Category Archives: Cajun culture

Cajun culture, Current events - state & local, Domestic Bliss, General, Weather

It just doesn’t happen here

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This is a picture out of the window of our house looking across my front yard.

For those who don’t get it, that’s SNOW. A little over THREE inches! Thirty miles from the Gulf of Mexico America, and we’ve got snow. Just to bring you up to speed, South Louisiana gets an accumulation of snow about once every decade. This is that.

Yeah, I can hear you all now… “‘Tis nothing.” Maybe to places north of here, but right now my state is SHUT DOWN. Seriously, it’s better that way. These people have enough trouble driving on dry roads.

Me? I did Korea. Germany. Kentucky. North Dakota in January. I know the deal. I am exercising the Louisiana subroutine. That’s “stay home and enjoy a good, hot bowl of gumbo and some old movies.

And three hours later, it’s more than SIX inches. Youngest dog, Oscar, went out, madea little loop in the back yard, then started barking to come back in. Oldest dog, Charlie, saw all the white stuff, declared the demise of the world as he knows it, and refused to go outside.

Blogging, Cajun culture, Current events - global, Current events - national, Domestic Bliss

Christmas Week

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Starting off with a bit of somewhat domestic bliss. I got up with the dogs this morning at 0730. Fifty-one degrees right now, up from the night’s low of thirty-eight. Puppers are fed and the youngest, Oscar, is curled up on the footrest. Very comforting.

Christmas is upon us. I don’t know the schedule other than Christmas meal is a big pot of chicken and sausage gumbo at the mother-in-law’s place. For a transplanted Georgia lady (the state, not the country) she does and excellent gumbo. A great locally-produced sausage is helpful.

Everything at the house is working, the weather looks to be mostly good. I think the government is going to hold together. I still get the feeling that the final Biden-Harris poke in the eye of America would be for Biden to step down to allow Kneepads Harris to actually BE the first woman president. Matter of fact, I further surmise that Jill Biden is threatening mayhem to keep this from happening. Still, it’s well within the capabilities of the dimmocrat party.

You really don’t expect it to be this easy, do you? Massive loss in an election, and we haven’t seen a single riot. Major media is strangely silent. I still don’t think they are buying the loss, so hang one.

And Merry Christmas.

Cajun culture, Current events - national, Current events - state & local, Weather

here we go again…

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I failed to mention that June 1 is the official beginning of hurricane season. We’re two weeks into it now. Florida already took a hit from a tropical wave. That means a lot of rain and some wind below ‘tropical storm’ magnitude. That’s 39-73 MPH.

There’s another wave at the southern edge of the Gulf of Mexico.  It MAY reach tropical storm strength before it rolls into eastern Mexico.  Or not.  More rain and wind.

The ‘experts’ predict a more active than normal season this year.  Like last year.  And the year before that, and the year…  You  get the idea.  You went to college to be a  meteorologist.  You don’t get air time by predicting fair winds and calm seas, do you?

Before weather satellite coverage, a lot of these ‘events’ came and went almost undiscovered.  Now, satellites monitor continuously and if four clouds appear in the same shot together, it gets classified as a tropical wave and a team of professional cassandras starts moaning about global warming.

And generally, come September, somebody quietly announces that just maybe this isn’t a particularly active season.  That gets a lot less coverage than the “O.M.G! We’re all DOOMED!” message back in May.

Doesn’t matter what they  say anyway.  A BAD season is when YOU get hit.  We had bad seasons:  1957-Audrey. 2005-Rita. 2020 – Laura and Delta.

All we can do is watch and pray.

Cajun culture, Wheels of Industry, Wildlife

Wandering

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Yesterday at 1701 hours my phone went off.  The name was one of my co-workers who is the technician for a couple of natural gas compressor stations in the heart of Cajun country.  He has the accent to go with it.

Me:  This can’t be good.  What’d you blow up?

Him:  Lemme tell you what’s happening.  We just installed some new stuff and now a circuit breaker’s tripping…

And he laid out a tale of woe.  My task was trying to reconstruct what the problem was.

Only one solution:  Site visit!

Ninety miles, much up I-10 on the outbound route, I arrived at the site at 0730.

Problem was that a decision was made to change the heating in the office building from the previous natural gas system to electrical.

Yes, I’m astounded too.  I mean, it’s a NATURAL GAS compressor station.  We move millions of cubic feet of the stuff every day at over thousand pounds of pressure.

But nooooo…  Let’s do electricity.  IN a building with the original electrical installation straight out of the 1960’s.

Fact, folks!  In a normal American home, electric heat is the single largest load.

We hadn’t provided for adding that kind of load.  No big deal, though – just up-size the building’s transformer fifty percent.   Which means an up-sized circuit breaker for a panel that’s sixty years old.  So, new panel, okay?  And since that new transformer is going to put out the higher current we need, we can add new, up-sized cable from that transformer to the distribution panel.

No big deal.  All it takes is money and time.  Job done!

Driving the ninety miles from the station back to the office I avoided I-10, choosing instead Louisiana Highway 14 which meanders through farmlands and swamps and small towns.

Winter is waterfowl season down here.  I saw and enjoyed the huge flocks of geese – snows and specklebellies mostly, plus other wading birds, ibis by the thousands, white, black and the occasional red for punctuation.

It’s also hawk season.  I saw a large hawk of various varieties at a rate about one per mile.

Other attraction of this section of highway is that the section between the little towns of Lake Arthur and Hayes runs through cypress swamp.  In places, the canopy of cypress arches over the road and the sides of the road are lined with trees, complete with the knees unique to the cypress tree.

All in all, a very pleasant day.  And I get paid for this.

Blogging, Cajun culture

Cajun Meets “Twelve Days of Christmas

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ANOTHER TAKE ON THE OLD FAVORITE…

(Previously posted in 2004, when this blog was new and had like a hundred readers)

Day 1. Dear Emile, Thanks for da bird in the Pear tree. I fixed it las night with dirty rice an it was delicious. I doan tink the Pear tree would grow in de swamp, so I swapped it for a Satsuma.

Day 2. Dear Emile, Your letter said you sent 2 turtle dove, but all I got was 2 scrawny pigeon.  Anyway, I mixed them with andouille and made some gumbo out of dem.

Day 3. Dear Emile, Why doan you sen me some crawfish? I’m tired of eating dem darned bird. I gave two of those prissy French chicken to Mrs. Fontenot over at Grand Chenier, and fed the tird one to my dog, Phideaux. Mrs. Fontenot needed some sparring partners for her fighting rooster.

Day 4. Dear Emile, Mon Dieux! I tole you no more of dem bird. Deez four, what you call “calling bird” wuz so noisy you could hear dem all da’ way to Lafayette. I used they necks for my crab traps, and fed the rest of dem to the gators.

Day 5. Dear Emile, You finally sent something useful. I liked dem golden rings, me. I hocked dem at da’ pawn shop in Sulphur and got enough money to fix the shaft on my shrimp boat, and to buy a round for da boys at the Raisin’ Cane Lounge.

Merci Beaucoup!

Day 6. Dear Emile, Couchon! Back to da birds, you coonass turkey! Poor egg sucking Phideaux is scared to death ah dem six goose. He try to eat they eggs and they pecked the heck out ah his snout. Dem goose are damm good at eating cockroach around da’ house, though. I may stuff one ah dem goose with erster dressing to serve him on Christmas Day.

Day 7. Dear Emile, I’m gonna wring your fool neck next time I see you. Ole Boudreaux, da mailman, is ready to kill you, too. The crap from all dem bird is stinkin up his mailboat. He afraid someone will slip on dat stuff and gonna sue him. I let dem seven swan loose to swim on da bayou and some stupid hunter from Mississippi done blasted dem out da water. Talk to you tomorrow.

Day 8. Dear Emile, Poor ole Boudreaux had to make 3 trips on his mailboat to deliver dem 8 maids-a-milking & der cows. One of dem cows got spooked by da alligators and almost tipped over da boat. I doan like dem shiftless maids, me. I told dem to get to work gutting fish and sweeping my shack–but dey say it wasn’t in their contract. They probably tink they too good to skin all dem nutria I caught las night.

Day 9. Dear Emile, What you trying to do? Boudreaux had to borrow da Cameron Ferry to carry these jumping twits you call lords-a-leaping across da bayou. As soon as dey got here dey wanted a tea break and crumpets. I doan know what dat means but I says, “Well la di da. You get Community coffee or nuthin.” Mon Dieux, Emile, what I’m gonna feed all these bozos? They too snooty for fried nutria, and da cow ate up all my turnip green.

Day 10. Dear Emile, You got to be out of you mind. If da mailman don’t kill you, I will. Today he deliver 10 half nekkid floozies from Bourbon Street. Dey said they be ladies dancing” but they doan act like ladies in front of dem Limey sailing boys. Dey almost left after one of them got bit by a water moccasin over by my out- house. I had to butcher 2 cows to feed toute le monde (everybody) and get toilet paper rolls. The Sears catalog wasn’t good enough for dem hoity toity lords. Talk at you tomorrow.

Day 11. Dear Emile, Where Y’at? Cherio and pip pip. You 11 Pipers Piping arrived today from the House of Blues, second lining as dey got off da boat. We fixed stuffed goose and beef jumbalaya, finished da whiskey, and we’re having a fais-do-do. Da’ new mailman drank a bottle of Jack Daniel, and he’s having a good old time dancing with the floozies. Da’ old mailman done jump off the Moss Bluff Bridge yesterday, screaming you name. If you happen to get a mysterious-looking, ticking package in da mail, don’t open it.

Day 12. Dear Emile, Me I’m sorry to tell you–but I am not your true love anymore. After the fais-do-do, I spent da night with Jacque, the head piper. We decide to open a restaurant and gentlemen’s club on the bayou. The floozies–pardon me–ladies dancing can make $20 for a table dance, and the lords can be the waiters and valet park da boats. Since da’ maids have no more cows to milk, I trained dem to set my crab traps, watch my trotlines, and run my shrimping business. We’ll probably gross a million dollars next year.

Blogging, Cajun culture

The Cajun Twelve Days Of Christmas

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On dem first day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
A crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem second day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Two voodoo dolls
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem third day of Christmas my true love she gave to me:
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem fourth day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem fifth day of Christmas,
I could not believe in all my days what she come up with:
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem sixth day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem seventh day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem eighth day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Eight crabs a brewin’,
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem ninth day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Nine oysters stewin’,
Eight crabs a brewin’,
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem tenth day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Ten pirogue paddles,
Nine oysters stewin’,
Eight crabs a brewin’,
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem eleventh day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Eleven duck decoys,
Ten pirogue paddles,
Nine oysters stewin’,
Eight crabs a brewin’,
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem twelveth day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Twelve shotgun shells,
Eleven duck decoys,
Ten pirogue paddles,
Nine oysters stewin’,
Eight crabs a brewin’,
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

** Notes: a pirogue (pronounced pee-roh) is a flat-bottomed canoe; fleur de lis is the flower of the french kings and the New Orleans Saints football symbol; cypress knees are the roots of a cypress tree that sticks out of the water; poules d’eau (pronounced pool-doo) is chicken or hen of the water – ie: a coot or duck; pousse cafe’ (pronounced poose kaffay) is coffee with a bit of alcohol in it; and Cajuns are the Americans who left France, got run out of Canada and now live in southern Louisiana.

Cajun culture, Domestic Bliss, Recipes and Food

Couldn’t wait!

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It’s not exactly the weather to have a big pork roast simmering on the stove, but that’s what I have going on today. Sweetie picked on up a couple of days ago, so it’s her fault. Most of a head of garlic, salt and pepper, an onion…

There was a period of time when one could Google ‘pot roast’ and it would lead to this post on my blog.

Nice thing is it’s a big lump of meat and will serve today’s needs well as well as providing leftovers. That’s the way Mom (and Grandma and Great-grandma and Cajun cooks all the way back) did it.

Sometimes the potroast was the main course for an extended family dinner, sometimes it was just some basic Cajun home economics because after the big day, Dad would take some to work in his lunch and we’d get a reprise off a big roast, and when the leftovers started dwindling, it would be boned out, chopped up, the gravy stretched a little, and mixed with rice to make our version of jambalaya.

Yes, we never had ‘jambalaya’ as a dish built from scratch. It was always a way to stretch leftovers.

Cajun culture, Recipes and Food

Grandma Never Made Chicken Wings

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Admit a weakness:  I participate in Facebook food forums, mostly about Cajun versus Creole, i.e., Louisiana cuisine.

I’m Cajun – 75%.  I spent a lot of time in the kitchens of Cajun women growing up – Cajuns who learned their skills in the kitchens of their own parents.  I consider that fact to be my credentials.

Great-grandmother – Dad’s grandmother,  was a LeBleu married to a LeDoux, names that showed up in Louisiana after the British ran us out of Canada.  Those people hadn’t been in France for a hundred years before that, and upon arrival in Louisiana, they found that New Orleans was populated by the same ‘French’ that they’d left France to avoid in the first place.  Us Acadians – Cajuns now – moved on into south central Louisiana, an are now called Acadiana.

Totally different than New Orleans. New Orleans, the home of privileged French, had servants, many of then slaves, to do meal prep for them.  They had access to ingredients and spices imported into the port of New Orleans.  That’s Creole food – more ingredients, more labor-intensive techniques.  totally legitimate Louisiana food.

Just NOT Cajun.

Grandma, like those before her, had a household to run.  Her ‘help’ was the labor of her children.  Her ingredients – before electricity and refrigeration – were those that would keep on the shelf of the pantry, or things that would store without refrigeration.

Chicken wings?  A chicken had two of them.  The chicken didn’t need refrigeration as long as it was running around the yard.  (Grandma didn’t allow chickens in her fenced-in yard.  They had free range outside it.  No little wet chicken surprises in HER yard).

One chicken – one meal. Fried chicken was a rarity.  Chickens usually went into fricassee or gumbo, both of which would ‘stretch’ to feed a house full of guests.

Grandma worked magic with food.  Her pantry of spices included salt, black pepper, cinnamon, dried ginger, nutmeg – things that could be brought home from a trip into town that took a day, or later, bought from the truck of the travelling Watkins salesman’s truck.

Outside the kitchen was a little patch that grew parsley and bunching onions. A little garden provided  vegetables in season.  Cucumbers lasted a year as pickles.  Okra, tomatoes, squash, eggplant, peppers (bell and cayenne) came from the garden.

So did potatoes – red “Irish” potatoes, planted in late February, harvested a couple months later, laid in a single layer on the floor of the ‘potato house’.  We’d have potatoes well into fall of that year.  Of course, in Cajun homes, potatoes took a back seat to rice as an everyday starch in meals.

Aside from the chickens, Grandma did pork -sausage and tasso, which is seasoned smoked pork cuts.  In her day, smoking wasn’t a four-hour deal to impart a bit of flavor and color. Smoking was a multiple day affair, developing a layer impervious and unpalatable to insects, able to be stored in a dry place for months.  Other cuts of pork were cut and salted, the salt drawing out moisture, creating a thick brine that kept it edible for a season.  Put up in crocks, the salted pork sealed below a layer of lard, melted and poured over it to seal, there was a winter’s worth of the meat in the bean soups and gravies.

When electrification reached the Gulf coastal prairies, a freezer became the wherewithal to keep beef.  Grandma regularly sent one of her cattle off to a butcher, paying him with a quarter of the beef in return for a load of wrapped beef cuts.  Those weren’t USDA Prime, folks.  Those cows didn’t come from a feedlot, they spent their lives wandering the pasture, eating what grew from the ground.   They needed Grandma’s cast iron pot and a few hours of moist heat to approach tenderness.  Of such technique came savory gravies that words cannot describe.

Nestled in the arms of bayous and marshes, game and fish rounded out the menu. Grandma occasionally got shrimp from friends and family who were a little closer to salt water, but shrimp gumbo was rare, chicken and sausage gumbo being the norm.

All that – the way things used to be.  People today bemoan the fact that “my gumbo doesn’t taste like Grandma’s”.  This is why.

Cajun culture, General, Wildlife

Mosquito season

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It’s that time of year.

Actually, we have it pretty good – the parish spends a bit of money on mosquito control and here inside of the city limits there are only a few hardy survivors.  However, in the marshes between here and the Gulf, the swarms have been known to kill cattle.