AnimaMundi

Happy Mardi Gras!!

 

 

Today's Mardi Gras, all youse Northerners. It's not all about beer and boobs. It's a culminating celebration that has been going on since the world began. It's a way of life. This year's Carnival is one day shy of the longest possible and some people in NOLA may feel that lengthy parade tomorrow. Lent is a fixed time period, but Carnival time is short, medium or long. If you don't believe me, look it up. Since Carnival was so long this year, Easter comes in late April. Easter is never in May. Look it up.

Only in places like New Orleans, they actually celebrate it. Really. The people know how to celebrate and party because they know that like their precariously perched city, we all walk that proverbial tight rope over the abyss.

So, remember as you are working or just walking around that there are people celebrating today and for good reason. They instinctively know about these matters. They know what matters and what's bullshit. We should celebrate along with our brethren. Even Google doesn't know it's Mardi Gras for God's sake. The 100th Anniversary of International Women's is important, but I believe Google should change that later in the day, to, you know, celebrate the end of Carnival, i.e. Mardi Gras.

My blog stats soar** at this time of the year because people are searching for the lyrics to a certain song that is sung at the end of Mardi Gras. It's nonsense and fluidly changes as the tides. This mad search happens every year without fail. So to make things easier for those around the world who want to sing along very loudly with their sisters and brothers in New Orleans. Here ya' go.

"If I Ever Cease To Love"

This particular set of lyrics is from a 1946 "Souvenir Edition"  published by  Dave Frank, New Orleans.
Authorship (improperly) attributed to "Rex Knarf" [franK backwards] and "Re' Kel"

Verse 1:
In a house, in a square, in a quadrant, in a pocket, in a passing lane,
In a street, in a lane, in a road, in the Superdome.
Turn to the left, on the right hand,
you see my true love's abode.
I go there a courting,
and cooing to my love like a dove and defensive end
And swearing on my bend-ed knee, Drew Brees,
If ever I cease to love,
May sheepsheads grow on apple trees, may OT field golds split the uprights
If ever I cease to love.

Chorus 1:
If ever I cease to love,
If ever I cease to love
May the moon be turned to green cream cheese, may the Saints come back from 10-0 at the half with an onside kick
If ever I cease to love

Verse 2:
She can sing who dat, she can play on the piano, 
She can jump, she can dance that NOLA bounce and skanky leg, she can run and catch a clinching interception 

For she's a wonderful girlie,
She's all of them rolled into one looooong second line.
I adore her beauty, she's like an angel dropped from above

May the fish get legs, and the cows lay eggs, like the Colts laid one 

If ever I cease to love,

Chorus 2

If I ever cease to love,

If I ever cease to love,

May we all turn into cats and dogs in a Krewe who knew

If I ever cease to love

*Photo -- Louis Maistro

** Update: As of 3 pm EST over 80 people have searched for the lyrics to this elusive song.

Thanksgiving and Living Between The Ticks Of The Clock

I do not want to sound unthankful. I am thankful to have reasonably good psychic and physical health, friends, a home, food, heat, wine, music, Aldo, our French bulldog and, of course, many other things, tangible or not. Thanksgiving, as a holiday, for me, has always been a thanks for being given what? Life? What I have and what others have not? What I have regardless of what other people have or have not? 

Be thankful quickly though, because the Christmas frenzy has already started. One day to give thanks. That's it. Mark Twain, whose autobiography is currently clocking in at #1 at Amazon , was right on the money here, again, America. What about the other 364 days of the year? 

The Sea, The Sea

  

  

 

 

 

 

"Music is the expression of the movement of the waters, the play of curves described by changing breezes." - Claude Debussy

 

"By getting to the root of present problems in family background, we hope to understand what is going on, and in that understanding we hope to find a cure. But care of the soul doesn't require fixing the family or becoming free of it or interpreting its pathology. We may need simply to recover soul by reflecting deeply on the soul events that have taken place in the crucible of the family." - Thomas Moore

Back to the Sea. The sun's light off the sea, the breeze on my face, the salt air filling my nostrils and lungs with the smell of aeons.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I walked around the parking lot where a few people had come to the sea for whatever reason. Some come to re-member, some to forget, some for no reason. I come for the way the sea makes me feel. I can not put it into words. If I were a poet, maybe a metaphor, but even then, how can one describe it. It is a mysterium tremendum and mysterium fascinans. From dawn to noon on the sea, the play of the waves, the dialogue between the wind and the sea, the Golden Ratio palpable, an immense living enigma, miraculous.

One gentleman with the license plate "scalop" on his Mercedes convertible told me how he had built fishing vessels and how he bought and sold multi-$million fishing boats. The sea has been good to him. Her bounty has made him materially wealthy. Very wealthy. The night before I had dinner in Pawcatuck CT and had sweet Nantucket scallops. He told me that his seafood business supplies that particular eatery with scallops caught off the Stonington coast. So I could have had scallops that his boats brought back to terra firma. I wonder if he goes to the sea to thank the sea. He told me that he had had a heart attack and can no longer do the things that he enjoyed doing, like building boats. He spoke with a touch of melancholy. But he was also feisty and railed on about how our country wastes billions of dollars on wars that produce body counts and highways named for dead young people who died in places whose names most people can't pronounce.

"Grounds for an unusually intense fear of death are now nowadays not far to seek: they are obvious enough, the more so as all life that is senselessly wasted and misdirected means death too. This may account for the unnatural intensification of the fear of death in our time, when life has lost its deeper meaning for so many people, forcing them to exchange the life-preserving rhythm of the aeons for the dread ticking of the clock." - Carl Jung

Later that morning, I arrived at Saint Sebastian cemetery just as the people attending my aunt's burial had departed. The green tent was still up over the open grave and as I walked by I looked down six feet onto the casket sprinkled with flowers. The young gravediggers were still there. I joked with them about my uncle Angelo, my aunt Rose's husband who died in 1987. He was a gambler. I told the gravediggers of the tale of the sizable crap game in White Rock RI, right down the street from where my parents first rented an apartment right after I was born. Things and bets were humming along when a gang of hooded and armed men entered and quickly relieved everyone of their cash and pants. My uncle Angelo never learned how to drive a car. He didn't need to. His friends would always pick him up to go work part time in the kitchen at The Elm Tree Inn in Pawcatuck (he was friends with the owner), to the Narragansett Racetrack , the dog tracks or some crap game. He was a true character and was full of stories, many of which if he told me then he would have had to kill me. The wife-beater undershirt and Lucky Strike cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth.

I am sure that my aunt Rose's immediate family was relieved that she is finally at rest. It has been a long drawn out strain on some of them to see her in that condition for so many years. She was my cousin Peter John's favorite aunt and he said to me that her death closed a certain generational chapter of the family, at least for him. For me it was the death of my uncle Cosimo, his father. The old have lived and then die. When they die, they make room for the new. 

"The wine of youth does not always clear with advancing years; sometimes it grows turbid."

"From the middle of life onward, only he remains vitally alive who is ready to die with life." 

- Carl Jung

One morning I drove to Little Compton. We had been years ago. It is a pastoral place that is now the home to the waspy elite. Home prices or even rentals are ridiculous. It would be nice if one could park one's car and walk to the sea. They don't make it easy. Why should they, the rich? I stopped at a farm stand there and talked to some young down-to-earth people who were running it. Their families had been there for generations and had witnessed the inevitable craziness of real estate prices. I stopped for fried clams at Evelyn's in Tiverton. The modest seafood house is on the water. The caviar of the sea was exceptional. Briny, sweet, succulent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On my way back, I stopped for gas. The petite young woman at the register was soft spoken, wore a headband and had a few tatoos. I bought a lottery ticket and told her if I hit maybe I could afford a quonset hut in Little Compton. She told me that she lives in a tent year round just down the road. Maybe you could rent a room to me she said as I left. I replied that I would and at reasonable price.

Another day the sea beckoned again and I answered the call. Conanicut Island and Beaver Tail Park was my destination. Jamestown is a small village that has lots of traditional New England character. You can park your car there without feeding a meter and walk around the town and back streets. I then headed out to Beaver Tail Park. This is a special place open to the Atlantic and is luckily free to the public. There are three or four parking lots where you get out da' car to walk along the rocky cliffs down to the sea or sit on ancient rock and look out to the expanse of La Mer.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frankie Q., owner Universal Grocery in Noank CT, is someone I have known since grade school through friends of friends. He inherited the business from his uncle. Frankie stocks fresh produce, excellent meats, some seafood, bread, jarred condiments and prepares sandwiches and pizza. He is the only person I know who can tell me something about the people we grew up with. Of course, Frankie knows a hell of a lot more people than I can ever remember. Frankie is another character of note. He has a great sense of humor and a work ethic that I admire. Frankie is also generous, asking me to sample his latest sheet pizza (a riff on Vocatura's famed sheet pizza) and lemonade from The Farmers Cow. Frankie wanted feedback and I gave it to him. He's close on the sheet pizza, but would do well to lighten up on the toppings some. Vocatura's Bakery started on Pierce Street in the North End of Westerly, RI. While my parents worked, I spent many a day at my grandmother's home at 20 Pearl Street, just down the street from the original Vocatura's Bakery that sat right behind the family's home. For me and many others, the first stop at wedding receptions was their pizza. The crust was chewy and crispy. The tomato sauce and cheese just right. 

I came away from Westerly with a warm heart once more, along with a few dozen littlenecks and scallops. It was enjoyable to breathe in the salt air that is part of me. I felt restored. The soundings reverberated within. Where is home? Some say where the heart is. I would add the soul to that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

All the while, this Brazilian Girls' song kept running through my head.

06 Long

 

One Of These Mornings You Going To Rise Up Singing

Excuse me for a moment. Hot, humid, dew point dripping from a hazy sky. My mind wanders, back into eddies long forgotten covered in dust. Insouciant, lazy. Lazy river runs through everything. "One does not find baptism at the river; one finds the river in baptism." Baptism by fire and water. Flowing and burning. 

01 Theme from 'A Summer Place'

Nine weeks @ No.1 on Billboards Top Pop Singles chart spring 1960.

 

With that heat-induced meta-intro out of the way, I got into my car last week and headed for the sea, the sea. Claude La Mer Debussy couldn't compose at the sea. He had to get away from it. I can and cannot understand that. With Oliver N'Goma and cadence-zouk from Guadeloupe pumping on the cd player, I drove at a healthy clip across the Berkshires down through the Pioneer Valley to the insurance capital of Hartford where Wallace Stevens worked and wrote poetry. Then on Route 2 to the flat coastal plain where the sky is suddenly pierced almost like a mirage by the blue-green topped towers of Foxwoods Casino and the MGM Grand Palace south of Norwich. Hotels now line much of Route 2, once a two lane road that runs through pretty New England countryside. There's a La Quinta just a few hundred yards from where my parents lived in White Rock after I was born. Behind the hotel is a small bridge across the Pawcatuck River to which I reportedly wandered off one day to look at the small flowing river. My mother was frantic because she didn't know where I had gone. I believe that my godfather and uncle George is the person who found me standing on the bridge. He still looks after me, God bless him.

08 Summertime

I arrived at my cousin Peter's home in the early afternoon, unloaded and made a beeline for East Matunuck. Destination Cap'n Jacks.  Quahog.org has it down as one of the best fried clam shacks in RI. They are right. Whole belly clams are dear but worth every penny. There is nothing that tastes like a briney whole belly fried clam. A bit of salt maybe and NO tartar sauce. Fries are superfluous, at least with clams this good. After wards I made my way to Jim's Dock in Jerusalem to eye my next fried clam destination. In search of the holy grail of clams in the biblically named fishing villages of Jerusalem and Galilee, RI. My walk around the Point Judith lighthouse was soul restoring. The sea, sun, sky and the breeze on my cheeks. Peace. No chatterboxes, no phones, no electronic beeps. This is why I keep returning. For these precious moments. My inner rigamarole silenced before the sea's sparkling diamonds. I can take this back with me. A souvenir, a mermaid memento.  

 

 

 02 Estaté

The sea turn did not take long to remind me from where I came. Where my ancestors stood on the earth and fished in the sea on both sides of the Atlantic. Later that afternoon I went back to my cousin's home. The house is now somewhat bare and quiet. My Uncle Cosimo, the last of the story tellers in my family, and his wife Ann are gone. My cousin Joann has moved to Figi.  

Peter John (he dropped his surname of Chiaradio a number of years ago, since he did not want to be identified with any one family) is the only person in the large two story house. He told me that he has never been this alone in his whole life, but he added that he is not lonely.  He was in Liberia with The Peace Corps in the late 60's. He told me some interestting tales about his experiences there. He then taught at a technical institution at La Guardia in NYC and lived on Elizabeth Street on the LES. He also taught and lived in New Haven, CT for a time before returning home to Westerly. Peter, who reminds of a cross between Jon Voight and Christopher Walken, is somewhat of an ascetic hermit. He has friends but spends most of his time alone. In the summer, he tends the lawns and grounds of about 10 different homes in Westerly. He lives a simple life, a vegetarian for the past few years, although he could not give up shrimp. He is a devoted cinema buff and would continually allude to films that I had never heard of in our conversations that ranged from family, food, wine, women, consumerism, religion, gardening, psychology et al. I enjoyed them for the most part. Peter tends to belabor points sometimes and I have to try to move on politely, sometimes a little more forcefully. I brought him several pounds of caciocavallo cheese which he calls the cheese of cheeses and I have to agree as it is my favorite. Peter usually drinks only his own wine that he makes with Barbera grapes. It is good but a little thin for my tastes. I brought down some Provencal rosés and whites from Italy, Spain and Portugal that he enjoyed and wound up drinking rather than his preferred home made red. The only problem with the house is that the air was suffocating given the heat and humidity. Peter did not seem phased by it and preferred the fan not blow on him. I was sweating constantly and had to shower at least twice a day. When he showed me where I would be sleeping on the 2nd floor there was not one window open and all three ceilings fans seemed inert in the stultifying heat. This was not good. I immediately started to open windows and turned on all the ceiling fans. The storm windows were still down and had to be lifted up. I was a little wary of my being able to sleep later that night. I was right. It took me quite a while to fall asleep and it was not a refreshing sleep either.

Peter did clear up a misconception that I have had about the meaning of my mother's maiden name "Chiaradio" and also revealed an interesting fact about my mother's given name. Her name on the census log in the early part of the 20th century appears as "Lucia" not as Louise. If that were true, then she was named "light of the light of God or Divine Light". Which is appropo, since she was a light that shone all too briefly here on earth.

The next day I again headed to East Matunuck and had lunch at Jim's Dock. This is a picture of Mcgee, a waitress there who comes from Charlestown, RI. We got along well. I told her I was raised in Westerly.

 

 

 

 

 

She knew she could level with me about various eateries in the area long past their prime and ones currently overrated.

The next day was rainy and misty so I made for Mystic CT and New London. The New London of my childhood where my grandfather on my father's side lived is gone, eviscerated by Pfizer Chemical and eminent domain. I could not get my bearings around Howard and Shaw Streets where my namesake grandfather Marco used to live. The lack of orientation was so annoying I headed to the Eugene O'Neill Theater Center to roam the sea mist-enshrouded grounds. There was a lot of activity at the place. Actors and wanna be producers. "Plays are the mirror of life" said a stone in the gardens. A small tour group had just concluded and was breaking up. I overheard a woman ask an approaching young man if he was an actor. As I passed by I muttered that we are all actors. A woman consulting her hand-held-device snickered.    

 

Although sapped from the humidity, it was a good trip with good eating, drinking and conversation. I was spent. On my way of out town I stopped at my godmother Amelia Turrisi's home. In the early spring, the Pawcatuck River which is right across the street from her home had overflowed its banks. I had heard that she had to be evacuated from her home by boat and I made a call to her that she never received. She was making homemade cookies when I stopped to visit. My godmother is a special person and was my mother's first friend in life. She and my mother were each other's cumarra. They always called each other this, never using their first names. I believe she is around my mother's age which would make her 94 or so. She no longer can drive but still walks regularly. She has a bright smile and is genuinely forthright, unassuming and warm. She's a remarkable lady, my godmother. I know that she is a religious person but never talks about it. She lives it and it shows. We hugged tightly many times. I left with a huge plate of cookies and a warm heart. Thanks, madrina.

 

This post has been brought to you by:

Shaya Verdejo Rueda, Espana

Tenuta Del Portale Aglianico Del Vulture Basilicata, Italia

Ikebana Zaccagnini Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, Italia

Terredora Dipaolo Falanghina Campania, Italia

Vinosia Falanghina Puglia, Italia

Dei Feudi di San Gregorio Falanghina Campania, Italia

Chateau Routas Rose Provence, France

La Commanderie De Peyrassol Rose Provence, France

Chateau Montaud Rose Provence, France

 

 

 

 

The Premature Burial of NYC

With the World Cup of Soccer, FIFA, getting underway, it's impossible to avoid the currents in the air. Then again you read it everyday on blogs. New York City is dying or already dead. Good Bye To All That. It's all been Trumpified, strip-malled out, gentrified into a wasteland. I'm sure this is true of too many parts of the city. So many people long for the old classic New York of the, what, 20's, 30's, 40's, 50's, 60's? Which decades to what people? There is and will always be that dynamic of change for better or worse. After all, NYC isn't called money-makin' Manhattan for nothing. It is the epicenter of capitalism. Walking around the streets of Chelsea after dinner on a warm Saturday night, it seemed as if the whole world was on the streets. The city is not dead. I believe it is transforming itself, again.

"It is often said that New York is a city for only the very rich and the very poor. It is less often said that New York is also, at least for those of us who came there from somewhere else, a city only for the very young."... New York was no mere city. It was instead an infinitely romantic notion, the mysterious nexus of all love and money and power, the shining and perishable dream itself. To think of “living” there was to reduce the miraculous to the mundane; one does not “live” at Xanadu."

I am not sure that I agree with all of what Joan Didion has said about New York City, but she conveys the spirit of place in her own unique style.

Maybe my mood was colored by the afterglow of the dinner we had just enjoyed at Aldea. Chef George Mendes opened his gem of a restaurant a little over a year ago. We finally made it there for K's birthday last Saturday night. There has been lots of good press about the place, but I prefer to go on word from people whom I trust like Doc John Sconzo. Doc suggested we reserve seats at the bar that faces the open kitchen. It's the best seat in the house. We sat mesmerized by the energy, pace and exactitude of the dance of the crack kitchen staff as dishes were prepared, assembled, plated and flown into the dining room. I am not going to go through the litany of everything we had, both ordered and graciously comped. I will say that this is one of the best restaurant meals that we have ever had. Everything was prepared with great skill, revealing Chef Mendes' artistic ability to combine well sourced ingredients in unique ways. The textures and colors on the plates enhanced the savory flavors shimmering through each dish. These are some of the plates that were outstanding: the lobster gazpacho (tri-star strawberries, cherries, wild herbs, mini croutons?), the shrimp alhinho (garlic, coriander, pimenton, pressed jus), Wellfleet oysters with trout roe, octopus a la plancha (squid ink-citrus puree, olive oil, balsamic), the sea salted Chatham Cod (braised chickpeas, tomato confit, nasturtium-parsley coulis), Monk fish (stew of tomato, leeks, saffron, mussels) and the dark chocolate/espresso (vanilla poached mango and cardamom ice cream). "Happy Birthday Kathy" was written in beautiful script in chocolate on the plate with one candle standing with its light flickering. I did not request this. There is sincere style here and a warmth that comes from the people who prepare the food with care and poetry. A meal like this is difficult to describe and words can not really approach its soul and essence. Doc Sconz is the one to go for an extended in depth exegesis. He knows his stuff and writes clearly and succinctly. Anyway, we were so engrossed with the generous flavors that I forgot to snap some pix. Or maybe it was the wine, a red Douro called Meandro do Vale Meao. Lest I forget, the service was very efficient and friendly without being overbearing or stuffy.

After thanking Chef Mendes, we took to the streets of Chelsea to walk a bit before we made our way to Birdland to hear BossaBrasil Festival 2010. Reminder to self: never have a meal at Aldea and make plans to go to a music venue afterwards. Had the music and musicians not been as good and infectious as they were, I would have cut short our stay. 

I have to give Land Thai another round of praise. Our Friday lunch was superb. Satay sampler, shrimp in red curry sauce and wok shrimp with garlic and ginger. All good and delivered to your table at warp speed by very friendly staff.

Saturday took us to the excellent Essex Street Market where I saw Kenny Shopsin. I told him that I has seen "Killing Flies", the documentary on him. He asked if I liked it and I said yes. At the end of the film there was mention of the death of his wife, a sweet person. I offered my condolences to Kenny. He said laughing that it was so long ago that he had forgot all about it. That gave me a chuckle. Out the door we made our way to the Hester Street Fair on the recommendation of Lux Lotus, who knows what's happening. It is filled with vendors of spices, clothing, jewelry and food. Not too ungainly, just about the right size fair. Then on Ming Tsai's authority, we then went to Vanessa's Dumplings. He's right and so are the dumplings. 4 for $1 now. Then, 9/09, 5 for $1.99. Sesame pancake filled with fresh coriander, carrots, cabbage. Two can eat for less than $6. Bargain of the weekend.

On Sunday morning we made the obligatory stop at Buon Italia in the Chelsea Market for Lipari capers, cheese and a couple million Scoville units of hot Calabrian peppers. Amy's for a roll with 9th St. Espresso cappuccino and some pizzettes to take home.

Then on to Locanda Verdefor brunch. K. had a zucchini frittata that was quite good. I opted for coffee only since I was not hungry. We would like to make it to dinner there on our next visit for autumn in New York.

Home:

The Oil Dimmed Tide

When Slimbolala starts swearing at his excellent PG-rated family blog, then you know things ain't right. I don't know what the fuck to say. It's gut-wrenchingly sad, outrageously obscene. Exponential clusterfuck is trifling. Man, I don't know. My friend in NOLA, Mark Folse, is uncomfortably numb. The people of the Gulf Coast have taken it up the ass since the Louisiana Purchase for chrissake and then get monumentally fucked by BP since April 20th of this year. 50+ days and no end in sight. We all are to blame though. We keep sucking up oil and gas at an ever increasing rate. You bet that they are going to keep drilling on the cheap with no oversight. Why not? The money's rolling in. That's why. Some states like Louisiana are paid zilch for offshore oil and gas profits. After the bailout fiasco and this, Americans will take to their backyards and couches, not the streets. We are an apathetic people without resolve. We've been bought and sold so many times that most of us don't care about anything except their front lawn and if their golf handicap is under two digits. It's not our problem. We didn't create it. Riiiiiight. 

I have been watching "Treme" on HBO. I have enjoyed it mostly because I love the music of New Orleans. Blake Leyh has done a masterful job of of weaving the music around and through the narrative of the daily struggle of the people of New Orleans after the city was flooded by shitty shoddy levees. Not Katrina. The failure of the US Army Corps of Engineers' levees. Not a hurricane. Got it yet? If New Orleans had the rock solid state-of-the-art levees like the Netherlands (remember Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates?), then there would be no HBO series called "Treme". The show has spawned quite a few blogs and commentaries. It's a good sign that people are watching and talking about the city that is still not OK. The Back of Town blog is particularly strong in the comments. The Times-Picayune blog is also very helpful and thorough in its explanation of what happens to whom, where it happens, why it happens, i.e. a decoder and guide to the episodes. Watching Treme and Dark Brown Waffles are two others that offer other slants on the series. And there are many more if you have the time and interest or even if you don't. There's much to be learned. New Orleans ain't just Mardi Gras and masking. It's all in the music, baby, all in the music.

Ashley Morris, "Treme" Salutes You

Ashley, "Treme" is now in its sixth episode. I think you would like most of it. I also know that you would be on Simon's ass for the verisimilitude  factor. There's plenty of people on the ground looking out for that, don't worry. It's important because all of New Orleans' cultures are trying to speak and be heard. Not an easy thing to do, precisely due to the nuances and feel that many of them invoke on so many levels. You know much better than I about all of that bubbling through. According to most New Orleanians, "Treme" has portrayed your city and its people pretty accurately, more or less. It's the more or less part that is creating the lubricating friction for debate amongst the viewers. That's a good thing. People are talking and thinking about how it has all played out five years later. "Played out" is a relative term, as you well know. It is still playing out, every day, every hurricane season. The next naming season starts in a few short weeks. Oh, and the wetlands restoration has been dealt a fucking blow by BP bigtime. The levees are still not Netherlands-quality and might never be. There has been guilt laid at the feet of those who used papier mache for levee construction. We'll see where that goes, if anywhere.

I don't have to tell you about The Saints and the new mayor. You already knew about that. Greg of Suspect Device who now lives in your great city, said that when your Saints won the NFC Championship it would have killed you if you weren't already dead, big mon. That gave me a good laugh. Actually, you would have had to die again when your Saints got their Superbowl rings. How many times does a young man have to die?

Well, things were on quite a roll until BP had to fuck it up. They will pay. I just hope that the wetlands and wildlife aren't completely screwed, that the fishermen can still bring in their bounty from the Gulf. 

The Hurricane of '38

Last night I tuned into the PBS American Experience show on the Hurricane of '38 a little late. The moment that I tuned in the narrator, the great David McCullough, mentioned Watch Hill and Westerly, RI, the town I was raised in. If you look at a map of the southern New England coast, you can see that New London, CT and Westerly, RI stand a good chance of being in the path of a major hurricane coming up the Atlantic coast. In March of 2009, I was at the shore and took this photo of Napatree Point.

 
Below is Napatree Point before the Hurricane of '38.

"Rhode Island saw the greatest destruction, as wind and tide proved deadly. Along Fort Road in Watch Hill,the beach was swept clean of any signs of habitation. That area of beach has never been rebuilt...  

In New London, Connecticut, the tidal surge drove the five-masted school ship Marsala into a warehouse complex along the docks, setting off a short circuit and fire which consumed a quarter-mile area of the business district -- the worst calamity in New London since Benedict Arnold burned the city in 1781."

From the transcript: Patricia Shuttleworth (West Hampton, L.I.): "About 3:30 or quarter of four, my brother came running into the house, saying, "The water's coming up, the water's coming up." And at that moment, they had to make, again, split-second decisions about what to do with all the people in the house. So they put as many people as they could into that little five-passenger Ford which they had. Mother drove. She put grandmother in and her guests, Father and the other children, but they couldn't fit the help in, so they said, "You'll just have to fend for yourselves." And she said she would never forget the sight of them standing there, waiting, when the water came up."

"In Long Island on the storm's eastern rim, winds slammed into the land at 100 miles per hour. The seismic impact registered as far away as Sitka, Alaska."

My grandparents, my father along with his sister and brothers, were living in New London close to the business district at the time. My grandparents and father had emigrated from Sicily sometime around the end of WW I. I remember my father telling me of that fire, of how their home was almost lost to the inferno.

I also distinctly remember the aftermath of Hurricane Carol in 1954.  My father was a photographer and took me with him the day after the storm. I don't know what happened to those photos, lost to time I guess. But the images of destruction are emblazoned on my memory card. Rows of slabs where homes once stood. One of my aunt Celena's beach homes lying mostly intact on the opposite shore of a salt lake behind Atlantic Avenue in Misquamicut. A glass bottle of milk standing on a door step of a vanished home.

 

 

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving has for the most part meant little to me. I had been taught the mythical first thanksgiving gospel. Our family observed it with all of the fixin's, but it sort of left me with an, eh. I liked coming home for Thanksgiving from college given the rations in the cafeteria and my own cooking skills at the time. Don't get me wrong, I still love a good turkey sandwich on toasted rye with mayo. In fact, it is my sandwich of choice when I eat at the local deli. 

I am all for giving thanks for my family and friends, what I have experienced and for what I have. Some people love Thanksgiving for its non-religious slant. I don't want to eviscerate Thanksgiving. It's not that important to me. It should be enjoyed for its simple meaning. Let's get it over with so we can start shopping in earnest.

Gourmet Magazine RIP

We had a subscription to Gourmet magazine for a few years. I enjoyed looking at the luscious photographs, reading the articles and trying some recipes. The copies are still in our cellar. (If I toss them, you can be certain Conde Naste will start charging to access Epicurious.) I especially liked the travel pieces, but were the accommodations and restaurant suggestions all that affordable to those who could not live the Gourmet "good living" lifestyle? I always got a chuckle when Gourmet would offer their budget suggestions for a hotel. Once upon a time, we knew people who thought that they lived out of the pages of Gourmet, literally.

Regina's thoughts on the demise of Gourmet.