D. H. Holmes Recipes

D H Holmes Potpourri Restaurant Recipes

-----Original Message-----

From: Jean

Sent: Friday, March 29, 2013 12:31 PM

To: phaedrus@hungrybrowser.com

Subject: D H Holmes Bread Pudding and Lemon Pie

Uncle Phaedrus -

I would be so appreciative if you could help me find two recipes, both from

the DH Holmes Potpourri Restaurant.  The first is their Bread Pudding with

Whiskey (or Bourbon) Sauce.  It was absolutely the best!

The second is their "Lemon Pie" which was a baked meringue shell topped with

a lemony custard sauce.  It was very unique!

Thank you for your help -

Jean

Hello Jean,

I had no success locating any mention at all of these recipes other than your own request from last year on a blog. Sorry.

There was a cookbook published called "Bayou Banquet: Recipes from a Potpourri of Cultures" by: D. H. Holmes. I don't know that those recipes are in it, but they might be. It's out of print, and I could not find a used copy for sale anywhere at all. You might check with your local library and see if they can locate a copy.

These three recipes are from that cookbook:

Poppyseed Dressing

Chicken Salad

Orange-nut bread or muffins

The only other advice that I can give you is that you might write to Judy Walker, the Times Picayune Food Editor and ask for her help. See:

Judy Walker, Times Picayune Food editor

Phaed

I saw your post regarding the d.h. holmes/New Orleans bread pudding and "lemon pie" requests. I have the Bayou Banquet book and here's the deal:

The bread pudding is called Memere's Bread Pudding  and there is a Bourbon Sauce recipe that is separate.

The Lemon Pie isn't a pie, it is Oeufs A La Neige -- Eggs in Snow.

JAMES

-----------------------------------

Oeufs A La Neige - Eggs in Snow

From the D.H. Holmes Bayou Banquet Cookbook

2 eggs, separated

2 egg yolks

1-1/2 cup sugar

1/4 tsp salt

2 cups half and half, scaled

1/2 tsp vanilla

Preheat oven to 500 degrees.

Beat the 4 egg yolks well, place in the top of double boiler with 1/4 cup of the sugar and salt. Slowly stir in the scaled cream.

Cook over boiling water - water should not touch top of double boiler - until custard coats a wooden spoon.

Cool immediately in a bowl of ice water. Stir and stir in vanilla. Pour into oven=proof soufflé dish or individual bowls.

Beat egg whites with a dash of salt to soft peaks. Gradually add 1/4 cup of sugar and beat to stiff peaks. Heap the egg whites on the custard.

Place soufflé dish or bowls in a pan of ice water and put the whole into the hot oven just long enough to brown the tips of the meringue.

Meanwhile, caramelize remaining 1 cup sugar by stirring over low heat in a heavy pot until sugar melts and forms a syrup.

Immediately drizzle over meringue puffs and custard.

Serves 8

VARIATIONS

Flavor custard with one tablespoon grated lemon or orange rind or a little rum or brandy.

Flavor egg whites or custard with almond extract. We prefer the caramel, but it may be omitted, if you wish.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Memere's Bread Pudding

From the D.H. Holmes cookbook - Bayou Banquet

3 cups diced stale French Bread

5 eggs, beaten

3 cups milk

1 cup heavy cream

3/4 cup sugar

1/2 tsp grated lemon or orange rind

1/2  tsp vanilla

1/2  cup raisins, optional

Nutmeg

Butter and sugar for topping

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Place bread in buttered 3 quart casserole. Heat, but do not boil, the milk and cream together and slowly pour over the eggs, beating well.

Add sugar and vanilla to egg mixture. Mix until sugar is dissolved. Pour over  bread. Dot with butter, sprinkle sugar , nutmeg and rind and raisins on top.

Place in pan of hot watter. Bake at 350 degrees for one hour, or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Serve hot or cold with the following sauce -

or Whiskey Sauce.

Memere's Bread Pudding Sauce

Boil one cup orange juice and 1/2 cup sugar. Stir in 1 tsp grated orange rind.

Bourbon Sauce for Bread Pudding

1/2  cup butter

1 cup powdered sugar

1 egg yolk

1/2  cup bourbon, or Grand Marnier

Cream butter and sugar over low heat, stirring constantly. Blend in egg yolk. Gradualy add bourbon - continuing to stir over low heat. Bourbon whiskey is our pick,

but try a little grand Marier for a slight orange flavor. Serve of hot bread pudding.

A Taste Of Southern

A Taste of Southern

By Debbie Lindsey

Blues, BBQ and Buddy—that was the theme of our Memphis road trip.  Our guide book was Smokestack Lighting by Lolis Elie, the compass was set to Elvis, and the airwaves provided the Blues.   A pilgrimage to Graceland, paying homage to every barbeque shack, joint and diner along the way were the high points of Boyfriend’s vacation. I was pretty much on the same page of that menu too but with one added quest—to visit Buddy’s Mississippi hometown of Itta Bena.  Who the heck is Buddy?  Well I am glad you asked.

Some years back, attending my first Tennessee Williams Literary Festival I happened upon a panel discussion moderated by Rex Reed: Southern Wit and Wisdom.  There was the usual mix of questions and answers but with these guys there is always the promise of crazy-anything-goes-free-fall conversations and of course Mr. Reed knew how to steer it in that direction.  One of the panelists was a writer by the name of Lewis “Buddy” Nordan.  “Buddy”—does it get any more Southern?  Well yeah, “Bubba” maybe.  Anyway, despite my lifetime of living in the South, I felt like a visitor, and these drawling, eccentric bunch of writers were jaw-dropping funny and well…nuts.  I felt like the straight-laced cousin away for a long time in the “big city” and coming home to face a culture and people I had totally forgotten.  I loved them.  And from then on found that my own writing would shift in a more southerly direction.

For several New Orleans Tennessee Williams Literary Festivals to come I would hear these writers and others of similar lineage speak and spin tales about their dysfunctional and larger-than-life childhoods that lead them to fictionalize those experiences onto paper.  Some wrote memoirs proving the old adage that truth is indeed stranger than fiction.  Mr. Nordan’s books would find a home on my bookshelves rather quickly along with others of this genre of audacious story telling.  But it would be Buddy’s stories that got under my skin the most, the deepest.

Nordan’s Wolf Whistle should be considered required reading.  It is a fictional telling of the Emmett Till murder (a black boy’s death that would shock and burden a nation—Mrs. Till insisted that her son’s casket be open for viewing and with that Ebony Magazine used their cover page to document this atrocity with a photograph of Emmett’s battered face laid to rest).  Effortlessly this lyrical novel shifts from the hideous to hilarious, albeit a nervous laughter since the dark humor was threaded awfully close to the tragic and deeply disturbing violence of racism.

I remember one morning at CC’s Coffee Shop my girlfriend and I were talking about books and writing when I showed her the novel I was not going to finish reading—Wolf Whistle.  “It’s just too disturbing, but wait let me read this one passage.”  And there I sat reading aloud one paragraph after another.  The sheer magic Nordan could invoke from deep in the Delta and along the muddy roads where his characters struggled and salvaged through life was utterly compelling.  After reading my highlighted passages to her I realized I had to finish this book, no matter how perturbing it might be. 

“When I was little I would think of ways to kill my daddy”—were the first words I remember hearing from Kaye Gibbons.  She too was one of the Festival’s repeat guest panelists.  I believe it was a panel titled Southern Gothic—Is it Real?  Well with an opening line like hers I’d say hell yeah.  Those thoughts were from Ellen Foster the heroine of the novel bearing her name.  We learn quickly that this child is no more a murderer than you –except Kaye Gibbons speaks it with such a matter-of-fact complicity that you stare open-mouthed for a second.  Her dry dark humor told me that I had to read everything she’d ever written.  Her Ellen Foster would become my contemporary To Kill a Mockingbird and this child would win my heart just as Scout, Jem and Atticus did. 

Southern stories, like those of Gibbons and Nordan, are flavored with the elements of gothic—a darkness that permeates much southern literature.  Is this the South or simply the human condition?  I am reminded of a dark bitter chocolate ice cream infused with hot peppers.  First you taste sweetness but then the darkness brings on the bite and from behind you are hit--half expecting, half lost in the sweet--with pure heat.  You are a bit put off at first but then you realize the elements are mixed and there is no separating them.

I hope to be in the audience of Ms. Gibbons again and to thank her for her work.  And I am glad to have walked barefoot in Buddy’s hometown—well worth the drive.

Lewis Nordan, Writer Who Spun Lyrical Tales, Dies at 72—The New York Times 2012.  

Katrina Twelve Years Later

Twelve Years Later

By

 Debbie Lindsey

            Every day I pass her signature, stubborn and indelible, an autograph deeply imprinted from the added force of incompetence and malfeasance.  Katrina the hurricane, not The Flood, seemed to be saving her brute force for others and would have made her debut in New Orleans somewhat unremarkable if only the levees had done their job.  But they didn’t and I am reminded of this when I walk next to the three foot plus water line that remains on the glass door and its curtain that has hung stained since that August day.

            Every year, the anniversary of Katrina and the levee failures is met with diametrically opposing emotions and attitudes.  There are those who choose not to dwell on it and those (like me) who have trouble letting it go.  Some lives were damaged beyond repair and others whose lives were lifted up.  “Survivor guilt” is felt, to varying degrees, by those who lived on the sliver by the river and escaped the waters.  But no one, absolutely no one, was spared the pain.  And there is the collateral damage to families and friends who sat helplessly watching it unfold on televisions across the world.  Sometimes I think my sister, high and dry in Birmingham, was more frightened than we were here in the midst of it all.

            You learn quickly who simply can’t talk about it and respectfully change conversational course; but, most folks seem inclined to swap “war stories”.  Yes, it can be equated to having gone through combat and surviving in a war zone. As with war veterans, there is often that bonding, the camaraderie of commiseration that comes from shared dangers and the experiences of living through something historical.   And historical it was.

Katrina most certainly is something for the history books, and I say “is” as it cannot be placed in the past tense of “was”.  Much of this saga belongs to yesterday, however, we live in a landscape—organic, political, economic, and societal—that is forever changed and/or evolving as a result of Katrina and the levee malfunctions.  There were fifty-three breaches to our various canals and levees.  To date this is the largest residential disaster in U.S. history.  A major American city had its population reduced by half.  This natural and man-made catastrophe stands as this country’s costliest hurricane costing 135 billion just for NOLA.  And to this day these stats differ with a multitude of other sources yet all are shocking and admit to be record breaking.  The death toll will never be certain.

Much has been reported, rumored, and recounted about what took place during those days after the flood waters filled our city.  A great deal has been discredited, such as alligators and sharks swimming about.  Why the media wanted to dismiss this as urban myth is beyond me.  Certainly there were alligators—did they think that the gator was going to stay in Bayou St. John as its waters mingled with lake waters and not crawl or swim beyond some invisible boundary?  Heck a gentleman I knew was hospitalized at Lindy Boggs hospital at the edge of Bayou St. John and told of a rather large alligator in the building’s flooded lobby. As for sharks—well I know a very credible source in Gentilly who watched a fin gliding past his flooded home (just a bull shark perhaps).  When simple over-lapping of nature in otherwise urban environments becomes a “tall tale” you can see how easy it was for people to discount the truly shocking—things that folks simply could not wrap their heads around.

It truly was the wild, wild, west.  Anything could and did happen.  Heinous crimes and heroic deeds.  There was no precedent for the days and weeks that’s followed and certainly nothing was even remotely normal for the next year; and even as a rhythm reminiscent of life before Katrina slowly began to take root it would be years before significant reparations and restorations would outnumber the look and feel of a war zone.

            Lessons were taught and lessons were learned.  We know now to assume the worse from a storm and from our man-made protections.  But, and this is serious, we can never become complacent.  Have a plan, whether it is to stay or to go.  If evacuation is not possible then have every possible safety plan in place along with provisions. Stock non-perishable foods, a can opener, first-aid, pet supplies, solar or battery lighting (never candles—we nearly torched our house during Katrina), have prescriptions filled and zip-locked, and know that those cell phones will not be reliable for extended power outages.  Consider keeping or getting a land-line touch tone phone.  If totally dependent upon a cell then have an external back-up battery, a car adapter to plug in and charge from your car’s cigarette lighter.  Before a possible power loss charge phones, reduce to the cell phone’s lowest power mode, and then back away from that device until truly needed for life-saving communications.

            Also stock-up on lots of water, Pedialyte for hydration (my nerves and tainted foods wrought serious diarrhea), moist-toilettes, bleach, and heavy-gage garbage bags. And remember, that toilet ain’t gonna flush after several days (this is when those garbage bags in addition to cleaning out your refrigerator will be needed).  If you stay for the next flood you must remember what it was like twelve years ago.  And for the many new residents too young to have the Katrina Debacle in their memory’s reference--read about it now. I suggest: Chris Rose’s Pulitzer prize nominated “One Dead in Attic”, Douglas Brinkly’s “The Great Deluge”, and Google “17 of the Best Things Ever Written About Katrina” (HuffPost), for more informative reads. 

I often wonder how many folks I crossed paths with during those couple of days leading up to Katrina’s landfall that are no longer with us.  We were the lucky ones, the fools who rode it out.  And, for no good reason other than sheer luck am I able to sit and write about it today—twelve years later.  Consider this a cautionary tale.

            

DIY Second Line in New Orleans

How to Host Your Own New Orleans Second Line

By

Phil LaMancusa

            You’ve seen them in the streets of the French Quarter; anywhere from two to two hundred; they’ve got a band, stilt walkers, jugglers, clowns, drinks, smiles, they’re dancing, throwing beads and waving handkerchiefs to the astonished onlookers who wonder at the banner that reads “Welcome Home Sonny!” or whatever you can imagine as something that a person would want to have a parade for: birth, graduation, Patsy’s divorce or (in many cases) just for the hell of it. Did you know that you can DIY? You can, and I’m going to walk you through the process of giving/having your very own customized Second Line procession, or as we commonly call it: ‘Takin’ It To The Streets!’

            First of all, you could call a service that can provide you with all the bells and whistles including a restaurant destination for an après marche celebratory banquet, they will handle any permits, escorts and accoutrements for your event. Or you can continue to plow ahead on your own; and, by now we’ve all seen the Hannibal Buress stand up routine about having a parade in the streets of the French Quarter and how easy it is to organize and pull off. Well, surprise, it’s a little more complicated than the three minutes or so of humor that he uses and although it isn’t rocket surgery, it’s not like me, cheap and easy; more like a full time job for whoever chooses to take on this challenge.  I did try to follow his directions: “First you go down to the police station and get a permit” he said; to which the answer is: no, you need to get a permit from City Hall (1300 Perdido St. 7^th floor) in person or online at nola.gov/onestop. The permit is $100.25 for non profits and $200.25 for everyone else (why the .25? Who knows?).

            Next you’ll need to choose the date, time and route for your procession (at least 15 days in advance of the occasion) because you’ll, obviously, need a police escort to assist you in impeding traffic while you parade worry free (drinks and all). The cost for the police starts at $384.97 for the first (minimum) two and a half hours and goes up; you pay that $384.97 whether you use them 2 ½ hours or not. Your route and size determines the amount of police necessary and for this you will consult with a Special Event Commander. They will have you fill out two forms with your intentions including who you have hired to clean up after you. You can find out more about police pricing at: nola.gov-secondary-employment/pricing.

About that marching band (remember them?); if you go to gigsalad.com/music you will find that there is a plethora of street savvy brass bands ready to take on your group’s event. They will range from $400.00 to $1,200.00 (and up) for an hour and a half (plus tip) depending on size, experience and date of the adventure; again, more time means higher fees.

            Okay, so here’s the scene: say you and your entourage of twenty want to meet at Pat O’Brien’s on St. Peter St. (for drinks) and dance down Royal St. to Toulouse St. over to Chartres and across Jackson Square and end up at Muriel’s for burgers and more booze or a little further to Harry’s Corner for just a throwdown. Swell, that’s a twenty minute walk at most. Figure it will take at least an hour and a half. It’s gonna be like herding cats to get from there to there; alcohol, which many people want for this occasion ( while making most of y’all more jovial) will slow things down more than a tad.             You also need to consider whether you want to have all those accoutrements mentioned above, where and how to get them; did I mention that this will be a full time gig to get your ship off the ground? It will be. You’ll need two people, one who does all the running around grunt work (get Cousin Vinnie) and the other who will hand over their AmEx card and look the other way (Uncle Vito).

            So now, face it, this is not something you want to subject yourself to; I mean, yeah, get Vinnie to do it and Vinnie will have a great story to tell and you’ll have someone that you know that you can blame for any of the components that go awry, of which there will be many possibilities.  Orrrrr… call a company that handles these, and other functions, on an everyday basis. There are a few and I randomly picked MustDoNola.com (855-353-6634) from the Destination Kitchen site and queried them.

            I was told that because of the myriad of details that need the attention that will avoid mishaps, and the need to eliminate any level of stress, inconvenience or confusion that may occur, PLUS the absolute necessity to have this occasion not only go off without a hitch BUT keep things as light hearted and above all FUN for all involved, you NEED professionals who have knowledge and understanding of what it takes, how to do it and how to be virtually invisible to all but the hosts of any event that they’re involved in.  These people offer to take care of every detail of any celebration from greeting your people at the airport (with a band) to sending your guests out to the swamps on tours or to dump a body (just kidding) and in our case, organizing a second line parade through the streets of the French Quarter. They advise me that not only do they know how to spend a person’s hard earned, but also where they can save money and/or get the most bang for the buck.

So, my advice is: get the AmEx from Uncle Vito, give it to Cousin Vinnie and have Vinnie decide to either schlep it himself or “call some people”; relax, come on down to The Big easy, have a few drinks at Pat O’s, and act surprised and thrilled when all of a sudden twenty of your closest friends show up with a band to take you to lunch, ya know what I mean? Who doesn’t love a parade?

           

           

           

           

Jazz Fest 2017

The Spell of Jazz

By

Debbie Lindsey

Jazz Fest is that magical moment in time when fairy dust is scattered over the city and enchantment rules.  It is also a two week period when, as my friend Gallivan so keenly stated, “The collective IQ of the City is raised”.  Why this festival?  Is it because it’s grounded in the rich soil of New Orleans talent and creativity—thus a magnet for additional outside musical genius and creative souls to gravitate to?  Is it the festival or the city?   And more importantly, will the magic endure?

My first Jazz Fest was in 1989 and with each year that followed I became more and more captivated by this escape from the mundane.  As a person that rarely hits the late night (or early night) live music scene (shame on me) I am thrilled to fill my ears and eyes with so much local and international talent.  I delight in discovering new musicians each year and humbled and grateful to have been in the presence of such legendary luminaries as Dave Brubeck.  Or to witness the debut of young talents that as the years pass have grown into musical forces that are poised to carry the torch of jazz well into the future. 

Of course I speak of jazz, which is my favorite genre of music, yet every Jazz Fest I listen, learn, and develop love affairs with Blues, Zydeco, Gospel and more, much more.  Also, live music tends to train my ear, by way of watching, to identify the instrumentations and techniques that create the musical magic.   Now, that sound is a clarinet; that riff a saxophone, the flurry of notes a glissando, the rush of goose bumps up and down my spine is instigated by the slides and sweeps of a guitar, and the tears that fill my eyes are the result of bow to strings.   My musical skills are limited to tuning the radio and spinning some vinyl; my ears are basically illiterate to the “whats and hows” of crafting music. For me witnessing this art form in action imparts some knowledge that, for me enhances the nuances that only certain instruments, musicians and even vocalists can render.  Yet, to my delight, being a bit of a musical neophyte prevents me from becoming too analytical and it therefore remains a magical sound that defies description and logic.

Now, enough about the music.  “What? It’s Jazz Fest, what do ya mean?” Hold on, I am not making light of the central theme of this festival—but there is so much more…and for me this is where lurks the quirks, the enchantments.  Every year the spell of Jazz Fest envelopes me with the very first scaffold that is placed within the Fairgrounds.  I am one of those lucky folks that live within sight and sound of Jazz Fest and can witness it unfolding during the weeks leading up.  Without fail, every year when I spot that first tent being raised I am filled with euphoria like a kid waiting for Christmas.  And my Santa wears sunglasses and plays sax.

I live in a neighborhood that is ground zero for Jazz Fest and I am proud to report that most residing here feel lucky, even privileged (I know I do) to be able to partake, party, and play within the perimeters of this event.  The neighborhood gussies up with fresh mowed lawns, flower pots spilling forth added color, string lights glow from porches, and our freak flags fly.  In addition, the trash cans are adorned with yellow “caution” tape and double as guards protecting our driveways and parking spots.  Parking takes on the feel of a sporting event.  The world descends upon this otherwise laid back hamlet and while there is some needed territorialism to secure parking after a day at work I must say I find an overall spirit of courtesy among neighbors and visitors.

Living on the side-lines of the Fair Grounds allows the fest to continue even after you exit the gates.  And, gawd forbid, if you had to work and miss a day, you still have the stroll option for the ‘post game’ fest.  As always there are pop-up bands performing their own magic for the price of a tip.  Add to this various vendors selling cold beverages (some adult brews too), crafts, and food.  And Liuzza’s By The Track is a must!  Some of their signature culinary creations are available for carry out and the bar and libations are flowing with glee.  Prices are good, and please tip generously.  Heck, tip like a Rockefeller all during this extravaganza—from restroom attendants, food vendors, bartenders, to street musicians.  Hey while we’re at it—make sure you take care of that taxi driver and even your UBER guy (UBER works with a credit card billing thingy…but the drivers still need and appreciate tips.  The UBER corporation might be raking in the bucks but the drivers are like the rest of us—workin’ to make ends meet).

Magical Realism is definitely woven into Jazz Fest.  Perhaps it’s a frame of mind and if that’s the case, then you can bet I am defiantly forgoing the mundane and choosing to see every serendipitous moment, chance meetings of old friends (hoping to see ya Cathy in your usual spot at the Jazz Tent), rainy days when not a drop of water hits me, and the magic of an air-conditioned port-a-potty.  For me it has always been a matter of being at the right place at the right time.  This year I will secure new memories, witness fresh talent, explore the food, and savor the unexpected.   Yet all the while I will be hoping to find that certain things remain the same--the courtesies, enthusiasm, and of course the magic.

2017 Jazz Fest weekend 2

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Lodestar

Or

Pete and Repeat

            So, is this your first weekend of the second week or the second weekend after your first? Are you walking in with your nose in the air like a bird dog, sniffing the wafting aromas of the hunka hunka burning love portions number nine, ten and eleven: “I smell ribs…gotta go!” Or have you arrived with your nose to the ground like a hound dog on the trail of beer, barbeque, buddies and blues. Who’s on first?

 Your look is familiar; don’t I know you from anywhere? Haven’t I seen your face before? I’m familiar with that wry swan smile, those Army scout eyes, that sunburned shoulder (you forgot your PF30 again), that hungry desperate surreptitious tuck and roll glance; that furtive insecurity, exhibiting the inner knowledge of one who is aware that it’s almost over!

I know that look of longing love at the end of an affair when you want to devour everything about your lover, the sights, smells, sounds and spice; the gaseous miasma of flirting food just beyond your reach; human smells in the air, sweaty pits, sun tan oils, hair goop, after shave lotion and all of it. That’s true for me also, so, I’m feelin’ ya; I want to be a sponge soaking everything up about the 2017 New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival (Jazz Fest) as well, for I have loved her and she has loved me back.

            Leapin’ Lizards! It’s the second weekend and I’ve got to take it all in, all that I can absorb! My bucket list: have I had my cochon de lait po-boy; soft shell crab; pheasant, quail, andouille gumbo; praline stuffed beignet and trout Baquet? Check list: I’ve had my oysters; at least a half a gallon of strawberry tea; a huckabuck, café au lait, messy BBQ, spring rolls and Jama Jama; seen and hugged a dozen people. But it’s not sufficient for this heart of mine, I want more! What haven’t I had, tried, tasted, begged, borrowed or browsed upon? What’s goin’ on? Who’s holding out?

            I liken it to an affaire de Coeur; even when strorm clouds roll in, you’re gonna give it your best shot. Word to your mother: “the worst day at Jazz Fest is better than the best day any other time of year!” The anticipation of its (Jazz Fest’s) arrival is like an incoming train bringing you your lost love; this year I even brought flowers for my first date, I mean, first day. I live close, so I hear them, see them, setting up the Fest and it’s music to my ears; the roustabouts and the tent slingers, beer trucks, sound checks, ice men, Indians and buses bringing bands.

            They open the gates and I’m standing there early, music fills the air, cooking fires are lit and the grand march and linger begins; seats are filled, lines are formed, blankets laid and golly, if someone hasn’t brought a beach ball to bat around! It’s a sensation candy store and the kids are in charge; there is no sorrow, no grief or pain: it’s Christmas and the medics have aspirins, Band Aids and armchairs!

            I thirst, that’s why I’m here; I’m a wanderer; a high relater radiator, sweet potato commentator, instigator investigator, nirvana spectator see ya later alligator man about this ad hoc al fresco percolator, drinking it all in! Elusive at best; appearing and disappearing, here and there and hear and left wondering if I was ever here at all. Who did you see? I don’t know, I saw them all, heard them all, ate and tasted it all and had a ball, seeing and sawing as much of all as y’all standing tall. Mama, I’m home!

            I wax prolific and expansive about my love of this venue, this time in my life and yours where and when we could come apart together in peace, music, food and the facilitation of our own standing sitting walking talking singing quietude of mutual atmospheric melodic meditation, protected witnesses all.

Sure, the weather has been hot cold dry wet dusty and muddy; there’s nothing unexpected in that, I’m down with that, ready Teddy. The mister has sprung a leak above my head in the Jazz Tent; so, why do you think I brought this here folding umbrella, just to keep the sun off me? Well, that too. I’ve also brought cash in small untraceable bills so that when I get to the front of the line and have exact money (plus tip); I can hit it with hot sauce and saunter smartly back into the stream of strangers somehow symbiotically connected to me.

There are those that think that the tariff it’s too steep; the crowds are at best congestive, the toilets are an olfactory mugging, the price of the food is up and the portions are too small. I’m not sure if we’re at the same festival. Like Arthur Dent, I’ve brought is my towel and openness to whatever will happen. I shy away from whatever doesn’t suit me at the moment, ready to split on or stick out the experience coming at me. Whatever, I’m here for the joy of it all, smiling because it’s happening again for the first time. I’m at the Jazz Fest again; let me wallow in the wonder, for this too shall pass leaving another notch on my memory wall.

It’s the second and final weekend this season and it will soon be over until, if the universe is willing, next year; there will be so much that will happen to each of us in the interval until next time, we’ll be older and perhaps wiser when we meet the Jazz Fest again. May we all take with us the serenity and tranquility that we’ve had with this uplifting and exciting time. After while, crocodile.

           

2017 Jazz Fest weekend 1

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Jazz Fest Week One

Or

Into the Belly of the Beast

Okay, Cats and Hats off we go like a herd of turtles to The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, hereafter referred to as simply ‘Jazz Fest’. I personally welcome you to the first weekend of Jazz Fest, our roads have been paved and sidewalks straightened like you’re off to see the wizard on the Yellow Brick Road; yes, you’re headed straight into the virtually fabled city of music, food and gaiety. We’ve sprayed the trees so that those nasty caterpillars that sting like acid don’t drop from the trees like armed commandos and whelp your delicate epidermis (also knocking off butterflies, bees, and the occasional humming bird). All quiet on the western front anticipating the arrival of the festivity famished friendly festival family of multiple thousands (and den some).

Understand that your safety is paramount to us and we want you to feel as safe as Tite Poulet in Madame John’s bathrobe; we’ve charged a sizeable ransom from your hard earned for tickets (certainly not couch cushion coin) in order to keep the riff raff away. We’ve also upped the price of alcohol to where if you’re gonna get in your cups, you’ll have just enough cheddar for the Uber chariot that you’re relying on to take you safely back to your AIRBNB where your bedmates (and buddies) await like bears in a den, insulated from the elements and weighted down with beers iced like sticks of firewood in their cooler uterus while their emptied brethren sit discarded like fallen soldiers having given their lives in the service of their inebriation Czar.

            Being Spring and all, I find myself congested with a case of similes, you might say that my analogies are acting up. Personally, after all of my jingles are jingled all the way (Christmas music) and my Hey pockeys are all pockeed away (Carnival music), the lull since Easter has expended my musical capital to the point of Rock an Droll; needing a shot of rhythm for the Jazz Fest fever blues. I’m as ready for my dose as a hippie on a high mountain seeking the guru sounds of musical nirvana awaiting my arrival. Mama, I’m home.

Be that as it may, might I point out for you newbies that at first it can be a little overwhelming, all the sounds and sights might sound like noise, the attendees might look like crowds; it can cloud your imagination, flummox your judgment, boggle your mind; you might get as nervous as a virgin at a prison rodeo. First, rein in your hearing ability to about sixty feet in front of you; that will have the other locomotion commotions sound less like cosmic debris, cacophonically speaking. Stop, breathe, find your inner Conan, you can do this; go with the flow, make believe that you (and everybody else) is high on something and that everything is a show put on for just you, because it is (and they probably are).

            Preparation is good, as good as a compass in a dust storm. The weather is gonna be sunny, overcast, dusty, rainy, muddy and above all erratic; try as you may, you will not be prepared for all of its idiosyncrasies.  Wear a hat, scarf, sunglasses, sandals, boots, overalls and shorts, long and short sleeve shirts; or screw it and just put on something comfortable and figure it will get ruined and you will get wind, dust and sun burned. You can’t bar the doors if the walls are gonna cave in. Take cash and maybe one credit card and leave all other paper and plastic at home; electronic devices and extraneous jewelry are like Jazz Fest masturbation, nobody needs to know where you are and those selfies just make you look like an escapee from a batty bin. Basically, if you’re playing with yourself, you’re not playing with us. You’re at the Jazz Fest to have a good time not to make a friggin documentary. Relax, it’s just music, food and fun; and if you don’t like the fun you’re having where you’re standing… go make some of your own six feet, ten feet or even a hundred feet away.

            Allen Toussaint recommends that you “eat everything” at the Jazz Fest; Debbie Lindsey reminds us to tip like someone’s watching you (they are), I do both. I trapes the Fest dervishly, both new words for my personal dictionary, kinda like tripping the lights fantastic only it’s something that I do out of doors and performed with alacrity and a certain amount of youthful subjective objectivity. In other words, I’m in love with the whole scene. I even dig waiting in lines.

            I look over people’s shoulder to see what they’re eating and not shy about asking them how they like it and where they purchased it. I’ve been attending for decades and I still cannot find my way from one end to the other without getting lost at least twice, and I love that too! I’ve purchased my tickets well in advance and never buy from someone out on the street after my friend got burned with bogus tickets from a seemingly honest pedestrian; literally scalped she was.

            Generally I can tell the newer members of the audience because they haven’t yet learned that rude and crude don’t work here, they don’t use the litter barrels much less the recycle bins, they act like the Fest is a meat market and also tap into their negative energies by mocking the afflicted: silly dancers, weird dressers, flag wavers and other people that happen to be ignoring how similar to a rube the mocker happens to be. Hopefully they’ll learn before the second day.

            Some don’ts: do not unfurl a towel, blanket, whatever and expect that it will hold your place in the middle of an audience; don’t unnecessarily save a seat in a tent for more than a portion of a performance and deprive another of a place to comfortably sit; don’t block aisles or other walkways; and don’t you ever pass up the festivities outside of the race track!