Recent Stuff

The past month has been full of all kinds of exciting things. We went to New Orleans twice in July--once to drop Miss Baby off for art camp, and then once again to pick her up. The Junior Norwegian was with us by the time we went the second trip. Since he'd never been to New Orleans, he had an adventure. He trekked through the French Quarter with his dad to see the wonderful D-Day Museum and the Aquarium of the Americas, while Miss Baby, my sister and I went to Crabby Jack's and had this:

If I could only eat one thing for the rest of my life, Crabby Jack's roasted duck po boy would definitely be a contender. Miss Baby ALWAYS opts for the catfish, but I also love the half'n'half (half oyster and half shrimp). Pour on the Louisiana Red hot sauce and stand back peoples. Crabby Jack's is small, hot and crowded, but so worth it. The photo above represents HALF of what you get for $9. You couldn't buy that much duck to roast for sandwiches for nine bucks, much less the crusty bread and dressings. I believe a fully dressed and wrapped sandwich could be used as a weapon, much like a Louisville Slugger. And in New Orleans, sometimes that is a good thing.

Baby Britta is now teenager Britta, and that means we finally had to make the decision to have her altered. This was not an easy task, since she is truly a terrific little dog and would have beautiful and smart puppies. However, an excellent personality is not always a guarantee that a dog will be a good mother, and we do think there are enough animals in the world who need good homes without us operating as amateur breeders. The Norwegian made the appointment and took her to the vet, where she was pampered and loved. Two weeks later, she's doing fine and has regained the weight she lost. Saturday she basked regally in the sun on the side porch with her dad.

Somewhere about that same time (early August), Miss Baby had a most eventful orthodontist appointment. After being in the chair for about an hour, she went downstairs to the parking lot and completely tanked. She swears she didn't really pass out, but the Norwegian had to fireman-carry her limp, unconscious self back upstairs for a mop-up of her bloody knees.

By the time they got home, she was bleeding again. I took her on a circuitous tour around town, in an un-air-conditioned Subaru in 100 degree heat (while wearing panty hose, no less), of some of the nicer minor medical clinics, one of which didn't accept our health insurance and the other which had closed mysteriously. We finally ended up at a hospital emergency room 15 miles from home (did I mention we live two miles from an excellent teaching hospital?) where she took seven stitches in her right knee. There was some high drama for a few days surrounding pain, itching and the general novelty of having black thread in your kneecap, but she healed up pretty nicely, and even removed her own stitches in the bathroom, much to my combined relief and disgust. Plus, showing up on the first day of seventh grade with a gaping wound apparently earns you all kinds of kid-cred.

Going Home, But Not Getting Far

As I posted previously, we road-tripped the Deep South this past weekend. Living in the undisputed capitol of the Mississippi Delta, we occasionally have to get out and visit some of the other micro-cultures that make up this wacky part of the country. As the hysterical Florence King wrote in Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady that those not from the South often make the error that all southerners are the same, regardless of their region of nativity. This could not be further from the truth. Although the movie and television industry is the worst offender, this stereotype is all-too-frequently depicted by those who just don’t have an accurate frame of reference. To compare, for instance, a Memphian and a denizen of Nashville (a Nashvillian, if you will, and come to think of it, I know a few Nashvillians) brings to mind the old joke about comparing Americans and Canadians. If you want to know the difference between the two, just call them both Americans. Or Memphians. Or Nashvillians, for that matter.

We left home and headed in a southeasterly direction. It was a bright Saturday morning, cool and crisp. The farmlands are mostly brown at this time of year, with the occasional flash of green where a field has been sown in a winter crop of greens or winter wheat. The ride was pleasant. The Norwegian drove so I was relegated to the role of disc jockey (serving up the best of Guy Clark, John Prine and friends) and Chief Cultural Minister. I pointed out the clumps of deer, water birds, low-perching predators, abandoned farm implements, weather changes and funny signs. The best one we saw the whole weekend flashed by too quickly in a rainstorm for me to capture. The sign said “Historical Marker” and its arrow pointed straight at a dilapidated single-wide mobile home, rusting on its moorings and attended by a fleet of, ahem, vintage automobiles in various stages of repair. It looked like Jesco White’s home, although we were in the wrong state.

We reached our destination – a small town in northeastern Alabama situated on the Tennessee River. At least one horrific battle was fought here during the Civil War, reputedly over access to the railroad spanning the bridge. The old town itself is drawing in on itself. There is still a lovely district of old houses and part of the original business district is still populated by the usual purveyors of gentrification—law and architectural firms, boutiques, specialty restaurants (an oddity here in the land of fried green tomatoes). The “modern” business district—and by this I mean Wal-Mart, Target, Kroger, Best Buy and the like—are situated out on the Beltline smack in the midst of what was, in my own childhood, farmland and woodlands.

One thing that hasn’t changed in downtown old Decatur is C.F. Penn’s Hamburgers. I’ve searched the Internet for links to anything about Penn’s, but there just isn’t much out there, save musings from expatriates who miss the…um, experience. My mother was one such person. By the time we reached her sister’s apartment, Mom was pretty much starving and nothing would do but that we go to Penn’s on Moulton Street in old downtown.

The Norwegian –who grew up all over the country, and Dear Daughter were curious. I was guarded. Been there, done that. These two had never experienced anything quite like lunch at Penn’s, and I just didn’t have the words to adequately explain it.

In a nutshell, C.F. Penn’s is a classic burger diner, and this one (there are a few scattered across north Alabama) features the original neon signage, twirling stools at the lunch counter, and probably the same frying grease they used when the place opened more than 50 years ago. Dear Daughter, having been raised in the “have-it-your-way” land of burger dining, started to tell me how she wanted her burger dressed. I laughed and stopped her. At Penn’s, there’s only two ways to have your burger—all the way, or half the way. Your only other options involve number, sides (chips or fries) and the size and flavor of your Coke (remember this is the South).

“All the way” or “half the way” refers to how far across the three-foot lake of sizzling grease you want your burgers floated. Yes, I said floated. Penn burgers are cooked in advance and are reheated when ordered by floating it from the right to left side of a commercial fryer. The time it takes to float “all the way” or “half the way” is all you get to get your lunch reheated.

This, by itself, is pretty disgusting (at least to me). But wait (as they say on late-night infomercials), there’s more.

When you collect your lunch, served on white bread buns and wrapped in waxed paper translucent with grease, and accompanied by a complimentary sheet of double-ply paper toweling, the best is yet to come. I watched Dear Daughter’s face across the booth as she unwrapped her burger. She prefers “ketchup. ONLY ketchup” on her burgers, and at Penn’s, they always come with mustard and chopped onions. She quietly scraped the offending onion and mustard off and picked up the squeeze bottle of ketchup to remedy the situation. The ketchup—apparently also original equipment—did not make her much happier. The kicker was when she took a bite. See, at C.F. Penn’s, the name “burger” is kind of a misnomer. The amount of actual “burger” in each sandwich varies from “some” to none, at least none that can be tasted. What burger is present is mixed with something approximating Hamburger Helper (which it doesn’t, really), then formed into, well, not really a conventional patty; more like a lump, then first deep-fried and then reheated in the Grease-Lagoon when ordered.

I don’t know whose face was funnier—Dear Daughter’s or the Norwegian’s. I don’t think either wanted to chew, much less swallow. Fortunately, we had ordered conservatively. No one asked for seconds, except my mom, and I was glad to give her the half I was unable to finish. Dear Daughter played with my cell phone while we talked and finished up our lunch and got ready to leave.

The service at Penn’s is friendly and unique, in the way that only a Southern diner can provide. We had a good time. It made my mother happy. I like making her happy. It made Dear Daughter grateful for what she gets back home, and it made her and the Norwegian laugh, although politely out of earshot of both my family and the staff. Later on, though, I found this message on my cell phone notepad. Apparently, Dear Daughter is not anticipating a career in reviewing restaurants.

Lake Maurepas Memories

If you take the Manchac exit off of Interstate 55 south, you'll pull off onto a service road that appears to be barely above the water level. At this point, I-55 is up on pilings over the swamplands and lakes just northwest of Kenner and New Orleans.

Turn left off of the service road under the interstate and you'll be in the gravel and oyster shell parking lot of Middendorf's, home of arguably the best fried catfish in the world. Perched on the shores of "beautiful Lake Maurepas," Middendorf's serves two kinds of catfish - thick or thin, alongside fresh homemade slaw, dreamy oyster bisque and some seriously bad-a** hushpuppies, all delivered to your table by a waitress who will smile genuinely and like as not call you "hon" or "cher" at least twice during your stay.

Okay, so you have to stand in line, and on certain days, the crowds might be so big you will have to get out of line and go to the "other" Middendorf's, situated just across the parking lot and built to accommodate the frequent overflow. The wait is worth it and the price is always right. Just don't go on Monday or Tuesday, because they're closed.

This is a view of some rotted out pilings on the edge of the lake from early July 2006. This was taken three weeks after my dad's funeral. He loved Middendorf's. We loved him. We still do.

All beginnings are difficult

Years ago, I read that the first line of the Talmud is "All beginnings are difficult." Coming from a decidedly non-Jewish background, I can't honestly say if it's really how the Talmud starts, but it has been my experience that beginnings can be trying. After reading blogs of friends and strangers for the past few years now, I thought it might be time to try my own hand. It's been quite a while since I wrote anything except memoranda, checks or the occasional note to a teacher. But I've always loved writing, almost as much as I love reading, so I'll give this a whirl, at least for a while.

There's not much to tell about me--I live in a house. I have a job. I love my family and my country, but neither blindly. My life is in the south, but my heart is in the far north. I vote my conscience and urge others to do the same. I don't eat organ meats or anything with tentacles.

There will be more to come, eventually.

Photography is a minor hobby...I don't have any fabulous equipment or training. I just like recording what I see. This first photo was made in a small cemetery in New Orleans in February. I'd gone to visit my sister with the Loved One and Dear Daughter for Mardi Gras. This particular afternoon was stormy and we went out between showers, as the Loved One had never seen the city's unique burial grounds. We went to the BPOE cemetery near City Park and the west end of Canal Street. I've always loved this place--it's not as well-known as the St. Louis Cemeteries, and has managed to avoid being included in the ubiquitous Hotard tours popular among package tourists. Guarding the gate is a larger-than-life monument to the founders of the place, topped by a regal elk that is at least twelve feet tall. At Christmas, the caretakers illuminate the nose of this noble beast with a red light bulb at night. In New Orleans, the dead have a certain droll sense of humor.

Anyway, I love funerary statues. This angel caught my eye as we blinkered in the afternoon sunlight. The contrast between the blue sky and the white stone and the shadows of her face and robe works rather nicely. I hope you like it as much as I do.