Crayfish & Hush Puppies

It had been awhile since taking a day away from the beach and driving the one hour into Maitland town, and Friday was the day for that. Some bank business needed attention, but mainly I wanted to meet and have dinner with some friends and try out a new restaurant we had been talking about. All but one of us come from Louisiana, and since this new place features Cajun-Creole recipes, we looked forward to an evening of down home flavors. There was a few years back, a very good restaurant for Louisiana cooking in the area, but for one reason or another it didn’t last. And then a terrific Creole restaurant opened out at the beach, but then picked up and moved to Atlanta after about half a year.

The new place is called KING CAJUN CRAWFISH, and is what looks to be a Chinese restaurant revamped to serve the regional food of southern Louisiana. The employees all looked to be Chinese, but somewhere along the way the chef learned how to cook the specialty dishes we grew up eating—and learned it pretty well. It is a small restaurant of about twelve tables and during the time we were they were all full, with people waiting at the front for an open table.

First off, when you talk about Cajun cooking, crawfish, jambalaya, catfish, gumbo, blue crab, hush puppies and po boys are going to be right at the top. It’s also going to be a spicy sort of dinner, with Louisiana hot sauce and Cajun seasoning in almost everything.

The idea was to sample as many of the ‘classic’ dishes as we could, and the menu makes that easy to do in some cases by offering small and large sized portions. We started with a pound of boiled crawfish set down in the center of the table. I know that some are unfamiliar with this kind of shellfish, and others shy away from eating it altogether. The Japanese do not consider it an edible shellfish at all, and will often makes faces when hearing of it on the dinner table. I have one thing to say about that: They don’t know what they’re missing. The crawfish at King Cajun Crawfish are very good, and I’m sure are live shellfish not very long before reaching the table.

Next we tried a small portion of gumbo and another of jambalaya. The gumbo was fiery hot, maybe just a little too spicy, but we rated it good. I would have liked it with more okra and less sausage, but the chef made a good base with the rich flavor characteristic of this thick soup. The jambalaya was not at all bad, but the taste of celery salt was stronger than it should be. My sister makes an eye-opening jambalaya which I’ve eaten dozens of times and I don’t think she includes celery salt in her recipe. Along with the gumbo and jambalaya we got a basket of hush puppies, the little balls of deep fried cornbread which taste much better than they sound.

Next up were fried oyster and fried shrimp po boy sandwiches. A po boy is a sub or hero type of sandwich with either fried shrimp, oyster, catfish or crawfish, lettuce, tomato and tartar sauce. We ordered three of them and little remained on our plates at the end. Good soft bread and fresh fish is the key, and the po boys at this restaurant include both.

The downside of King Cajun Crawfish is the take-out paper plates, plastic forks and Styrofoam cups that everything is served in. If not that, then a plastic basket with a piece of aluminum foil as liner. In place of napkins there is a roll of paper towel on the table. The tartar sauce is served in foil packets. But then you understand it better when the check arrives looking like a math mistake in your favor. We ordered a lot of food, including beer, and the check was just under $60 for four people. Not bad in my book.

If you find yourself in the area give King Cajun Crawfish a try.

914 N Mills Avenue • Orlando, Florida • 407-704-8863 • Monday thru Saturday 11:30 a.m. until 9:30 p.m. Sundays from 12:30 p.m. until 9:30 p.m.

Burning from the Inside Out

‘Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range,

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.’

—from “Locksley Hall” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

For three weeks or more, Colum McCann’s novel, Let the Great World Spin sat prominently on my reading stack untouched. Despite a couple of encouraging reviews, I made a late start on the book. When I finally did pick it up and begin reading, pretty much everything else faded into background while I raced through the book’s 349 pages. This was my first time to read anything by Colum McCann, and now feel I will have to go back and read his other books. Let the Great World Spin is the 2009 National Book Award winner and the author’s seventh book.

McCann stated that in his initial concept, he wanted to write a story built around what he calls the ‘democracy of storytelling,’ a story that crosses borders, boundaries and gender. To accomplish that he begins his book at the height of the World Trade Center twin towers in 1974 and moves from there to the lowest depths of the city, from both a physical and human perspective. Let the Great World Spin is built around the interconnectedness of ten disparate lives: an Irish priest, two street hookers, young artists fueled by cocaine, mothers mourning sons lost in Vietnam and a judge in his Centre Street courtroom.

The book begins on August 7, 1974, the day that Philippe Petit walked a tight rope between the north and south towers of the World Trade Center. That feat and the preparation it involved play a part in the story, but what we see is that the lives of McCann’s characters mirror this high-wire walk in the sense of courage and the uncertainty of outcome. All of the characters in the book are in one way or another balancing on a high-wire of their own.

Petit’s high-wire act is the event that triggers the story. Though the action in McCann’s telling does not follow a strictly linear progression, we come to see how the parts ultimately fit together in a logical sequence.

Petit walks his high-wire, is arrested, charged and taken to court. The judge is bound by an overloaded system and is forced to rush through his handling of two mother-daughter hookers on a petty larceny charge before hearing the case of the daring funambulist. The daughter of the two hookers is released, thus triggering the next series of events, which sooner or later impact the lives of the other characters. But as noted before, these things do not unfold in a straight line. We meet and learn about the ten characters chapter by chapter, gradually coming to understand how they are, or will be connected.

One of the strengths of this novel is the writer’s remarkable skill in giving an authentic voice to each of his characters. The idiom rings true in each one, and in the street hookers Tillie and Jazzlyn especially, McCann has created a fascinating portrait of life on the Bronx streets under the Major Deegan Expressway. Following is an X-rated sample of Tillie’s street rap…

‘When I was seventeen I had a body that Adam woulda dropped Eve for. Hot-potato time. It was prime, no lie. Nothing in the wrong place. I had legs a hundred miles long and a booty to die for. Adam woulda said to Eve, Eve I'm leaving you, honey, and Jesus himself woulda been in the background saying, Adam, you're one lucky motherfucker.’

I have heard some say that Let the Great World Spin has its disappointments, that the long back stories have no pay off. And I will agree with Publishers Weekly’s opinion that the John Corrigan Irish priest character seems a little otherworldly and not always as real as those around him. But in spite of that criticism, McCann succeeds in giving his characters—even the Irish priest—a quality he calls burning from the inside out.

Put this one on your reading list.

A Good Year

Watched a grrrrreat movie last night. Not really new, but then not terribly old either. I don’t suppose we classify a movie made in 2007 as ‘old.’ It’s one based on a 2005 book of the same name by Peter Mayle, A Good Year, and has a wonderful cast including Russell Crowe, Marion Cotillard and Albert Finney.

The movie begins in the south of France, in the wine producing region of Provence, in what is described as a vintage year. That translates as the childhood summer of Max Skinner (Crowe), a time twenty-five or so years earlier, when the future high rolling investment banker spent his summers with his Uncle Henry (Finney) learning about things like winning and losing. Fast forward twenty-five years and meet the grown up Max in London, orchestrating high yield but slightly shady trade bonanzas. He’s at the top of his game, something of a jerk, and has been out of touch with his Uncle Henry in Provence for the last ten years. But then comes a letter informing him of his uncle’s death, and the fact that he is heir to the chateau and vineyard in the south of France.

There are a few minutes when Max reflects upon his uncle, his childhood summers and his failure to even once contact his uncle over the past years, but that doesn’t last and he begins making plans to sell the property and get back to making millions in London. But it doesn’t quite work out that way, and therein lies the story.

I understand that the critics didn’t like this movie, seeing it more as a lightweight and miscast paean to the scenic beauty of Provence. I disagree with that notion and found it to be a thoroughly enjoyable, beautiful-to-look-at movie with a mostly believable storyline, and one or two very good performances. Albert Finney, in what is a series of flashback vignettes is wonderful, and the two French actors, Didier Bourdon and Isabelle Candelier as the vintner and his housekeeper wife are both delightful. And of course, there’s the ravishing Marion Cotillard as Fanny, the love interest.

Add to that the directorial expertise of Ridley Scott, who very rarely in my opinion gets too far off track, and whose well-tuned work rapport with Russell Crowe is obvious. I like a powerful and deeply layered story with thought provoking issues as much as anyone, but there are those times when I want to flop back on the sofa, watch a rather lightweight comedy with pretty scenery and handsome/beautiful actors, be moved in some small way, and at the end walk away with a smile on my face. A Good Year did all of that for me.

One last comment—the soundtrack is terrific and includes Nilsson, Charles Trenet, Josephine Baker and Tino Rossi. Listen to samples here.

LINK:

The Smell of Childhood

Ed Cullen has been writing for the Baton Rouge newspaper, The Advocate for more than thirty years. He has been featured on NPR’s All Things Considered frequently since 2001, and from that came the idea to put together a collection of essays in book form. The result was the 2006 collection called Letter in a Woodpile, published by Cool Springs Press. The book offers in slightly different form forty-nine of Cullen’s essays that first appeared in The Advocate, and in some cases those heard on NPR.

A Louisiana native, Cullen’s writing brims with the mannerisms and idiosyncrasies that so richly describe his hometown and surrounding parishes. His subjects are centered in neighborhoods, backyards and side streets, all enhanced by particular sounds and smells that throb with southern Louisiana authenticity.

The forty-nine essays are a spicy gumbo of observations, strolls, car rides and simple encounters over the years of growing up and living in Louisiana. In a similar manner Alfred Kazin did the same thing with New York in A Walker in the City, and Studs Terkel with Chicago in Talking to Myself. What each of these writers offer their readers is an almost tangible flavor distinct to its locale.

My introduction to the work of Ed Cullen came long, long after I’d left my Baton Rouge hometown. Four or five years ago I was listening to NPR in Tokyo and heard an essay that identified Louisiana in the first sentence. It was Ed Cullen reading his short essay, “Aroma Inventory.” It had been some time since I’d been thrust so wholly back into the sights and smells of my childhood, and I quickly made a note of the writer’s name. Some time later I discovered Letter in a Woodpile and quickly ordered a copy. Without plan or expectation I received a signed first edition shortly afterward.

Here is an excerpt from the essay, “Aroma Inventory” that caught my attention on NPR…

‘One afternoon, dripping from mowing the yard, I sat in the shade drinking ice water, and the smell of Tanker, the yardman of my childhood, ambled up.

Tanker worked hard in the summer and didn’t bathe unnecessarily. His smell was more than human. He smelled like a rotting tree in the woods, the edge of a bayou, a pile of leaves. He smelled like the oil on the blades of his push lawnmower. He smelled of sweat stained khakis, ruined felt hat, and big leather shoes his feet had pushed over to look like speedboats making tight turns.

I imagined that Tanker smelled like the pioneers in my school books.

I think of Tanker and I think of the summer smells of long ago—heat rising through the crape myrtle blossoms at street’s edge, storm drains, the exhaust of passing cars, wet dogs. When the air was still and hot, you could smell a woman’s perfume above the sidewalk three minutes after she’d walked by.’

Delia

“Delia! Put that down. It don’t belong to you.”

“Why?”

“It’s not yours, Delia. Go on back yonder by the window…I’m gonna call Baby Clyde. Now go on.”

Mumbling to herself, half English, half Spanish, Delia rolled her chair over to her side of the room, leaving behind the pink sweater that was halfway out of the drawer when Jewel called out.

Delia had been at the Rose of Sharon retirement home for almost a year, but by now unable to recall how long it had been. Time, despite the tick of clocks and calendar squares was a forgotten concept, just another undefined confusion among the names and unnamed objects that swirled in the fog of her days and brought nighttime dreams she swore were real. Delia was eighty-seven years old and the mother of four sons, none of them nearby. It was the eldest who arranged and paid for his mother’s care at Rose of Sharon. Too far away to visit more than two or three times a year, he left that part of it to the youngest, who lived at least within an hour’s drive of the nursing home. Of the other two sons, one lived in Miami and had a new address and telephone number every month. The other son had never left Cuba.

Delia was unwilling to leave the little house in Edgewater after her husband’s death, wouldn’t agree to move away, to leave behind the reminders of Jorge, the rooms still colored by the lingering shades and smells of her husband. She had shaken her head, lips compressed into a straight line, refusing to go and live with Enrique in New York.

But living alone became increasingly difficult and little by little Delia lost her way, lost the will or desire to take care of herself. It was finally the neighbor who called Enrique in New York.

She wasn’t sure when that happened, but one day Enrique arrived, and now she couldn’t find the house in Edgewater, though she looked for it every day. Her son Amado came from Orlando to visit and took her in his car to see the house, but people she didn’t know could be seen through the windows and this upset her. She sat in the car twisting a tissue into shreds, cried and wouldn’t let go of Amado when he held her.

So now, Delia roamed the hallways of the Rose of Sharon nursing home in her wheelchair, her still thick mane of white hair falling in tangles around her face and shoulders. On more than one occasion she entered someone’s room and startled them, ask that they comb her hair or rub her feet. It was usually Baby Clyde, the nurse’s aide who came and collected her. A mention of his name was usually enough to stop Delia, he being the only one in the nursing home who had found some small clear window into her confusion. She responded to none of the other aides.

Last week she returned to the room with a bottle of medicine she had found on a table in another room. Delia was unscrewing the top when Jewel called out.

“Don’t you drink that Delia! That’s somebody’s medicine, not for you.”

“I know it’s my husband’s medicine and he had to take it every day.”

Jewel got herself over to Delia and put a hand over the bottle. “Delia, come on now and give me that medicine so Baby Clyde can take it back. It’s got somebody’s name on it there.”

“It’s probably my husband’s name.”

“Stop now. You want some Graham Crackers and peanut butter?” Jewel knew that her roommate liked the crackers, because just last week she’d stolen a plate full of them off Jewel’s table.

“Well, I might try one. They sound good. Would you rub my feet?”

Jewel slipped the bottle of medicine out of Delia’s hand and said, “I’ll ask the nurse about that when she comes.”

“Why?”

“She’ll be coming to get this medicine after I push the button. Now you sit here while I go over there and get you one or two of my crackers and peanut butter.” She brought the crackers over to Delia on a paper towel. Putting it down in her lap, she said. “You ain’t seen my Bible, have you? I know I had it in that drawer by my bed last night.”

Delia looked at Jewel with eyes that made no connection to Bible or peanut butter crackers. She was quiet again, lost somewhere among the shifting bits of memory that held the house in Edgewater and her husband Jorge, the man who rubbed her feet and combed her hair for all those years. She was sure it was all still there in her house if she could just find it.

Montblanc 167

For all the passion I have for fountain pens and ink, the chances are very good that more of my time is spent with a pencil in my hand than with a pen. For letter and journal writing a pen is best, usually a different one, a different ink each day, but for other writing, for rough drafts, it’s always a pencil. Anyone who knows me, anyone familiar with the Scriblets blog can probably tell that I get a thrill out of fountain pens and ink. But because it is my constant companion, and very nearly an extension of my right hand, because it’s a weight that gives balance and rhythm to the movement of my hand across the page, for these reasons my big, heavy pencil deserves some space here.

Not my first mention of the Montblanc Meisterstuck Platinum Le Grand 0.9 mechanical pencil, as it got a brief mention in an earlier post I did last January on the Kuru Toga pencil from Mitsubishi. But for all its good points, comparing the Kuru Toga and the Montblanc is akin to lining up a Mercedes Benz beside a Chevrolet. The difference is better engineering and high quality materials. In the long run, in a hard pushed test drive, the Benz and the Montblanc will win every time.

The first thing that must be said about the Montblanc 167 mechanical pencil is that it is large and heavy. The length, at five and seven-eighths inches is not extreme, but the barrel is slightly larger than that of a Montblanc Meisterstuck fountain pen. In other words, it is a handful. I have no means of determining the weight, though I searched a dozen or more Montblanc websites, and with no real precision can only say it is a heavy pencil weighing about 30 grams.

The barrel and cap are jet-black precious resin, which highlights the platinum plated clip and three rings around the cap. The center ring is embossed with the name, and the clip is embossed with the pencil’s individual serial number. The familiar white star Montblanc emblem is set into the top of the cap. For most users, the outstanding feature is the 0.9mm lead, a thick and hard to ‘snap’ lead, which does away with the common problem of lead breaking in mid-sentence. In almost three years I have never had one occasion when the lead broke as I was writing.

The word meisterstuck is German for ‘masterpiece’ and in the European tradition becomes the most difficult challenge for a young craftsman aiming to attain the status of master craftsman. Montblanc likes to say that any of their products carrying the Meisterstuck label hold the emotions of its maker, and that the completed work has a soul.

I can concur with that thought when I put my Montblanc Meisterstuck to paper and see what it does. I will repeat what I said in the earlier Kuru Toga post…

The Montblanc 167 writes EXACTLY as I want it to, and simply doesn’t present problems. It is one hundred percent dependable, a quality that I suppose is to be expected in fine engineering.

••••••••••

Neither pens nor pencil, but congratulations to the Japanese Little League Baseball team from Tokyo who defeated Hawaii in the final yesterday and are now the 2010 Little League World Champions!

The Sum of Man

Though she has published three collections of her poems, Nora Pollard has yet to receive the notice she deserves. I look about some in the shelves of modern poetry at my library and bookstore and never come across her name. As a subscriber to The Writer’s Almanac, it was there I first read something by Nora Pollard. She has been chosen four times to lead off their daily newsletter with one of her poems. Unfortunately, clicking on Amazon won’t work if you want to buy a collection of her poetry. You’ll have better luck at Antrim House.

Nora Pollard is the daughter of Red Pollard, recently brought to our attention by Laura Hillenbrand, author of the bestselling book, Seabiscuit. The poet’s father was the jockey who rode Seabiscuit throughout his glory days on the horse racing circuit. The few available bios of Nora Pollard tell us that even now she earns her living working at a steel company in Connecticut, and has in the past been folksinger, waitress, nanny, teacher, solderer and calligrapher. Her three collections are: Leaning In (2003), Report from the Banana Hospital (2005) and Death & Rapture in the Animal Kingdom (2009). The poem here is from the last.

THE SUM OF MAN

by Norah Pollard

In autumn,
facing the end of his life,
he moved in with me.
We piled his belongings—
his army-issue boots, knife magazines,
Steely Dan tapes, his grinder, drill press,
sanders, belts and hacksaws—
in a heap all over the living room floor.
For two weeks he walked around the mess.

One night he stood looking down at it all
and said: “The sum total of my existence.”
Emptiness in his voice.

Soon after, as if the sum total
needed to be expanded, he began to place
things around in the closets and spaces I’d
cleared for him, and when he'd finished
setting up his workshop in the cellar, he said,
“I should make as many knives as I can,”
and he began to work.

The months plowed on through a cold winter.
In the evenings, we’d share supper, some tale
of family, some laughs, perhaps a walk in the snow.
Then he’d nip back down into the cellar’s keep
To saw and grind and polish,
creating his beautiful knives
until he grew too weak to work.
But still he’d slip down to stand at his workbench
and touch his woods
and run his hand over his lathe.

One night he came up from the cellar
and stood in the kitchen’s warmth
and, shifting his weight
from one foot to the other, said,
“I love my workshop.”
Then he went up to bed.

He’s gone now.
It’s spring. It’s been raining for weeks.
I go down to his shop and stand in the dust
of ground steel and shavings of wood.
I think on how he’d speak of his dying, so
easily, offhandedly, as if it were
a coming anniversary or
an appointment with the moon.
I touch his leather apron, folded for all time,
and his glasses set upon his work gloves.
I take up an unfinished knife and test its heft,
and feel as well the heft of my grief for
this man, this brother I loved,
the whole of him so much greater
than the sum of his existence.