A Louisiana corner, in July: Part 1

It is the kind of hot that you start to sense while still inside. The kind that pushes back on you the moment you consider facing it. Heavy, sludgy, steamy; the earth as a cast iron pot full of gumbo that's been simmering over a flame for hours. You remove the lid to taste for seasoning but not before being walloped by a fist of heat.

The windows drip with humidity, lizards hide away in potted plants, people stay indoors unless a good breeze is blowing. Then, a rocking chair on a covered porch with ceiling fans might be tolerable. 

Everything slows down, conserving energy, seeking respite and biding time. 

"When do you run?" I ask a friend.
"Before 6 am or after dinner," she replies as she hands me a bag of sage and sweet red peppers from her garden. It looks like summertime Christmas. The sage leaves are each the size of a cow's ear; they like the sunny sauna just fine.

Southwest Louisiana in July is not for the faint of heart. As those who have attempted to style their hair know, the summertime elements are a forceful blend of sweat-, frizz- and near-panic-inducing inputs. Temperatures and humidity levels regularly hover near 100 (degrees and percent), mosquitos swarm, and swaths of pancake-flat land at or below sea-level provide little in the way of relief. It's an insanity trinity, really, except many of us never seem to succumb. Not enough to stop loving the place, at least. 

It is unlike anywhere else in the U.S.. Acres of thick, wiry St. Augustine carpet run alongside lazy bayous and glassy lakes. Cypress trees -their knees, trunks and stumps- resemble arboreal mountain ranges studding shore and shallow. They are supremely suited for a swampy life, and Louisianians are all the luckier for that. 

Luckier still for the love that Oaks have for Louisiana climes. They grow up and out over the decades, arms reaching into a wide embraces with plenty of room for all. They let us hang hammocks from their trunks and swings from their upper branches. Wooden planks are tacked up as ladders for kids, and birds find their boughs perfect for nests. Spanish moss, a gray hairnet you want to touch, hangs decorously from them too, mysterious curtains behind which anything might be found. 

I often think of my homeland as a verdant swiss cheese: lush green country hole-punched by an intricate system of muddy waterways. Everything is some state of disrepair, for what doesn't shift and age atop an ever-moving, scorching base?

Quite often, the move toward ruin adds immeasurable charm, and indeed, were it not for its dynamism, Louisiana wouldn't be nearly as special: flat and hot aren't much without a constant infusion of je ne sais quoi. And this has led to both a remarkable acceptance of eccentricity and a laissez faire attitude among many down there.

This morning, for example, before I finished packing, the boys wanted to take me for a ride in the golf cart a friend loaned us a few days back. They'd driven with Mom a few times and I was going to see all they'd learned. It wasn't yet 9am, Dad was wearing a hospital greens top tucked into ancient Levis and a sweat-stained cap and clutching a mug of coffee, and I was still in the pajama shorts and tee I'd slept in. I slipped my feet into Mom's fluorescent green Crocs, the five of us belted ourselves into the spunky Precedent and we took off through the neighborhood (this picture is from a previous trip so not representative of just how odd we may have looked).

Ol, sitting on Mom's lap, drove first, and after a lap, Jack took over. Because he is Jack and cannot resist a lever or button, he pressed all available, and we stalled on the main road. Soon enough, he and I were pushing the cart while Mom and Ol steered, and I am telling y'all that not one person seemed to think anything was remotely weird about any aspect of the situation. And if we'd needed help, all passersby would have stopped.

I must have seen 25 people during my few days home. We did the rounds one afternoon but also ran into friendly faces all around town: my childhood dentist; my high school English teacher; the man who sold Tom my wedding band; mothers of friends from elementary school on. All have known me for seemingly ever, some since I was five.

We come away with a bag of just-picked garden tomatoes, a book recommendation, a plea to come swim again, a Mason jar of homemade pimiento cheese. We reminisce, catch up, share a drink and then a tight hug. Nothing is far. So many are familiar. 

I think we can all agree that Louisiana is far from perfect (um, Bobby Jindal anyone?), but I deeply love so much about it.  

Mother as starfish

Today I felt like a starfish on the rack. Pulled in all directions from each limb to the point at which bloody rips started to show.

I changed a little one’s PJs near midnight last night and then took him down to the basement to sleep. We laughed over silly things until I averred that seriously, bedtime was long ago.

I felt a gentle tug on my foot at 4 am. The other one had woken up and wanted me. “Please go back to bed, honey. It’s 4 am.” Later, we had to drag him from his cocoon to get to camp on time.

There were so many tears and so much drama before 9 am. Everyone up but unrested, tired and acting it. I thought to myself, “And I imagined ‘boys’ meant I sidestepped this emotionality,” before nodding back into the present and realizing it didn’t mean that at all. It simply means emotionality shows itself differently, and while it often drives me crazy, it’s no more or less valid and should be both reined in and nurtured.

Back home, I intervened in our dying dishwasher’s cleaning cycle to manually release the detergent tab. I walked Percy, urging him ever-forward on a longer path because I had to snap a picture of our neighborhood church’s sign. It makes me happy and proud and hopeful.

There was so much laundry and so many dishes and the unread email list vastly outnumbered the reads. There were messages to return, a birthday cake recipe to print, a lunch to shower and ready for, a meeting to attend. I was alerted by Facebook's notification flag so many times I went dark, fleeing from all social media except for the blissfully quiet Instagram which is just a whole bunch of pretty on scroll.

And the fruit flies. Oh, the fruit flies. It is peak season for their annual migration into our fruit-filled kitchen. I hate their gnattiness and while I pride myself on being a hell of a fruit fly assassin, their numbers are too great this year, and I’m swarmed.

My meeting ran three minutes late, and I found Oliver outside on the camp steps –mere feet from where I was and where the camp heads should have told him I sat- looking heartbroken and terrified: was I ever going to arrive? His lip was trembling, and I ran to him, scooped him up and asked what I could do. Flummoxed, which made it all worse, he said he didn’t know. Cupcakes? Fro-yo? The bookstore? “I just don’t know, Mama.” Oh, my heart.

I took him to Fancy Cakes and purchased a fancy cupcake which he devoured gleefully. He eyed the case again, and guilt-ridden and wild with love, I bought a second cupcake. 75% of the way through, “Mama, I don’t feel so good.” Dumb mom.

Home to read stories and drink fizzy water, and the laundry. So much of it. Pokemon and tears over a poor Energy Card decision. I think, can’t you just listen to me read to you or play with blocks? Why aren’t kids just kids anymore? Or was it always this way.

Back out to pick Jack up at his big-kid camp at a local university. Come to find Days of Our Lives was on the cafeteria TV and he saw a sex scene. He’s not yet nine. I was upset but stayed calm and asked, “Well, honey, do you have any questions? Do you feel OK?” I emailed the director asking her –telling her- to make sure the damn TV is OFF or at least on age-appropriate programming. I tell her, “My son has never seen this before, but now he has.” Via Days of Our fucking Lives. #NOTreallife

More overtired tears shed over the ban on dessert after dinner because the cupcakes and the fresh jelly donut I bought yesterday just for Jack and wrapped carefully and packed in his lunch box just so. “You are SO unfair, Mom!” is thrown in my face, and I think to myself, “fuck this spoiled attitude!” while also thinking, “What a tired little boy he is. I’m glad I’m here for him.” while also thinking, “Hell, it’d be nice to not be here right now.”

I ask for the Energy Cards back because “y’all cannot talk to me or each other in the manner that you are” and then get major attitude from one about bath time while the other, always thrilled to get naked, undresses but then just wants us to observe his bottom.

I think they get clean, I brush their teeth, tuck one in, listen as the one who refused to finish dinner (which of course I’ve put away) tells me that he is now starving and wants it back. The dog, cat, washing machine, phone. They are ALL talking. And look at me, still in a dress and swingy necklace from lunch. Who am I kidding? Was that even today?

The little one says he might “fwhoa up and can I please have a Tums?” “What a good idea, darling, and how about some fizzy water too.”

The big one says, “Mom, can we do the puzzle together because I love to do things with you,” and I say, “Sure honey, you are always so good at finding the confusing pieces.”

And I’m so glad I’m here although I often want to be there, and isn’t that just the thing about parenthood.

Looks like a hug

Finally, they are in bed. I think for good. My starfish arms have freed and are retracting themselves, some good cheese, a watermelon and spicy watercress salad and a bourbon shrub eased the rest. Tom called, “I’m going to be late.” And I said, “Baby, that is A-OK.”

Eggshells, eggplant, a concert

Great news for all my gardening readers: eggshells again save the day. Not only are they great in compost but also they have saved my Mexican Midget heirloom tomato from blossom-end rot. That Mexican Midget seems an awfully un-PC name is a different story but for now, if you too have watched with dismay many a beautiful heirloom tom blacken from the flower end up, go stick some crushes eggshells in the dirt around the plant stem. I was not scientific or neat about this at all; I literally crumpled eggshells with my fingers, used a dinner spoon to scoop up divets around the base and shoved the shells in. 

Eggplant. I do love eggplant but sometimes tire of baba ghanoush and involtini. Last night, inspired by nothing more than the desire for something different, I heated my trusty Lodge and added some grapeseed oil, minced garlic and ginger, hot chiles, fish sauce, ponzu, Thai chili sauce, brown sugar an the gorgeous melanzane T picked up at the farmers market for me on Sunday. 

The skillet was so hot that the eggplant cooked quickly and were lacquered in the reduced sauce. It looked like ebony caramel. I served it over sushi rice and dressed it with chives. Bellissima!

I desperately needed to do something with the summer squash and fill languishing in the fridge, so tossed them with freshly shelled peas in a hot saute pan and afterwards added feta and mint. Tom loathes dill so loathed this dish, but I found it pretty and pleasing.

I woke up tired this morning, probably because I heard Jack tiptoeing downstairs at 5am. I chose to think it was Nutmeg but knew better. I found my dear son eating a can of room temp black beans ("I made them myself, Mom!") and working on the computer. Uh, no. To bed, sir! 

Busy day, my energy really waned around 4, but I rallied and for good reason: T and I are at Wolf Trap, a lovely outdoor concert venue, waiting to hear John Fogerty play.  

What's nicer than a gourmet picnic al fresco, on a beautiful night in the middle of the week, with the spouse you don't see enough of in grown-up contexts?

Cheers to eggshells, eggplant, trying new things, CCR and making time!