Cajun Tales

A winter coat? For WHAT?!

2005-08-15T13:03:00.000-05:00

Now, I realize that Louisiana doesn't control the fashion industry (and we should ALL be glad of that) and certain clothes come out at certain times of the year. BUT...

It's 100 degrees today. It was 100 degrees yesterday. It's likely to be 100 degrees tomorrow.

What am I supposed to do with a winter coat? Or a fleece-lined hoodie? Or sheepskin lined snow boots?

Even when it cools off here, it's not cold enough for any of that stuff. But it's August. September's not much better. As a matter of fact, you don't even think about bringing out long pants until the end of October.

So if anyone comes across a Yankee passed out on the sidewalk wearing a hip flannel shirt, a trendy fleece hoodie, and super cool sheepskin snowboots over stylish cordouroy pants, tell the ambulance that I sure looked HOTT before I passed out from the heat.

Time Warp

2005-08-13T01:27:00.000-05:00

Apparently, the humidity is so thick down here that it creates a fog from which nothing can escape. Or it can, but it takes longer and costs extra. Case in point:

I take a package to the post office. It's something I want to get to its recipient NOW. I fill out the forms for next day delivery and approach the clerk. After assuring her that there is nothing liquid, flammable, perishable, hazardous, live, dead, kinky, red with blue polka dots, or would you please stop asking me all these questions!, she takes my package, scans it into the computer, and charges me the fifteen-odd dollars for next day service. THEN she tells me it will be delivered by 3:00 p.m. TWO DAYS FROM NOW.

Ok. Hold on. Isn't next day delivery by 10:30 a.m. the NEXT MORNING? yes. And didn't I just pay for next day delivery? yes. And it's still going to take almost three days? well, two and a half, but yes. So how can you call it next day delivery if it's not delivered the next day? because it takes longer.

Because it takes longer. I'm so glad she explained that to me.

It just never ends

2005-08-13T00:59:00.000-05:00

THIS time it was my friend who called and said she was taking her kids out to eat and did I want to join them.

The order was pretty simple: three kids grilled cheese dinners, one chicken strips dinner, one cactus chicken dinner, and one dinner salad with a side of steamed vegetables.

First of all: apparently, "dinner salad" is code for "I'm too embarassed to eat in front of these people, so please send two pieces of lettuce and a slice of tomato." Because that's all I got.

Secondly: if I ordered a dinner salad as my DINNER, why would you think I would want it twenty minutes before everyone else gets their dinner?

Thirdly: in the North, we recognize that the healthiness of steamed veggies is negated by serving them up in a puddle o' butter.

Fourthly: a grilled cheese sandwich is only made such by GRILLING the bread. Slapping a slice of cheese in a hamburger bun and nuking it to warm the cheese is not even in the same ballpark as a grilled cheese sandwich.

Fifthly: that chicken strip still has some tail feathers attached. You couldn't notice that?!

Someone lied about Southern charm

2005-08-03T23:54:00.000-05:00

A popular myth in the North is the one about Southern Charm. I'm not really sure who started this one or when, but I'm reporting it to the urban legend department because it just doesn't exist.

Three years and I've received a courtesy wave five times.
Three years and I've had someone apologize for bumping into me four times.
Three years and I've had a door held open for me three times.
Three years and I've had a man offer me his seat twice.
I'm short, and in three years I've had someone offer to reach something on a high shelf that I'm obviously trying to get to once. They've walked away when I asked for help eight times.
Three years and I've had someone offer to help me with something heavy once.
Three years and I've never been greeted with good morning/afternoon/evening unless I say it first.

Is it just too hot down here for manners?

Since when is cheese a vegetable?

2005-08-01T00:42:00.000-05:00

So we're out at this restaurant. DH and I look at the menu and decide to go for a plate of fried vegetables as an appetizer. In the north, we would expect receive a plate with fried zucchini, cauliflower, mushrooms, and probably some hand-dipped onion rings. Mmmmm.

What did we get?

Fried okra, fried corn balls, and cheese sticks.

I'm not even asking.

A vege-what?

2005-07-29T23:08:00.000-05:00

So I went out to eat the other night. I know, I know...I should just expect that it's not going to turn out right. But I'm ever hopeful. Silly me.

I'm a vegetarian. Down here in Cajun Country, this doesn't always work so well. At the restaurant, I decide to order a steak salad without the steak. Why? Because they don't even offer a salad without meat on it. So, it's a steak salad minus the steak. Simple, right?

Wrong.

The two other people at the table receive their food. I'm waiting. And waiting. And wondering. So I grab Pippy the waitress and ask her if there was a problem with my salad. She says that she'll go check on it. (One should wonder why she hadn't done this already, but I've learned not to ask "why" down here.) She comes back out a few minutes later and tells me that the cook hadn't made the salad because he didn't understand what I wanted. How was he supposed to make the salad? I explain that he should just make a regular salad AS IF he were going to put the steak on it, and stop just before the steak. She walks away to go explain this to the cook, and I turn to my friends and say, "did she really just ask me how to make a salad? and is she REALLY going back in there to explain it to the cook?"

I'm shaking my head, but my hopes aren't dashed yet. I know that sometimes my order confuses people; I don't understand why, but I know that it does. Now that it's been explained, I should have my food in just a minute. Sure enough, Pippy comes out a few minutes later carrying a nice, large dinner salad and sits it in front of me. My tummy grumbling with hunger, I pick up my fork and start to take a bite of

chicken. OH, PIPPY! She comes back over to the table and I point out that there is chicken in my steak-salad-minus-the-steak salad. She looks at me as if I am the confused one. She says yes there is chicken because I didn't want steak. I inquire as to whether there is normally chicken in a steak salad. Pippy says no. I ask why, then, it is in mine. Pippy says, "Because you didn't want steak."

I take a deep breath. Pippy, I wanted a salad with NO MEAT on it, not just NO STEAK. So if there are any other forms of dead carcasses in the kitchen, I don't want them on my salad, either. "So you don't want the chicken?" she says. NO. "And you don't want the steak?" NO. "Well, what do you want?' I want a salad, I say. A salad made with lettuce of some sort and vegetables. No steak, no chicken, no bacon, no ANY other kind of meat. Just the stuff that makes a salad A SALAD.

Pippy makes her way back to the kitchen again. My friends are holding their napkins against their mouths to keep from laughing outloud. Just as I'm telling them to hush it and finish their dinners, Pippy comes back out, empty handed, to say that the cook wants to know if I would like some ham in my salad.

Pippy...I don't want meat in my salad. None. At all! I'm a vegetarian.

"Oh," she says. Then stops. Then looks at me and says, " A vege-what?"

Sigh.

What kind of bug is that?!

2005-07-24T11:01:00.000-05:00

Let's play a little word association game. I'll give a word, and you say the first thing that pops into your mind. Ready?

Tree: house
Dog: cat
Black: white
Mole: cricket

What?! You didn't say cricket when I said mole?

So we have these little creatures down here. I'll admit it...I was a little freaked out the first time I saw one. And the second time. Actually, I'd run away if I saw one right now. Quite frankly, I think these things are freaks of nature. They simply shouldn't exist. What had to have sex to create these mutants, I don't want to know.

First off, they are just hideously ugly...ugly and wrong. If you picture a mole with its fat head and pointy nose and those weird digging hands and then think of a cricket with its wings and hind legs for jumping and hard crunchy shell on its back--and then think of them getting together under a full moon and the influence of tobasco and having a wild night of unnatural animal/insect sex, this is what their offspring would look like. I mean, they actually have claws for digging!

And maybe it's just because it is so very, very ugly, but the mole cricket has quite the attitude. Most bugs will walk or run away from people because they realize the power of the foot to step on and squash them. Not the mole cricket! Nope, this little mutant will run TOWARDS you and bite you for no apparant reason. They are kind of like that liquid metal robot from Terminator 2--you know, the one that kept on getting back up and running after Arnie even while he was being shot and having his arms and legs torn off and stuff? I once saw my friend whack and whack and whack the living HECK out of a mole cricket with her broom. She actually broke her broom in the process because she was hitting it so hard. When she finally stopped swinging, the stupid bug was still limping its way towards her just hoping to use that one remaining tooth to get a bite out of her.

Just one more reason to have the exterminator out every month. I will gladly pay $35 to keep things like these out of my yard. Heck, I'd pay ONE HUNDRED thirty-five dollars. (Just don't tell my exterminator that, ok?)

Cock Roaches

2005-07-19T21:32:00.000-05:00

I know...cock roach is supposed to be one word. Well, you haven't seen a Louisiana Cajun Cock Roach before. These things are so big they need a first and last name.

Background information: as previously stated, I'm a Yankee. And the longer I'm down here, the prouder of that I become. In Yankee land, the only people who have cockroaches are dirty people. And I have to say--rather proudly--that I had never seen a cockroach before moving to Louisiana.

I saw my first Cock Roach the day I moved into housing. I sign for my newly renovated, freshly painted quarters still smelling of cleaners and floor wax and open up the linen closet to see the biggest beetle I have ever seen. This bug turns to look at me, stands up, holds out his hand and says, "Hello. I understand you're my new tenant. Pleased to meet you."

"JJJaaaaayyyyy!" I scream down the hall. DH dutifully comes running. "What is that?"I ask as I point to the bug. The beetle clears his throat and says, "Oh, pardon me. I'm Cock Roach. Mr. Cock Roach, that is. I apologize for the rest of the family not being here to greet you. They had to run some errands."

I tell DH to get it out of my house. He stands there looking at a bug every bit as big as my shoe and asks me what he's supposed to use to get it out. "I. DON'T. CARE. Just get it out." He uses his massive size 13 foot to nudge the thing towards the door. He finally gets it outside, when the bug starts running back towards the house yelling, "No, no, no--I don't think you underst--"

Crunch. Snap. Pop. Squish. DH stomps on it to keep it from darting back through the door. I am standing there frozen, my lunch about to come back up at the disgusting sound I just heard. DH doesn't look much better and informs me that he can feel the guts of one Mr. Cock Roach under his foot. "Not all of them," I say, and I point to the blood splatters that have shot out a good nine inches on either side of his huge foot.

I think we threw those shoes away.

I'm Back

2005-07-19T20:48:00.000-05:00

Okay. That didn't last very long. Well, actually it was about a week and a half. So, how do I do this without being mean to the locals anymore? Hmmm. That's a hard one. See, being able to write here just helps me blow off steam. And between the heat and the bugs and the stink and the food and the silly laws and the...well, you can see how the steam builds!

Take for instance...

I have mentioned the bugs. I think. Let me go check. Well, shoot. I've only mentioned them briefly. Don't worry--I'll fill you in after I finish this little rant. ANYWAY, there are a lot of bugs. And spiders. And even some weird little creatures that look, quite frankly, as if other little creatures got together during a full moon and unnaturally produced freakish, mutated offspring. Look for posts on the mole cricket and the cockroach. SO...

there are all these bugs, and even THEY think it's hot and want to get inside the house. (You know it's hot when things that have been around since the dawn of time when dinosaurs roamed the earth and whose nasty little shells could withstand a nuclear blast think it's hot!) I'm not a sissy. I'm not afraid of bugs. But not being afraid of them and wanting them in my house are two totally different things.

Last week, I'm up late so I figure I'll do a little housework. I'm folding clothes and open my husband's closet to put some things away. (The only good thing about him being gone is that I've doubled my closet space.) I put my clean, fresh clothes away and think I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head...and there is a cockroach. Now, before anyone says anything or passes judgment on me, please go find my post on cockroaches. But back to my story, it's 1:00 in the morning, I'm in my pj's doing laundry, and I come across a cockroach. No problem. I run to the kitchen and get my can of Bengal spray which I have been assured will kill anything. I run back to my bedroom and unload about half a can on the bug and think to myself, "Ha! Take that!"

Right. I go back to the kitchen and grab my spray bottle of bleach to clean up the mess I just made, and when I get back to the bedroom,

that nasty, dirty, filthy, disgusting creature is crawling its way out of the four-inch deep puddle of foam that I just emptied on it. I don't panic. I figure that ANY SECOND now, the poison will kick in and it will die. That would be a no. It's crawling straight towards me. I start spraying concentrated bleach on it. It acts like it just got a shot of caffeine and starts running in earnest.

I don't think you truly appreciate the picture here. I've got a can of Bengal spray in one hand and a bottle of bleach in the other, and I'm bent over in half as I run through the house chasing a cockroach and spraying it for all I'm worth. In my pajamas. And a mud mask. At 1:00 on the morning.

First thing the next morning, I place a call to the approved exterminator for on post housing. I am told that they will be happy to come out and spray...in 6 days. That should have been yesterday. I got a call this afternoon informing me that they would like to reschedule for next Monday.

AND YOU WONDER WHY I CAME BACK TO WRITE!!!

(don't worry--I called a different exterminator from the next town over last Tuesday and had him out that same day. These people are flippin' stupid if they think I'm living with bugs for two weeks!)

DH

2005-07-15T19:21:00.000-05:00

If he weren't so darn sexy, I never would have made it this long.
my Soldier

The End

2005-07-14T02:26:00.000-05:00

I'm not writing here anymore. Not because there isn't much more to tell. I'm stopping because I could go on forever. Somedays I can sit down and think of two, three, TEN things to write about. And that bothers me. I don't want to be the person who can find so much fault. I'd like to say that it's my new goal to find something good about Louisiana every day, but that is just a little unrealistic for me. Instead, I will just try to concentrate on not seeing the bad. And yes, even now as I'm trying to make this commitment, my fingers are itching to type out all the bad. I'm going to try to stop.

But before I do...

IT REALLY STINKS DOWN HERE. IT JUST SMELLS BAD. CAN'T ANYBODY MAKE IT STOP STINKING?!

The real purpose of Tabasco

2005-07-07T21:09:00.000-05:00

If Cajun food is known for one thing, it is known for being spicy. These people have a whole different relationship with hot sauce than you can find anywhere else in the country. Tobasco, the most famous and the name that has come to mean hot sauce (like Kleenex means tissue), is made in Louisiana. I could spend all day reading the names of hot sauces. Names like Slap Ya Mama, Kick Yo Ass, Insanity, and Red Rectum. There's even a brand of spicy peanuts called, and I apologize, Fuckin' Hot Nuts.

DH loves spicy food. He normally orders things extra spicy. But not down here. He made that mistake when we first moved here, and we both paid for that mistake for the next couple of days. I say "we" because the odors produced from his body as it attempted to first digest and then rid itself of the extra spicy gator-on-a-stick were painful for anyone trying to take a breath within a 30-foot radius of him.

Why does this one group of people eat so much hot sauce that they have built up a tolerance of it until they can snack on habanero peppers like they're pretzels? I think I've finally figured it out. They are just trying to cover up the taste of what passes for meat around here. Don't believe me?

Gator sausage: alligator tail and pork (who knows what part) ground up and stuffed in a tube
Andouille: various ground animals and GRISTLE...stuffed in a tube
Boudin: we won't ask what's in this, but it's stuffed in a tube
Crawfish: it's just wrong to eat something that involves "sucking the head"
Catfish: a bottom feeder; just ask yourself WHAT they are eating from the bottom of a swamp
Shrimp: would YOU eat shellfish sold out of the back of a truck on the side of the road in100 degree heat?
Squirrel gumbo: enough said
Crab: not Alaskan King or Dungeness or anything like that; plain ol' little brown crabs washed up after the last good flood
Cracklins: I believe we've already covered this
Alligator (not in sausage form): still from the tail and rather tough

Before you ask, no, these are not specialty items. These are the foods that make up a good deal of the cajun diet. Just about any dish you can imagine--and many you wouldn't want to--can be made by substituting one of the "meats" listed above and dousing it heavily in hot sauce. Red beans and rice...sausage. Jambalaya...sausage. Gumbo...sausage, crab, squirrel, shrimp. Po boy sandwich...all of the above. Heck, at certain times of the year, you can get crawfish and shrimp on your pizza! It's no wonder that, sitting down to dinner and staring at the meal, so many Cajuns say, "Pass the Tabasco."

The land where evolution stopped

2005-07-07T17:14:00.000-05:00

I love animals. I can sit for hours outside waiting and watching to see what might wander through the yard. I'm from Michigan, and we have serious critters. We have little ones like squirrels and groundhogs and beavers. We have medium ones like coyotes and cougars and foxes. We have deer big enough to take out a Chevy Blazer then get back up and run off. (Just ask my brother-in-law about this. Last one he hit caused $4000 in damage to his full sized SUV and tossed a smile over its shoulder as it scampered off into the woods.) We have bear and elk. We've even got great big wild turkeys. How big, you ask? Well, I'm five foot tall, and they stand darn near as tall as I am. I love it! Everywhere I go, one of the first things I do is go looking to see what kind of wildlife I can find. I once saw a moose in Wyoming. A MOOSE in Wyoming! How perfect is that?!

I'm like super-excited when we get to Louisiana to see what kind of critters are living here. All the local men carry rifles in their trucks and talk about the hunting. This is good. (Not good that they all get drunk and shoot at animals. Good that there are animals to hunt!) Well, I've been in this state for three years now. Here is a list of the "wildlife" that one can expect to find:

Armadillos--often seen as roadkill. My initial excitement at seeing one died when I saw one...destroying my lawn.
Snakes--specifically the copper head and the diamond back. Often seen lying in wait in one's gardens because the freshly aerated soil is an ideal place to make a nest full 'o baby snakes.
Scorpions--often seen crawling out from underneath the rocks that somehow just seem to appear in one's yard.
Fire Ants--these are not often seen until AFTER they have attacked any exposed flesh and left one scarred with angry, pus-filled little blisters
Alligators--often seen crawling back into the swamp after devouring a beloved family pet
Lizards--often seen everywhere. They run and scurry and scamp over every available surface. That's okay, though, because they are cute and they eat...
Spiders--such as the black widow and the brown recluse. Often seen hiding in closets, shoes, blankets, beds, furniture, grass...
Cockroaches--often seen scurrying behind stoves, refrigerators, under beds, in pantries. And see them you will as they are enormous.

Anyone noticing a pattern here?

Now, technically there are deer here. Technically. As in, their genes may test positive as being deer genes, but my DOGS are bigger than these deer. And I hear people talking about hunting wild boars. I've never seen one or seen evidence of one, but this is not a terribly evolved animal, either. (Sorry, Pumba.) It's like the evolution fairy ran out of dust when she flew over Louisiana.

Which does explain a lot about the people....

Another local specialty

2005-07-05T20:59:00.000-05:00

In addition to boudin (boo-DAN!), the locals are very proud of their homemade cracklins. I like the sound of the word cracklins. It sounds fun...crunchy and fun. And boudin was pretty good, so DH thinks he should try cracklins. So, on one of our drives through the countryside, we pull into a little gas station/convenience store/diner that has a sign out front proclaiming theirs to be "real homemade cracklins" and that we "cain't find none better."

Inside, DH orders some cracklins while I go hunt down some drinks. He takes a seat at one of the two tables to try his new food, and I decide to ask the owner what, exactly, is a cracklin. She has to actually say it twice, because I am SURE I couldn't have heard her correctly. With a quick thank you and a smile (I hope I pulled off the smile, anyway. It felt more like a grimace to me), I run over to DH before he can take that first bite and tell him to PUT THE CRACKLINS DOWN. PLEASE. STEP A-W-A-Y FROM THE CRACKLINS. DH looks at me and wants to know why. I tell him that I'm trying not to make a scene, but I just found out what they are. My yankee roots are showing, and I am so going to vomit if he eats that. He's smiling now, but I notice that he has put the food (I use this term loosely) down.

What is it, he wants to know? Pig fat. Deep. Fried. Pig fat. Pig. Fat. "Noooooo," says DH, "No way." I just smile/grimace and say, "Yes, they have found a way to fry fat. I beg you not to eat that." Thankfully, he doesn't take much convincing. With one last glance at what almost was, he carefully grabs the cardboard container and carries it to the garbage. As we leave, the owner is shaking her head, and I swear I hear her saying "damn yankees."

Fine dining--cajun style

2005-07-05T20:11:00.000-05:00

DH and I love to go out to eat. We are kind of foodies. Any restaurant we go to, we examine the menu for a familiar appetizer to order so we can compare the quality to other restaurants and then try to order a house specialty or favorite as our entree. I love to cook, so I try to pick out the spices used in a dish and will often try to duplicate the recipe at home. We have heard so much about cajun cooking that we can't wait to go out to eat and try it.

Other than the requisite Pizza Hut and fast food places, there are two (2) honest-to-goodness restaurants in town. Everyone tells us to stay away from the one, so I'll guess we'll pick...ummm...the other one! Besides, everyone says how nice it is and how good the food is. All excited about our first Cajun meal, we wash off the day's sweat and grime (note to self: buy stock in Dial. we're going to be taking a LOT of showers), change into going-out clothes, and drive to the restaurant. On the way there, our stomachs start grumbing and our mouths are watering. Yea!! We get to the restaurant, open the door, step inside, and...

cement floors. Plain old cement floors. Red and white checkered plastic tablecloths. Light fixtures made out of coffee cans. I guess this could be quaint. DH, that girl in the tight t-shirt and Pippy Longstocking pigtails is talking to us. WHAT IS SHE SAYING? I CAN'T HEAR HER BECAUSE IT'S SO LOUD IN HERE. OH...SHE WORKS HERE? OK, THEN. A TABLE FOR TWO. NON-SMOKING, PLEASE. We follow Pippy to our table, but as we walk across the floor, there is this weird crunching noise. And what's that under my feet? What's in my sandals??

Peanuts shells. Empty, sucked-on peanut shells. That's just lovely. I just cut my toe on one of these discarded things, and now I'm going to get somebody's cold sore germs in my cut. If I get herpes of the toe, I'm so suing. But here's our table. Right next to the group of friendly looking men laughing loudly and enjoying an after dinner...

smoke. Um, Pippy? We wanted the non-smoking secion. This is the non-smoking section? But what about these nice gentlemen right here right next to us smoking? Oh, they are regulars, I see. And they prefer sitting back here. And the other table smoking right next to them? Of course, I understand that it's busy and your smoking section is full. It would be silly to make them wait when there are perfectly good non-smoking tables going unused. You know, this other table is empty, too. Could you try to fill this one up with some menthol smokers, please? I'm having a little trouble with my new-found allergies, and maybe the menthol will open me up.

Where did these allergies come from?

2005-07-05T19:48:00.000-05:00

Ah, spring. The time of year when things are growing and turning green making their first buds and...spewing forth the thickest layer of yellow pollen known to man. And it's coming from the trees? What the...? Hey. Whud jusd happened? I was breading a minud ago. Oh, for de lub ob all dat's hody!

That's right, folks. I now have allergies. I have to take medicine just to experience the pleasure of breathing. I was talking about the pollen to my family back in Michigan. They're all, "we have pollen here, too." I'm all, "bite me." I dare any of them to come down here in the spring and see how long they can breathe without the aid of pharmaceuticals. I just don't get how all this pollen is coming from trees. Pine trees. But then again, when you name a PINE tree, a tree covered in NEEDLES, the long leaf pine, I guess you should just expect that it's not going to be right.

How big of a litter box would I need in order to train my two 100 pound dogs to poop in a pan so that I don't have to keep opening my door and letting all that crap invade my house?

I guess stocks #2 and 3 will be with Puffs Plus tissues and Old English furniture polish.

Ahhhh...fresh air

2005-07-05T19:08:00.000-05:00

Imagine waking up in the morning. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping outside the window...it's another beautiful day. I think I will take my puppies for their morning walk and then spend some time in my gardens. Oh, yes, I can't wait to get out there and breathe in all that nature has waiting for me. The dogs and I walk to the door with smiles on our faces, step outside, and take a deep breath of--WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL?! Oh. Blech. Somebody make it stop.

Now, when I first moved here, I would look around trying to find the source of the incredible stench. Check the garbage. Check for rotting, dead animals. Check to see if the sewers spilled over. I actually called in a work order once because I honestly thought some poor animal had gotten trapped inside the siding of my house and was slowly decaying in there. Out came the maintenance men and ripped off the siding...no dead critters. After a couple of weeks, I just figured out that this is just the smell of Louisiana...the smell of stagnant swamp water baking in the heat. A team of scientists should come study this stuff because, seriously, anything that smells this bad must be an alternate source of fuel or have some new, mutated organisms growing in it that can cure anything from hangnails to Hodgkin's.

For now, I'm buying stock in the Renuzit company because I will single handedly keep them in business buying air fresheners, air cleaners, air deoderizers, and air sanitizers. Every time I open my door, a little bit of that "fresh" air finds its way inside my house. Mmmmmm.

Whatever. It's sausage.

2005-06-29T23:58:00.000-05:00

Most places you go have a favorite food or recipe. One of the Cajun specialties is a thing called boudin (pronounced: boo-DAN!). Almost everywhere you go, you will see signs advertising that boudin is, indeed, served inside. Gas stations, corner delis, diners, restaurants, lunch cafes, even bakeries all boast that the best boudin around can be found through their doors. After seeing a boudin sign for the eleventy-hundredth time, I started asking around to find out just what this must-have was.

One day, DH and I were going to take a road trip and see what there was to see in the countryside of Louisiana. Of course, no road trip is complete without beef jerky and a Mountain Dew, so we first stop at the local gas station for the requisite road snacks. Sure enough, boudin was available inside. I drag DH over to the counter and tell him that he should try boudin. (I am a strict vegetarian. NEVER have I been so glad of this as I have been while down here. 'Cause I'm sure not trying some of the stuff they eat.) DH is staring inside the little glass window at the assortment of meats and fried foods while the little Cajun woman behind the counter is staring at us with boredom. Try it, I prod him again. DH turns to me and asks, "What is boudin, anyway?" It's sausage, I say.

Little Cajun woman behind the counter snaps awake at that. Leaning in as far as the glass window will allow her to and striking quite the indignant pose, she almost screams at us, "It AIN'T sausage--it boo-DAN!! Now, this person behind the counter has her hands jammed on her ample hips, and her eyes (reddened from years of heavy tabasco use) are glaring at us as though we just suggested that Mozart wrote ditties. Now curious as to what delicious treat would inspire such passion, DH orders two of them to go.

As we stand in line to pay, DH bites into one of the boudin links. He looks at me and claims that it is good but that it is, indeed, sausage. Little Cajun woman takes our money, rolls her eyes, and mumbles something about "damn yankees" under her breath as she walks away.

Whatever, Cajunette. I'm from the North. Call it whatever you want, but ground up meat stuffed into a tube IS sausage.

Clarify meaning of DH

2005-06-29T11:47:00.000-05:00

In case you didn't catch it on an earlier post, DH is my Dear Husband. Although he is an excellent husband (as excellent as they get, anyway), and although I do love him desperately (you can check out all the wonderful things I have to say about him at my other blog, Home At Heart), for the purposes of this blog, Dear Husband is being used a bit facetiously. Why? Simply because he is the reason I am living in this mess...er, condition...er, state. Whatever. It's his fault that I live in a place that's hotter than the fires of hell, stinkier than a men's post-game locker room with backed up toilets, and filled with people who were never taught manners unless they were taught in French--and I don't really think that's what they are saying when they start speaking French under their breath. (Besides, the French are known for many things including fine food and wine, but manners is not one of them.)

Damn Yankees

2005-06-29T11:02:00.000-05:00

Since moving to the deep south, I have been called a "yankee" on more than one occasion. And for some reason, it's considered an insult.

Prior to moving here, I had never actually heard the word yankee used outside of Yosemite Sam cartoons and that rather unfortunate 80's band that had only one good song to their credit. So I was a little stunned to hear it used at all--and flabbergasted to realize that it was meant as an insult. When it's said, it's normally spoken under the person's breath or behind my back and is being used to explain why I so obviously don't fit in. It's often accompanied by the shaking of the head of the person cursing my being born above the Mason-Dixon line.

However, if being a "damn yankee" means...

using my utensils when I eat,
not walking around with squirrel bits in my teeth,
having teeth,
understanding that the five food groups are not fried meat, fried vegatables, fried bread, fried sweets, and cream sauce,
not eating things most people would use as bait,
knowing the meaning and proper use of the coutesy wave in traffic,
not thinking WalMart is the center of the universe,
being alarmed at the sight of cockroaches as big as DH's size 14 shoe,
hating the fact that the towels in my linen closet that I washed yesterday are already damp and smelly from the humidity,
knowing that drinking water should NOT be that color or have that odor,
not liking the smell of raw sewage and stagnant water in the morning...

then please, call me whatever kind of yankee you want. I will take it as the highest form of compliment.

So how's the weather?

2005-06-29T03:50:00.000-05:00

I'm from the North. Michigan, to be exact. A most beautiful state possessing incredible landscapes, majestic and hairy (more on that later) creatures, and four distinct seasons. (Those are spring, summer, autumn, and winter in case any southerners are reading.)

Now, ask any local Cajun, and he'll tell you that Louisiana does so have a winter. And it's cold, darn cold. There's also spring, summer, and fall just like up north. I beg to differ.

First of all, this "winter" is only about a month long. And in my book, it doesn't even qualify as winter unless things are freezing...and nothing freezes down here. Spring is also debateable because we are already wearing shorts in February. Summer...yeah, you get summer. For about eight months of the year. Autumn is like the two weeks between the 100 degree heat and the forty-five degree "winter."

My friends and family up North LOVE to ask me on the phone how the weather is. Unless I'm talking to them in January, the answer is the same: hot. Hot. HOT. "So what's it like?" they want to know. It's like this:

1. Imagine your car on a hot summer day after it's been sitting in the sun with the windows rolled up. Go out and open the door and crawl in the stifling car. Notice how your breath is sucked out of your body? Louisiana.

2. Imagine trying to walk through hot pudding. Louisiana.

3. Imagine living in the sweaty armpit of someone who just lifted weights and ran 4 miles. Louisiana

4. Imagine a steam sauna. One that's crowded with elderly people hoping to sweat out their arthritis pains. Louisiana

5. Imagine being really bad in life and being sentenced to the deepest depths of Dante's Inferno. Louisiana

Are you starting to understand yet?

All that they promised...and more

2005-06-29T03:05:00.000-05:00

So why didn't I want to come to Louisiana? Years ago, there was a study done on different installations. They were rated according to a number of different factors. Of course, those factors included things such as training space and facilities, technology, budgeting blah, blah, blah, and all sorts of other things that didn't really interest me. Then came the part of the study on the quality of life. Aha! This interests me. This part of the study quantified such things as drug abuse (not good), adultery (bad), domestic violence (really bad), divorce (yikes!), and race relations (ok. I'm white, but still).

Who wants to take a guess as to where Louisiana ranked? That's right, folks! Louisiana had one of the highest overall combined scores. And a high score is not good when we are talking percentages.

So why are things so bad here? Maybe it's because we are in the middle of a tropical swamp. Maybe it's because there are more bugs here than in a entomologists collection. Maybe it's the poisonous spiders and snakes and scorpions. Maybe it's having to drive an hour in any direction to get to a mall or a decent restaurant. Maybe it's that we are only a few miles miles over the Texas border from where that black man was dragged to death behind a pickup truck just a few years ago. Maybe it's the almost non-existant job market that pays bargain-basement wages. I don't know; take your pick.

And does it live up to its hype? You betcha.

Jinxed

2005-06-29T02:34:00.000-05:00

Three years ago, my dear husband decided to change his MOS (Military Occupational Specialty), or job, from combat armor to chemical. While filling out the 5,379 pieces of paper necessary for anything in the military, he was asked to make a list of first-choice duty stations. So he calls me and asks me where would I like to live for the next three to six years. I'm pretty easy to please. So being the easy-going person that I am, I have only one request--that we live anywhere but Louisiana. (I'll explain why later.) Golly, that should be easy to do, right?

Yeah. About a month later, my dear husband is in finalizing the paperwork when I get a phone call in the middle of the day. It goes something like this:

DH: "Hey, K. Just up here finishing up the paperwork."

Me: "Everything going all right?"

DH: "Uh, yeah. Uh, we are just working on my next duty assignment."

Me: "Ok."

DH: "So, love..."

Me: "Yes?"

DH: "So, uh, how do you REALLY feel about Louisiana?"

Me: "Oh, crap."

DH: "Yeah."

Me: "Really?"

DH: "Yep."

Me: "Ok."

Now everyone knows that you should never say something that you don't want to happen out loud. You'll only jinx yourself. Like when you're sick and you say "at least I'm not throwing up.' What happens next? That's right--the vomit fairy waves her magic wand. Jinxed.

Why did I have to say "anywhere but Louisiana" out loud?

I'm not from here

2005-06-29T02:27:00.000-05:00

I have to start by saying this: I'm not from here. By here, I mean Cajun Country, Louisiana. No, indeedy. I'm from far, far away from here. What am I doing here? I often ask myself the very same question. I'm here because the Army decided this would be the best place to park my husband for three years. So here we are. Living in Louisiana. Cajun country, at that. I just figured that I'd better get that straight right from the beginning.