Monthly Archives: April 2011

I (heart) NOLA

And I want my kids to (heart) it, too. So when I realized that my Little Guy wasn’t developing the same affinity for it that the rest of us share, I had a mission: to convert this suburban kid into a proper New Orleanian.

I feel blessed that I got to grow up here, and that – after wandering about for a few years – my husband and I decided to return and raise our family here. We settled in the ‘burbs for mundane reasons (insurance, property taxes, sidewalks you can safely ride a tricycle on, and playgrounds) but our hearts were always in The City. Despite our mailing address saying otherwise, we consider ourselves New Orleanians. (By the way, New Orleanians NEVER refer to our hometown as “The Big Easy.” It’s The Crescent City, The City, or NOLA.)

Back in the day (before we had kids) my husband and I were very cool people. We would hop in our car (a shiny, blue Alfa Romeo convertible!) and drive around The City, looking for a place to land. Like most we developed a pattern of regular places, but we were always eager to find a new spot, too.

When our first round of kids came along, except for dragging around more gear, our pace didn’t change much. We continued our regular jaunts to the French Quarter, City Park, and Uptown. We’d go to Mass at the Cathedral, have dinner in the Quarter, and walk along the river. Once we rode the entire streetcar line – from the beginning to the end of the line and all the way back. New Orleans was our extended back yard. As the kids got old enough to start whining about these “adventures,” we caved in and did it less often. But when we had visitors to show around, or a grown-up night out, our car instinctively crossed the 17^th Street Canal* into The City.

The City would become an integral part of our big kids’ lives, too. They went to middle school in City Park, and high school in Mid-City, so they returned to the familiar paths we once roamed. They practiced lacrosse at Scout Island, played games at Pan-American Stadium, and ate dessert at Brocato’s. Unlike many suburban kids, going into The City was part of their daily life.

So when the Little Guy started showing signs that he’d rather remain in suburbia, I knew I needed to do something about it. (I learned this on a recent field trip to the Musee Conti wax museum, when he wanted to go home rather than roam the streets of the Quarter with his friends from school.) Seizing a day from Spring Break this week, I planned an outing designed to make him become aware of the very cool things that are in our big back yard, and turn on his lust for all it has to offer (well, almost all of what it has to offer. He’ll have to learn the rest from his brothers in a few years.)

Since no adventure is complete without a running buddy, I called the mom of his friend K, and she was in. A little brainstorming and a plan was hatched. There were some logistics to consider (picking up The Middle Child and K’s brother from school at 3:00), so we decided to leave our cars in Mid-City and take the streetcar down Canal Street to The French Quarter. We wanted to roam aimlessly (sort of), have lunch someplace cool, and roam down a different path back to the streetcar line. (I prefer to do this kind of thing with a VERY LOOSE PLAN, to avoid turning into a drill sergeant, which doesn’t become me at all, and can bring the mood down in a milli-second.) Knowing my Little Guy as I do, I feared it would turn into a whining session fast if his brain wasn’t engaged in the moment, so I made a scavenger hunt-list of things he and K would have to find on our adventure. Operation I (heart) NOLA was born!

We learned some historical things (that the Battle of New Orleans was fought after the War of 1812 had officially ended), some interesting things (that pigeons will eat Red Beans and Rice from your plate if you’re not paying attention), and some practical things (that the mystery fluid along the street is called Party Gravy, and you NEVER touch anything in it).

B & K riding the streetcar, acting goofy.

Lunch at the Gazebo Cafe.

Statue of Joan of Arc, patroness of New Orleans. (Joanie on the Pony to us.)

We learned that NOLA has her own rhythm (played to the beat of street musicians), and that streetcars aren’t very predictable (give yourself extra time when relying on them for transportation).

Street performer playing a James Taylor tune.

Lucky Dog vendor (We did not eat Lucky Dogs. I have conflicting opinions about whether that’s a cool thing to do or a game of intestinal roulette.)

We marveled at the beautiful paintings on the ceiling of the St. Louis Cathedral (how did they do that) and discovered the secret courtyards tucked between the beautiful buildings in the Quarter.

B & K at Jackson Square. B acting goofy again.

Completed scavenger hunt! (We had to re-route in the interest of time, so we skipped the Market and went back via the Hard Rock Café.)

Operation I (heart) NOLA was a success! Next year, the Little Guy will transition to his new school in The City. As he starts venturing there daily I hope he develops the same love for NOLA that his dad and I share. I hope he learns to love it so much that he’ll never want to leave!

(For a complete list of awesome places to visit in New Orleans, send The Lucky Mom a message!)

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Stuff you might not know:

*The 17^th Street Canal divides Jefferson Parish and Orleans Parish. (We call our counties “parishes” in Louisiana.) It became infamous when, during Hurricane Katrina, the canal’s levee failed, flooding the adjacent part of town.

Lovin’

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Here are a few of the things I’m Lovin’!

Having my son home for Spring Break
Fresh cut flowers from my garden
Leftovers
Clean closets
White wine in my colorful new wine glasses
Hugs from my boys
Hot, boiled crawfish
Working on costumes for the school play
The anticipation of summer
My husband’s smile
Having company

Tell me what you’re lovin’ these days!

Table for 12

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I love my dining room. Not because it’s all that fancy, or because we eat dinner in there all that often. But because it’s become one of the places where the “Kodak moments” of my life seem to happen. (I’m dating myself with the use of the term “Kodak moments,” aren’t I??)

My dining room is at the front of the house, just to the right of the front door, so it’s often the first impression people get when they visit my home for the first time. In fact, if the rest of downstairs looks like it usually does, I will occasionally usher a visitor in that direction to avoid the general clutter that typically invades the direct path in. For Halloween, when I’m opening the door for lots of people, I stage the table with decorations and candles, giving an ooohhh-aaahhh impression to those who peek in. (It’s fine with me if they think it always looks like that!)

It serves us well for homework and studying. The outlets in the room are usually available for a visiting laptop, and the big table is perfect for laying out flash cards or spreading out notes.

This is my first house with a real dining room. When we moved in I had visions of fancy-smanchy dinner parties and grown-up soirees, with guests milling around, admiring my china and sipping from my good crystal. Those events never did come to pass, but the things that have happened in this room have been even better.

I serve my holiday meals there, usually with extra tables pulled in for the family and friends who come to share special days with us. Yesterday, as I was setting the table for Easter dinner, a wave of nostalgia came over me, and I started thinking about the memories the room had. Snapshots flashed through my mind, and a smile came to The Lucky Mom’s face.

Christmas 2008, the year my husband was in Iraq. That year we only had 10 people at the table, but it was important to me to keep my tradition going.

We moved here in 1999. That Christmas was the first time I was able to seat all of our guests in the same area. We had several tables pushed together, spilling into the living room. But we were all there. A few years prior I had bought enough “party china” to serve more people than could possibly gather in my house. I checked online to make sure the place settings were done right. The room looked beautiful.

Thanksgiving of 2006 was the first holiday that our best friends (the ones we celebrate all special events and holidays with) were back in their house after Katrina. After we sat down, my dear friend Elena said the blessing. With her voice shaking and tears in her eyes, she gave thanks that we were all together again. I’ll never forget that moment, for it reminded us of what really matters.

Our holiday crew has changed quite a bit over the years. After Katrina, one whole branch of our family tree moved to Houston. The next year, my mom went to heaven, and Gramps is now in a nursing home. As for the “kid’s table,” 3 of the kids are in college, and 2 are over 6’ tall. But they’re still our “kids,” and sit at their designated table without complaint.

Setting up the dining room for holidays is a bit of work — bringing in extra tables and chairs, pulling out the china, finding enough silverware for everyone. Picking it all up is definitely a chore.

But I love it when my dining room looks like this:

because it means people I love are on their way!

Nerd + Nerd = More Nerds

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{ Source: Sony Pictures Animation }

nerd (noun \ˈnərd\): an unstylish, unattractive, or socially inept person; especially : one slavishly devoted to intellectual or academic pursuits

(Yes, I looked it up. It’s what I do.)

The Caboose came home from school a few days ago in a bad mood. He went up to his room to sulk for a little while, then appeared in the kitchen a few moments later, ready to talk about it.

Him: I’m glad I’m not going back to that school next year.

Me: (Concerned look.) Why?

Him: Because they have too many bullies.

Me: (Seething.) What happened?

Him: The popular kids were calling me and my friends names.

Me: (Seething more.) What did they call you?

Him: Nerds.

Me: (Sympathetic look.) Aww.

You must understand, “aww” was the word that came out of my mouth, but my brain was saying “yessss!” For I know the path of a nerd. And it turned out just fine for me.

You see, I’m a nerd. To be specific, I’m an English Nerd. My husband is also a nerd. He’s a Computer Nerd. Turns out that when two nerds marry and have kids, guess what their offspring turn out to be. You got it…more nerds.

Now I use the term with great affection. Many of my closest friends are nerds. (Go figure.) But coming to terms with being a nerd is a long process. And my Little Guy just isn’t there yet. It’s my job to get him there.

When my kids read this (…who am I kidding, they don’t read my blog…) they’re not going to be happy. Having one’s mom tell the world you’re a nerd can’t be good for adolescent self-esteem, but deep down I think the two older kids already know.

As for The Caboose, I’ll tell him over and over that he shouldn’t listen to what other people say. I’ll reinforce the philosophy that “it’s what’s inside that matters.” I’ll remind him that he has many friends who like him just the way he is. But he’ll still want to be more like the popular kids. And he’ll want to be one of them. It’s part of growing up.

This week is my College Boy’s Spring Break. (Some of my friends have been expressing woe over their kids going to the beach for Spring Break. I can’t even imagine that level of worry.) When he said he planned to stay home, I was quite relieved. Then a magical thing happened: his girlfriend came to our house, and tucked under her arm was a physics book. I almost cried. They spent the afternoon at the dining room table with laptops and physics books. He has (at least on a sub-conscious level) realized he’s a nerd, embraced it, and is seeking out others like him. The circle of life is complete for that one.

The wild-card among my children appears to be Slick, the middle child. He has cool hair, a quick wit, and a free spirit. He plays two team sports. This apple may roll a little farther from the tree than the others. (He’ll probably be a Democrat.) But he did set his alarm for 3:30 A.M. a few days ago to wake up and study for a Latin test, so he’s clearly showing nerdy tendencies.

Raising a house full of nerds has made me happier and prouder than I ever could have imagined. I’ve realized that the world has enough Alpha Males. It needs more Nerds. It needs more people who value intelligence over attention and substance over style. I’m happily doing my part for the greater good!

So, to all the popular girls who called me names in high school, thank you. (I’m sure some of you turned out nicely, too.)

Braciolone Note: Barding

Mama Mia

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Twenty five years ago, I married a half-Sicilian New Orleanian. Anyone who knows anything about Italian boys from New Orleans knows that means he came with a big, loud, Italian family, and an Italian mother who loved to cook. And her signature dish was bracioloni.*

This dish was served at all high holidays, and whenever an out-of-town relative was visiting. All those gathered anticipated it, raved about it, and devoured it. It was the apex of the food experience.

Now, I myself come from a long line of good cooks. Half Cajun and half redneck, I jest frequently that I can cook anything — whether it comes from a grocery store or comes home in an ice chest. From my grandmother’s chicken and dumplings to my mother’s duck, I’ve been taking it in my whole life. But once I figured out the relationship between my husband and his mother’s cooking, I vowed I would never cook Italian food while she was still alive. There was just no reason to put myself through that process. It would never be as good, and I would never hear the end of it.

But the fact is, I really like Italian food, and my kids really like it, too. So I started introducing some entry-level dishes to my husband and kids, like lasagna and chicken cacciatore. They gave them rave reviews, and boosted my confidence. When I saw a local chef presenting his bracioloni recipe on TV, he captured my attention. I listened intently to his technique, and paid a visit to his grocery store/butcher shop the next day. Armed with his advice, a small container of his “secret” seasoning blend, and a perfectly cut flank steak, I decided to give it a try.

It was quite different from my mother-in-law’s version of the dish, which made me feel better. Rather than trying to out-do her, I was exploring my own variation of this favorite. I did all the work while no one was home, thinking I could throw it away without anyone being the wiser if it was lousy. But it wasn’t. It was terrific, and my husband raved that it was better than his mother’s.** I didn’t know if he was just being kind, or if it was actually that good, but when he asked me when I was planning to make it again I was validated. Even though my mother-in-law was alive and well, I had shaken off my fear. An Italian chef was born!

As all good Southern cooks do, I’ve tweaked the recipe a bit, and my family loves it. So when College Boy came home for Spring Break I decided to pull out the stops and reward him for spending the week with us, instead of going to the beach like everyone else.

Following this post is the photo-essay/recipe for The Lucky Mom’s bracioloni. If you feel like trying it, let me know. I’d love to hear how it turns out.

Fine print:

*The exact spelling and pronunciation of this dish is disputed everywhere. Braciole, bracioloni, brocioloni, whatever. It’s a fabulous stuffed, rolled meat.

** If anyone tells her this we will both categorically deny it.

Braciole — or Bracioloni — or Brociolone

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2 onions, chopped
1 red sweet pepper
1 yellow sweet pepper
2 tbsp minced garlic
¼ cup of chopped Italian parsley
¼ cup pine nuts
2 cups of bread crumbs
6 slices of provolone cheese, chopped
1 cup of parmesan cheese
Olive oil
10-12 pieces of very thin beef – Flank steak or Milanese cut steak
10-12 slices of prosciutto
Lots of red gravy (marinara sauce)

Pan prep: olive oil in the bottom of the pan. (I like to use a glass pan. It doesn’t stick as badly, and is easier to clean.)

Saute the first 5 ingredients in a little olive oil, until the onions are clear.

Saute veggies til onions are clear. (There are no streaks that became visible with the bright flash of light. That is an illusion. My stove is spotless.)

Set aside to cool. In a large mixing bowl, mix the bread crumbs and both cheeses. Add the sautéed mixture, and add olive oil until it is thoroughly mixed and crumbly.

At this point in the recipe, all chopping is completed, and sipping wine is permitted.

Place the meat on a cutting board and spread the stuffing across the entire piece.

Roll it carefully, starting from the narrow end. Wrap each roll in prosciutto to keep the roll from separating while cooking. ~~My mother-in-law~~ Some recipes will tell you to use string to tie the roll closed. DON’T DO THIS. It makes a huge mess and gets red gravy all over everyone’s clothes when you have to remove it.

The prosciutto will tighten and secure the rolls while they cook.

Place the rolls in your pan, and bake in a 450 degree oven for 10-15 minutes, until the prosciutto tightens and the rolls are lightly browned.

This is what NOT TO DO. I poured the sauce over the rolls before putting them in the oven to brown. Even though I scooped off as much as I could, there was too much moisture, and the prosciutto didnt shrink enough. Oh, well. They still tasted good.

Remove from the oven, and reduce the temperature to 225 degrees. Pour marinara sauce over all the rolls, and cover the dish with foil. Return to the oven for 1 ½ hours.

Serve with pasta and warm bread. Listen for the yummy noises from your family.

Variations:

You may use a very large piece of beef, and make one family-sized braciole. If you do this, wrap the prosciutto slices along the entire length of the roll. Serve it on a big platter, sliced.

I make some without cheese for one of my kids who can’t have cheese… still yummy!

Next time I’m going to add some chopped sun-dried tomatoes to the stuffing.

Lovin’

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Hugs from my boys
Warm days, cool evenings
Lunch with friends
Lacrosse season
American Idol
Spring flowers
Weekends with my family
Reconnecting with old friends

Tell me what you’re Lovin’ these days!

The Long Goodbye

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Those who have a loved one with Alzheimer’s know what this means.

The term was made famous when Nancy Reagan described her husband’s slip into a distant world. We all get its meaning, but only those of us who live with it truly understand it.

My father-in-law, “Gramps” to all of us, started experiencing lapses in judgment about 15 years ago. At first it was of little consequence, just slight confusion and poor decision-making. It slipped into forgetfulness and some short-term memory loss. Within a few years the confusion grew, and the memory loss became more profound. Simple household tasks were becoming off-limits, and driving was no longer safe. His wife assumed the 24-hour responsibility, and the 36-hour day. As it became no longer safe for him to be left unattended at home, Gramps became a frequent face at our house, allowing his wife a few precious hours to herself. Then sitters became part of the routine, and eventually, a search for an appropriate facility to relocate him.

While this was happening, the impression my kids had of their grandfather changed as well. Only my oldest son has memories of Gramps when he was “whole” – when he worked, drove a car, and remembered their names. My middle son remembers him in the beginning of his decline. He recalls going fishing, throwing a ball, going on vacations together. But my little guy has only known Alzheimer’s Gramps.

In a way, the little guy has the easiest load to cope with, because he only remembers Gramps the way he is now. He didn’t have to watch him slip away from us. He understands what Alzheimer’s is, and knows first-hand what it means.

In his prime, Gramps was an amazing man. He worked tirelessly for his family. In a story we can all relate to today, Gramps worked two jobs to rebuild his family’s losses after Hurricane Betsy. He was generous, kind, and polite to a fault. His wife never touched a vacuum cleaner, or pumped gas. When his children cried at night, he paced the floor with them. He served in the Navy with his twin brother, and served his community as a Shriner.

He currently resides at a skilled-care facility for Veterans, the third residential facility we’ve placed him in. It’s not a VA facility, but a partnership between the state and the VA. As a war vets home, it’s mostly men, and a place where he seems to feel comfortable with his neighbors.

Which brings me to today.

We had a lacrosse game in Baton Rouge, and stopped to see Gramps at his “home” on our way home this afternoon. While we adults visit often, we keep our visits with the kids controlled, limited to times when we think Gramps will be receptive to visitors, and under conditions that won’t freak them out.

We arrived in the early afternoon, and I ushered the boys to the family room, while hubby went to retrieve Gramps from the secure Alzheimer’s unit. Some of the other residents are in states of deeper decline, and visiting the unit can be uncomfortable even for adults. So Gramps greeted the boys in the game room, where the air hockey and pool tables waited, and other families visited with their loved ones. We spent about an hour visiting with him, playing games, and talking.

Watching them interact with their grandfather was a beautiful thing. They played pool with patience, explaining the rules with every turn, and laughing along when things got confusing. They reminded him of their names, what grade they’re in, and promised to visit more often.

As the rate of his decline continues to accelerate, opportunities like today will come less often. Catching him on a good day will be a gift, and the number of times they get to make memories with their grandfather will decrease. And when he can no longer interact with them, and no longer remembers them, they will have something to cling to. So will I.