and moving into the dorm. As exciting as this prospect is, I’m always a little embarrassed because, of course, I’m considerably older than the other students. I’ve had many dreams about this, in many really weird permutations. Sometimes the dorm looks like a shopping mall, sometimes it’s more like a camp, sometimes it looks like a real dorm. The one thing these dreams have in common is that I am going back to school. I am going back to school.

     My daughter is going to be a freshman at Northern Arizona University in the fall. This weekend was a two-day orientation for both students and parents. I spent two days walking around the NAU campus, eating in the dining hall and hearing about all of the wonderful programs that are available to the students. I talked with other parents and watched the kids, full of excitement, anticipating having the time of their lives enjoying their newly-won independence. I stayed at a hostel just north of campus in old downtown Flagstaff.

     This experience has made me very excited for my daughter and the adventure she is about to have at NAU. I’m proud, and I’m excited. This is a wonderful time in the life of a parent, to watch your child begin to grow up, make their own decisions, and have grand adventures. I couldn’t be happier for her.

     And now that I’ve successfully launched my girl to this next stage in her life, maybe it’s time that I go back and do something different. Something for me. Something big.
What if I went back to school? I did go to college. I have a degree in Spanish. But there are many other things out there that I want to know about, and others that I regret not giving my full attention when I had the opportunity. I want to study medieval music, renaissance music, ethnomusicology. Art, drawing, baking, cooking. Math, poetry. Writing. Languages. And when I’ve done that, I want to do something fabulous for work. Like, be a caterer. Own a bar. Bake bread. Sing on top of grand pianos, a la Michelle Pfeiffer.

     But it seems a shame to me that people of my age don’t really have the opportunity for the same type of on-campus college experience that younger people do. Yes, many of us own homes, have families, work full-time. Many of us wouldn’t want to give everything up and live on campus for a few years...but what if there is a sizable group of forty-plus empty nesters that would like to do that? What then? Where do they go?

     It seems to me that there should be some school somewhere - and maybe there is - that caters to older students. Someplace with an on-campus, communal living setup where we wouldn’t feel like fish out of water. How fabulous would it be to live with a bunch of like-minded individuals...form study groups, spend evenings debating Pachelbel vs. Beethoven vs. Tchaikovsky, solve algebraic equations just for the pure joy of it? Share the housekeeping responsibilities, cook together, share a bottle of merlot on a Friday evening?

     And what if you could apply for scholarships to cover the cost of such an endeavor? What if you didn’t have to work during this time? What if you could concentrate on learning what you wanted to learn, and live a simple life, devoid of worries about insurance and transportation and running out of vacation time? I think this would be fabulous.

     Many typical college students don’t know yet what they should study, just that they have to pick something. Many of them do know what they really want to do, but they don’t have the wherewithal to follow through with it. Twenty or thirty or forty years later, having presumably spent some time at one career or another, many of us now know what we want to do. And perhaps more importantly, what we don’t want to do.  

     How many of us, at this stage of the game, will make a new start?    Who's with me?  And where should we set up the commune?

Vacation in Nola

So the following year, since the trip to Santa Monica had worked out so well, I decided to broaden my horizons. I took what I like to refer to as a “long weekend” - about Thursday through Monday or Tuesday. I’d decided to take a trip to New Orleans. I still didn’t really know much about it, but I hadn’t been able to get it out of my mind since my evening in the Quarter years before. I found that airfare out there wasn’t too, too expensive - I got a flight from PHX to MSY for just over $200.

Still on a limited budget, I began shopping for a hotel. I knew that I wanted to be in the French Quarter. Unfortunately, the hotels I found there were a bit out of my price range. So I started looking for a place near the Quarter. I narrowed it down to two possibilities, and wound up staying at the Empress Hotel in the Treme (http://empresshotelneworleans.com/).

In hindsight, I think I probably should have gotten a clue about what type of place this would be from the reservation process. The website advertised extremely cheap rooms. They were about $30 or so, while the places in the Quarter seemed to start around $100. This was back in 2000. The website offered very limited information, and there was a number to call and a form to fill out, but there was no way to actually make a reservation through the website. I called the 800 number shown on the website. I was told that they would fax me a reservation form, which I’d have to fill out and fax back to them. When they got my return fax, which would include my credit card number, the reservation would be complete. They would not just take my credit card number over the phone and reserve a room.

Luckily, I did have access to a fax machine, so I got the form, filled it out, and sent it back. The form seemed to put an oddly heavy emphasis on the hotel’s location in the “historic Treme neighborhood.” It seemed a little fishy, but I thought, How bad can it be?

Between the time I made the reservation and the date I was to arrive, I heard from the hotel repeatedly. They’d had a less-expensive room come available, and did I want that one instead? We repeated the fax process again...and again.

I was very excited about this trip. I was doing all kinds of research online about music in the French Quarter. This was the main thing I wanted to do, see live music. I’d found the Offbeat website and was making notes on where to go and who to see. The Famous Door looked promising. I also found maps of the Quarter online and memorized the layout of the streets. I also got a laminated map that had the Quarter on one side and the whole city on the other, just in case, and a guidebook.

I didn’t know anyone in New Orleans, so I posted a note on a message board on AOL saying that I’d be visiting for the first time, could anyone offer advice...? I met a couple of people that way. A nice guy by the name of Rick replied, and we chatted some. During one of our online chats, I told him where I’d be staying and asked about the neighborhood. He was silent for a couple of minutes, and then said, “take a cab when you go home at night.” Oh, boy. I think the best advice I got was regarding music on Bourbon Street - just walk down the street and listen for the music coming out of the bars. Then go into one where it sounds good. This is a great way to go about it.

Finally, the big day arrived. I had packed a suitcase full of my nicest clothes. Hadn’t really learned to pack light yet at that point. I was thrilled to see all the greenery on the ground as the plane approached MSY. Ah, the South. I’ve lived here in the desert all my life, so for me, having all that green around is like a miracle. I love it. The plane landed, and I gathered my things and found the counter for the shuttle.

I think it took us about an hour to get from the airport to the Empress. I was the last one dropped off. Isn’t that always what happens when you take the shuttle? I’d seen people dropped off at some very nice places around town. Pulling up in front of the Empress was kind of disappointing.

The Empress Hotel is on Ursulines, two blocks past Rampart in the Treme. I haven’t been there lately, but at that time (September of 2000), it seemed that about half of the buildings we passed in the neighborhood were about to fall down. And what a shame. The houses had clearly once been beautiful, but they’d just fallen into disrepair. The Empress itself is not a particularly striking building, but it does have a good-sized balcony in the front. If you watched the HBO series Treme, you may have seen the place. It’s the hotel where Annie stayed for a little while.

I got my suitcase, thanked the shuttle driver, and went to the front door. It was locked, so I rang the bell, and the desk clerk buzzed me in. There was no lobby, just a window with the clerk behind it. There was a sign in near the entrance informing me of several pieces of important information: I would pay for all nights at check-in. There were no refunds. No guests were allowed in the rooms. The room key must be surrendered to the desk clerk on leaving the building, and it would be returned to me when I returned. All in all, it sounded like a concerted effort to prevent prostitutes from operating out of the place. I hoped their efforts had been successful. On the plus side, they did serve free coffee on the balcony in the mornings.

The room had a door that didn’t look too sturdy, but it did lock. It was just big enough to house one double bed. There was a very small TV up near the ceiling, and the A/C was a window unit. I discovered two fascinating things the next morning: there was a hole in the ceiling over the shower, and the carpet in the room was so dirty that walking three feet on it made the bottoms of my feet black. Ick. And judging by a review of the place that I found online after the fact, the folks in the room above mine COULD see through the hole in my ceiling, just as I suspected. Nice, right?

Ah, well. I would deal with it. I hadn’t travelled all the way to New Orleans to sit in a hotel room, anyway, so I couldn’t see that it would matter much. I’d gotten a cheap room, and I was within walking distance of the Quarter. After dropping my stuff in the room, I set out on foot and headed down Ursulines toward Rampart.

There were a few people out and about in the Treme that day. Everyone said hello and seemed friendly. I crossed Rampart into the Quarter.

The buildings were closer together in the Quarter. They started to look more like what I was expecting to see. A block or two in, I passed a woman working outside in her yard. She looked at me and said, You shouldn’t be walking around here alone. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe her, exactly, but it was broad daylight and it seemed pretty quiet. But I didn’t really have much choice, anyway. I wasn’t going to take a cab everywhere, and I didn’t really even know where I was going. I was just wandering around. And that was exactly what I wanted to do.

Speaking of what I was expecting to see...I was really completely unprepared for the dilapidated craziness that is Bourbon St. Despite having been there some years earlier, I was still harboring the idea that the French Quarter would be like New Orleans Square at Disneyland. It would be clean, colorful, safe, and elegant. I’d been to Disneyland many times, and my one visit to the Quarter years earlier had been very short, and had taken place at night, and I’d gone into exactly one bar and had only a coke. So I’d packed a suitcase full of my nicest clothes. The RED Georgiou dress, a little black silk dress from Victoria’s Secret, heels, etc. For this first foray into the Quarter, I’d had the good sense to put on shorts and a t-shirt. And not to carry a purse. Everything I needed was in my pockets.

I wandered down Ursulines to Bourbon and turned right. Walked toward Canal, heading for the Famous Door, making note of places that had music that I liked along the way. I believe the band at the Famous Door was supposed to be a blues band that afternoon, but they weren’t. I stuck my head in but the music wasn’t doing much for me, so I turned around and headed back the other way, toward Esplanade. I remembered passing a place a little way back with a sign in front that said simply, R&B.

The R&B Club used to be at 617 Bourbon St, between Toulouse and St. Peter. It was in an old Creole Cottage, and it was owned by Al Harper, who also owned the Blues Club down in the 200 block. Sadly, it’s now a daiquiri bar or some such foolishness. In 2000, it was simply an amazing place to be. I saw The Rooster, Les Getrex, Pat “Mother Blues” Cohen, C.P. Love, and many others there. On this day, I walked inside and got myself a table, right in the middle of the place. 

Santa Monica

I didn’t get back to New Orleans again for eight or nine years. I was busy working, and raising kids, and I didn’t get to travel much. One year, my mom asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I told her, “a weekend.” She agreed, and came to stay with my kids for the weekend. Testing the travel waters, I figured I’d head toward Los Angeles. I’d been aiming for something generally close to Disneyland, and I’d been checking the Hostelling International website (http://hiusa.org ) for hostels that were relatively close to it. The one in Santa Monica looked the best.

I flew into LAX from Phoenix and stayed at the hostel, which is on Second Street in downtown Santa Monica (http://hiusa.org/santamonica). I must have been about 29 at that point. I was absolutely thrilled to be somewhere other than home, and by myself, for God’s sake. By myself. Nobody needed anything from me. I didn’t have to worry about anybody but me. I could just float around by myself and do nothing, or do stupid things. It didn’t matter. What a freeing idea, after having to spend every waking hour of every day either at my job, which I hated, or taking care of my kids. I love my kids, don’t get me wrong, but having two children is tiring.

The hostel in Santa Monica is very cool. I haven’t been there for years, but I was very impressed by it at that time. It’s huge, compared to other hostels I’ve seen. I believe it’ll house 260 people or so. There’s a 24-hour desk, security door, and a huge industrial kitchen. Breakfast is served daily for a small fee, and of course, you can store and prepare your own food, too. There’s a library, a movie room, a courtyard, and notices about local tours and activities. It has a number of private rooms, which I’ve never seen, and many large bunk rooms. The hostel provides sheets and a blanket to each guest, and each bunk comes with a locker. There are about 12 bunks in a typical bunk room, and the guests are usually young people under 25, and they’re from all over the world. It’s interesting just to sit in the room and listen to all the different languages being spoken. Bathrooms are all down the hall, which is somewhat less than convenient, but for about $20 per night, the place was perfect for me.

After getting checked in, making up my bunk, and locking up my stuff, I hit the streets. The beach was just across the next street over, but I headed inland and wound up on the Third Street Promenade. It was mid afternoon. I was free, and the Promenade was enchanting. I remember smiling at everyone I passed on the street. The Promenade is mainly national chain stores, like Mill Avenue here in Tempe. But they’ve closed off a couple of blocks of 3rd St and planted trees and such in the middle. It’s a cool place to wander up and down, get a snack, peruse books at the bookstore. I did browse at the bookstore and looked around in Anthropologie, where I wound up getting this great, funky-looking silk dress. As it got toward evening, the musicians started to come out. Street musicians on the Promenade. There was a guy playing guitar and singing American Pie. There was a whole crowd gathered around him, singing along and harmonizing - everyone knows the harmony on the chorus, right? A block down, another guy with an acoustic guitar playing his own music. I don’t remember what it sounded like any more, but I remember it being delicate and sensitive, like gossamer threads being woven in the air. The very most enchanting thing, though, was the string quartet.

As I wandered back toward Broadway, I discovered that a string quartet had set up shop in front of the bookstore. They were playing one of the Brandenburg concertos, and doing quite well. They were all music students from one of the local universities. I listened to a couple of numbers. They began another, played through an intro, and then the viola player stood up. And he started to sing in this clear tenor that just made me want to cry. His name was Mario, and he was Brazilian, and he was singing “Amapola.” It was astounding. His voice was just beautiful. And I’m here to tell you, a young tenor with a viola in his hand is irresistible. I’d never seen anyone that was playing in a string quartet get up and sing with them. But really, why not? If you can do both - play an instrument and sing - do it! I loved listening to this quartet. I listened as long as I could, tipped them, and got a CD.  They were the Rococo String Quarter, and I fervently hope that they are still playing together. 

Later that evening, I met up with an old friend whom I’d met when I was in college. We’d decided to go to BB King’s, so I got all dressed up. Yes, believe it or not, I used to wear dresses all the time. Found it fun. I had this great a-line, sleeveless Georgiou dress with a low-cut square bodice that I’d gotten on clearance. It was short, it was made of worsted wool, and it was RED. Not just red, but RED. The a-line skirt would swish and sway nicely when I danced in it. We saw a great band at BB King’s. Blues done right. We danced, had a couple of drinks, had an argument, and he took me back to the hostel. The argument wasn’t over anything important, and it was probably my fault. Overall, it was a nice evening, though, enjoying good music with an old friend.

The next morning, I got up and walked up and down the Promenade again. I got a flattering haircut at a swanky salon on Broadway and wandered around, blissfully alone. I was looking for cigarettes by early afternoon, and I happened upon a little cigar shop on Broadway between 2nd and 3rd (http://www.lonewolfcigars.com/). I stopped in and confirmed that yes, they did have cigarettes, and not just cigars. I bought a pack, and the gentleman who was working there invited me to sit down.

It was a nice looking place. There was wood panelling and shelving, and there were a number of leather wingback chairs, and a couple of chessboards out on the tables. The front window was open to the street. The weather was beautiful, and there was a steady stream of people walking by. One side of the room was taken up by a large walk-in humidor. I learned later that members could rent small lockers inside the humidor. They kept their cigars in there, along with any libations they enjoyed.

The people watching was fabulous. There were families coming and going from the Promenade and the mall across the street. There were all kinds of stylish young people, getting into arguments, having conversations, or just going about their business. There were a couple of men playing chess inside the shop, and a couple more just hanging out, watching the game and talking. It was a really easygoing atmosphere. No one seemed to care that I wasn’t smoking cigars, and I was comfortable, so I stayed. I was enjoying walking around Santa Monica, but my back was starting to hurt, and it was good to relax in a comfortable chair.

I watched a couple of chess games, enjoying the banter of the people hanging out there. They were very witty, and very funny, and I was enjoying having this completely unexpected experience in a cigar shop, of all places. It turns out that most of the men there were actors. If you’ve ever been in a play, and hung out in the Green Room, well, it was kind of like that. Actors can be extraordinarily entertaining when they’re just killing time.  Those of you that have spent time in a Green Room know what I'm talking about.  I'm not an expert on this, by any means...I can't act, but I studied classical music for years, and in fact was a music major when I started college.  I sang well enough that I was cast in the chorus of a few musicals during the course of my education - Guys and Dolls (high school), Fiddler on the Roof (community production), and My Fair Lady (college, and I actually had a line).

I was eventually invited to play a game of chess. I was on the chess team in high school - yeah, I’m that cool. I only played for one year. I lost every game but the very last one. And for that one, I’d been paired up with the person I’d played for my very first game. Let me tell you, he was not pleased. I hadn’t played chess since then, so of course I lost my game in the cigar shop that day.  I did get some helpful suggestions from my companions in the shop, though. But about the time I was losing that game of chess, someone went and got a bottle of port out of the humidor. Another game of chess commenced, the port was passed around, and I inquired about a cigar that might not be too strong for me. I was introduced to Al Capone Little Cigars. And by and by, the nice gentleman who worked there came by and offered me a styrofoam cup of Grand Marnier. I discovered that night that I enjoy little cigars and Grand Marnier. About the time I’d finish my drink, he’d come by with a refill, and as the evening went on, we started talking.

He was dark-skinned and had an accent that I couldn’t identify. Where was he from, I asked? “I am Armenian,” he said. After some more conversation, we discovered that he spoke Italian and I spoke Spanish, so we made a game out of speaking to each other in Italian and Spanish at the same time. It was mostly understandable and pretty amusing, particularly with the addition of more and more Grand Marnier. I wound up staying at the cigar shop for hours, a ridiculously long time. I mostly just observed and laughed with the folks sitting there, enjoying the evening. Drank some, smoked too much, and had weird multilingual conversations. When it was closing time, everyone packed their things back into their lockers and headed out. 

I headed home the next day, having had a thoroughly enjoyable weekend in Santa Monica. I didn’t make it anywhere near Disneyland, but it was a great time. I got to visit Santa Monica a few more times in the next year. I always stayed at the hostel, and for the most part, it was perfect. There was just one time when I arrived there for a late-night check in and was told they didn’t have the bunk that I’d reserved. They could pay for a cab to a hostel in Venice, or I could sleep for free on the floor in the movie room. Turns out that the movie room floor was concrete...but I managed to get the loveseat in the library all to myself.

For those of you who have never stayed in a hostel, allow me to recommend trying it.  It's cheaper than a hotel by far.  If you're traveling alone, you'll have the opportunity to meet new people and participate in activities with them in a way that you wouldn't in a hotel.  You'll meet people from all over the world.  If you're into languages, and hearing different points of view, this is an amazing opportunity.  Don't expect four-star accomodations; it's inexpensive for a reason.  Facilities are usually pretty basic, but the best of them have a certain amount of local charm.  There's no room service, and the bathroom may be down the hall.  Still, in my opinion, hostelling is an adventure not to be missed.

I discovered how much I really enjoyed taking a trip by myself in Santa Monica. So the next year when my mom asked what I wanted for my birthday, I said “a long weekend.” And I went to New Orleans.

First Time in NOLA

A friend suggested that I write about New Orleans.  No one that knows me would be shocked at this suggestion.  I love New Orleans, and I go there as often as I can.  Having been there many times over the course of the last twelve years or so, though, it’s a little tough to figure out where to begin.  I could talk about Mardi Gras, Bourbon St, Uptown.  Gumbo, beignets, hurricanes.  Music, 24-hour bars, and random weird shit that happens at 3am in those bars.  Or I could tell you about the friends I’ve made there.  I think maybe I’ll try to get to all of the above, a little at a time.  And maybe I’ll just begin at the beginning and see if I can sort out something that makes sense to anybody but me.

The first time I went to New Orleans, I was 22 years old, and it was 1991.  I was still in college, and I was pregnant, and I was on my way home from an internship that hadn’t quite worked out for me in Kinston, North Carolina.  It hadn’t worked out mainly because I was pregnant and a little crazy at that point.  Selling books door to door 80 hours a week is not a great idea when you’re pregnant and crazy.  Not to say that pregnant women can’t handle these things, mind you, it was mainly the crazy that was getting in my way.  I left Kinston driving my old ’81 Chevy Citation, which my grandparents had given to me.  I don’t recall the exact route I took, but I believe I drove more or less south along some big highway (I-95?) til I hit Florida.  In Florida, I picked up I-10 and headed west. 

I think my original intent was to drive more or less straight through from North Carolina to Arizona and sleep in the car when I needed to.  I had almost zero money and a friend’s borrowed gas card and visa card to get me home.  As I recall, the gas card was a Texaco card.  Those nice folks at Texaco will let you buy stuff from their convenience stores with a Texaco card, by the by.  So I was making my way down the highway, fueled by Smart Corn, Texaco coffee, and Wendy’s baked potatoes, listening to a stereo with one speaker.  I think I picked up a shot glass in every state I went through.  Anyway, at some point late in the afternoon, I was on I-10 pretty close to New Orleans.

If you approach New Orleans from the east on I-10, you’ll cross a bit of Lake Pontchartrain.  For the uninitiated – Lake Pontchartrain is huge.  I had never seen it before, didn’t even know it was there.  So there I was, over the lake on I-10.  The water must have been really high, or something, because I remember that the highway was partly flooded.  People were driving pretty much where ever they felt like driving, lane markings or no.  I thought something along the lines of, hmm, they must do things differently here in Louisiana.

Now, this was my first time to New Orleans, but I’d always wanted to go.  I had pictures of pretty buildings and the sound of Dixieland jazz in my head, and I knew I wanted to try some red beans and rice.  But that was about it.  I hadn’t planned on being there at that point, and I had no idea at all where anything was, but I’d thought that the French Quarter might be cool.  I told myself I’d allow myself three hours to walk around and see things, and then I’d hit the road again.  I stayed on I-10 til I saw a sign that said “French Quarter,” and then I got off the highway. 

I managed to find free parking on the street down near the French Market.  I got out of the car and headed out to wander.   It was nighttime by then.  I don’t know what streets I was on.  It was quiet, and it was dark.  I’m not sure I really knew what to expect, but the beauty of the buildings just took my breath away.  I saw residents standing on their balconies.  Got glimpses into second-storey windows with light, sheer curtains blowing in the breeze.  I just walked and walked and looked at things.  It was so quiet that I remember thinking I’d found this great, beautiful, secret place.

At some point I ran across a small restaurant.  I wish I could tell you which one it was or even where it was, but I just cannot remember.  I have a vague idea that it may have been somewhere on Decatur.  The place had about two rows of tables, one on each side of the room.  The walls were red brick, and there was a brick archway in the back.  It seems to me that it had a pirate theme, but it may be just that I was thinking of pirates.  I got a table and ordered red beans and rice.  They were about $6.  The food turned out to be a huge disappointment to me, though.  I’d probably love the very same red beans and rice today, but at that point, I didn’t eat spicy food at all.  Yes, I grew up in Arizona.  I just didn’t really care for it.  And throughout my first pregnancy, even the slightest bit of pepper (think fettuccini alfredo) gave me terrible heartburn.  So I tasted them, had a few bites, and thought, “these would be good if they hadn’t made them so HOT.”  Ha.  I put cayenne in almost everything now.  I suppose “hot” is an acquired taste for some people.

So after my quick dinner, I resumed my walk through the Quarter.  And at length, I found myself on Bourbon St.  I remember seeing a street sign and thinking, Ooh, this street is famous.  I managed after a bit to get to a busier area of Bourbon.  There were music clubs, strip clubs, people walking down the middle of the street with drinks in their hands.  Wait, what?  Drinks in their hands?  Down the middle of the street?  It was like a huge party, and it was a damn shame I couldn’t drink.

I couldn’t believe all the music.  I remember hearing lots of R&B type stuff – real R&B, from the 70s or so.  It was like a giant musical smorgasbord walking up the street.  The music just drifted out from bar after bar.  I had it in my head somehow that I might see Aaron Neville in one of those bars, an idea that is quite amusing now.  Aaron Neville singing on Bourbon St, ridiculous! 

I was shocked by the number of strip clubs.  Some of them had signs out front advertising no cover for unescorted ladies.  Oh my!  I was ambling along slowly down the middle of the street, trying to take it all in, when I was approached by two inebriated young men with drinks in their hands.  Not bad looking, as I recall.  One of them inquired as to whether I’d ever “had two guys at once.”  I said “no thanks” and kept moving.  Slightly offensive, but oddly flattering, and certainly amusing.  All in all, it seemed that Bourbon St was a place where anything could happen.

When it came close to the 3 hours I’d allotted myself being up, I headed back to the car and got back on I-10.  A couple of exits later, I got back off the highway to get some gas.  I filled up and started to pull out of the Shell station, and suddenly there were copious amounts of smoke coming out from under my hood.  Oh, no.  This can’t be good.  The guy at the gas station did something or other to patch me up (water in the radiator after waiting for a bit?), and I got a hotel for the night.  I wound up at a La Quinta in Metairie.  It was awfully frustrating to be so close to the Quarter and not be able to get there, but being poor, I really had no choice but to stay put.

In the morning, I took the car to a garage and had the guys look at it.  Turns out that whatever was wrong with the thing was going to cost $700 to fix, but they could finish it that day.  I got on the pay phone.  I had a friend in Alabama who was willing to wire the $700 to the garage so I could be on my way.  I spent the day sitting at the gas station, waiting for the car, and finally was on my way.  Twenty-seven hours later, after a three-hour nap by the side of the road, I was home.

It was far from what I would have hoped my first trip to New Orleans to be.  I didn’t get much time to see the sights.  Not enough to enjoy them properly.  Little did I know that there’s never enough time to see the sights in New Orleans.  Twenty-one years later, after more trips there than I can count, I think they only way to maybe get enough would be to once and for all just move there.  Stay tuned.  I'll try to explain why.

Walking in the Park

We moved into this house almost 16 years ago.  At the time, I was overjoyed, partly because we live close to a nice park with a lake.  It’s got multiple playgrounds, paddleboats, volleyball courts, baseball fields, batting cages, soccer fields, and an indoor wave pool.

The kids were pretty young when we moved in.  For me, it was moving “back,” because I lived in this house when I was a kid, from ages 4 to 11 or so.  When the kids were little, we went to the park to play and to walk around the lake.  I’ve gone to the park many times over the years, but not nearly as much as I thought I would.  Life gets in the way, you know.  I tend to oversleep in the mornings, so an early-morning walk or workout is pretty much out.  When I get home, I’m tired, and there’s stuff to do.  So, I hadn’t been to the park for awhile.

This evening, I arrived home from work, started a pot of beans cooking (baby limas in ham stock with rosemary), read a little, and then set out for a walk.  It’s a little warm out:  95 degrees at 9:30pm.  Ninety-five isn’t the end of the world – we’ve seen 120 here, after all.  It’s a little warm, though, and it makes for a sweaty walk.  Not that I’m complaining.  Just sayin’.

Not having walked a whole lot lately, I felt all of my 43 years dragging behind me.  I’ve got to do this more often.  Like, every day.  Twice.  Being a little older has its benefits, though.   I now have decent shoes and a phone that will keep track of my mileage for me (thanks, Runkeeper).  Runkeeper tells me that I walked 1.78 miles tonight, and conveniently posted this to Facebook for me.  Amazing.

The park is mostly the same as it ever was.  They keep the grass around the lake pretty nice, and the trees are taller and fuller than they were.  There are also more of them.  A few years ago, they redid some of the ramadas around the lake.  There were families walking the path around the lake, guys fishing, people sitting by the water talking, families cooking what smelled like steak on the barbecue grills.  All in all, it’s a nice, peaceful walk.  It’s pretty quiet, and I love being by the water.  What is it about a body of water, even a little one, that feels peaceful?

I’m still glad that the park, and the lake, are so close to home that I can go walk around and enjoy them.  I resolve now to do so more often.  I’d like to ask a couple of things of the City, though.  First, could you please make sure that the lights in the park are all functional?  Seems like having a couple of lights out around the lake in the park could pose a safety issue on several levels.  Second, the south end of the lake looks a little iffy.  There’s some sort of debris that I couldn’t quite make out in the dark floating in there, and that’s probably for the best.  Please don’t make me call to remind you about these issues, because it won’t be a pleasant experience for anyone.

Stay tuned tomorrow.  Hopefully, Runkeeper will joyfully announce on Facebook again that I’ve taken a  walk around the lake.  If it does, I will patiently put up will all of your teasing about how I didn’t go far, and I’m not running.  I know that every little bit helps.  If there is no Runkeeper announcement tomorrow, you have my permission to give me a hard time about it. 

Soup

Let me start by saying that I am not a chef.  My last culinary training was eighth-grade home ec, and   I'm pretty sure that my home ec teacher hated me.  I couldn't make biscuits or poach an egg, and forget about cleaning the sink.  Over the years, though, as I find new foods that I enjoy, I try and learn to make them.  Mashed potatoes, feijoada, red beans and rice, gumbo, pot roast, etouffee, tamales...you get the idea.  I look up recipes and cooking techniques and start trying things.  I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm a good cook, and I certainly don't do anything fancy, but no one in my house is going to starve.  I've finally gotten to where I can throw together random foods that I have around and make something edible.  And I've learned that I enjoy cooking.  Something about the magic of starting out with a whole bunch of individual, separate ingredients and winding up with a result that is somehow more than the sum of its parts appeals to me.  And there's a visceral satisfaction in feeding people.

I was asked not too long ago if I had a blog.  No, I didn't have one.  I didn't know what I could possibly write about.  And then a friend of mine asked today about beginner's soup and stew cookbooks.  I've been kind of getting into soup lately, so I feel like I have a couple of things to share on the subject.  And voila, now I have a blog.  Let me say again, I don't purport to be an expert.  If you have a better way of doing things, by all means, let me know.  But I can tell you a little bit.

So, here's what I know about Soup...

First, you'll need some stock.  The type of stock you're going to want will depend on what you're going to put in the soup.  Veggie stock if you're a vegetarian, chicken or turkey if you're making soup with poultry, ham for ham, potatoes, or beans.  Do not use canned broth or boullion.  It's much more salty than it needs to be, and it's kind of expensive.

For chicken or turkey stock, first cook the bird.  Roast it using whatever seasonings you like.  You can't go wrong with thyme, sage, and rosemary, in my humble opinion.  Fresh herbs taste better than dried, but either will certainly work.  I like to coat the outside of it with softened butter.  Once you've cooked it, let it cool, then remove the meat from the bones.  Put it in a ziploc, or other airtight container, and refrigerate it.  Preheat the oven to 400.  Once it's heated up, put the carcass in a roasting pan and roast it for about 35 minutes.  Four hundred degrees is really hot, but this does work, and it greatly improves the flavor of the stock.  Just pull the carcass out of the oven when it smells like it might be about to burn.

Get a really big stock pot.  The biggest one you can find.  You're going to want to make as much of this stuff as possible, more than you're going to use for one pot of soup.  That way, you can freeze the extra and use it later.  Put the carcass in the stock pot.  Cover with water.  Quarter an onion or two and throw them in.  Cut three or so carrots into thirds, remove the tops, and add them.  Same thing with three or so stalks of celery.  Throw in the celery leaves, too, if you have them.  If you like garlic, add three or four cloves, peeled and crushed.  Salt and whole peppercorns, too, and 2 or 3 bay leaves.  I use not too much salt and a bunch of pepper.  I don't measure.  Once you've got all the veggies and seasonings in, fill up the pot with water.

Now, if you use just the items listed above, you'll have a perfectly acceptable stock.  But you can add more to your stock pot and get a more complex flavor.  A friend of mine was kind enough to share The Gumbo Pages with me - Thanks LBD!  They've got a great stock recipe that I love at http://www.gumbopages.com/food/stocks/turk-stock.html.

Whatever you're adding to the stock pot, once it's in there, get it started cooking.  Bring it to a simmer, and let it keep simmering as long as you can.  The recipe above says 2 hours.  I usually cook mine for about 5 or so before I have to run off and do something else.  I think some folks will let theirs simmer all day.  I believe that you get more flavor the longer you simmer the stock.

Once you're done cooking the stock, you're going to need to strain it.  I use tongs to get the carcass out and a slotted spoon for the veggies.  Toss out the carcass at this point.  If you're inclined to save the veggies, you can use them for other things.  If you put them in a blender or food processor, for example, you can get them mashed up real good til they're about the consistency of hummus.  This makes an interesting dip.

Let the stock cool off some before you go to strain it.  To strain your broth, you're going to want a big colander or strainer and some cheesecloth.  Line the colander with a couple of layers of cheesecloth.  I put the lined colander in a second big pot.  You're going to need to put it on top of something in the pot so that the stock can flow through it.  Just make sure it's stable.  I use a big tamalera.  A tamalera has a "shelf" in it.  You put water under it and stack the tamales on top to steam them.  So it works well for me for the stock straining, too.  Once you've got the whole pot of stock strained, strain it again for a good measure.  Rinse out the cheese cloth before you start straining it for a second time.

If you're making ham stock, it's a similar process.  Get a ham bone (or you could use ham hocks).  Do not roast the bone, just put it in the stock pot with your veggies (same as above) and whatever seasonings you choose and simmer for a few hours.  I don't have a recipe to refer to for this, but the only seasonings I add to mine are salt and pepper.  Strain it when you're done simmering.

A quick note regarding cheese cloth - I think most grocery stores have this in small packages with the cooking utensils.  I've heard that it's cheaper to get it at Home Depot, where I believe it would be with the paint supplies.  Either way, cheese cloth is the way to go.  I've tried using coffee filters for this, but it didn't work out too well.  Ahem.

So, now that you've got the stock, figure out what all you're going to put in the soup.  If you just cooked a chicken or a turkey, you can certainly use some or all of that meat.  Just keep in mind that it's already cooked, so you won't want to put it in the pot til the soup is almost done.

Now, if you're looking for good combinations of veggies to put in a soup, I'd recommend searching the internet.  You can take a look at what you have on hand and then do a search for recipes that call for those items.  Something like, "onion, chicken, squash soup recipe" will yield tons of results which you can then read through to get ideas.  Soup doesn't have to be complicated or fancy or follow any particular recipe, though.  If you've got a good stock, you can throw in all kinds of stuff and it will be wonderful. 

Whatever you decide, I generally start with onions and garlic.  I chop the onion and cook it on medium heat in the same pot I'm going to use to cook the soup.  I use butter, because I like it.  Yeah, maybe it's not healthy, but two tablespoons of butter in an entire pot of soup isn't likely to kill you.  I cook the onions til they're soft.  Keep them moving, not constantly, but every few seconds or so, just enough so that they don't burn.  While they're cooking, peel and mince your garlic, if you're going to use it.  Once the onion has gotten soft, add the garlic to the pan and cook for a few more minutes, still keeping it moving.

Once the onions and garlic are ready to go, I add some stock to the pot.  Fill it up about halfway, and leave the heat at about medium or so.

If you're going to make a chicken or turkey soup, you can always use the standard chopped carrots and celery.  I'd chop them fairly finely.  Add them to the soup pot.  If you're inclined to add other veggies in, go for it.  I've tried okra, tomatoes, mushrooms, yellow squash, zucchini...just whatever you feel like having.  Your veggies will be soft after about 30 minutes of simmering.  You can also add cooked noodles or rice to give it a little more substance.  Once you've gotten all the solids in the pot that are going in, excluding the already-cooked meat, fill the pot til it's close to the top with more stock.  Add any basic seasonings you're going to use at this point.

I'm not good with any but the most basic seasonings, so I usually turn to the internet for ideas here.  Once I've figured out what meat and vegetables are going into the soup, I do another search like the one outlined above and then browse the recipes that come up for seasoning ideas.  So, season your soup, and taste it.  If it needs more of one thing or another, add it, a little bit at a time.

Simmer for about 30 minutes.  While this is happening, you can chop up the chicken or turkey that you cooked so that it's in bite-sized pieces.  If you're using uncooked sausage instead of the cooked poultry, throw it into the soup pot whole and let it simmer for the 30 minutes with the veggies.

You can also package up the rest of your stock and put it in the freezer while the soup is simmering.  I put mine in rectangular plastic containers and label them with the contents and date.

After the 30 minutes, add your poultry.  If you used sausage, pull it out of the soup, slice it into bite-sized pieces, and throw it back in.  Taste the soup and see if you think it needs more seasoning of one sort or another.  From this point, just cook it long enough to heat up the cold poultry that you just threw in.

Remember, there are tons of resources out there to help you determine what goes well with what.  Use the internet, cookbooks, talk with your friends. 

Enjoy.