INside Story
photo: ANN BENOIT LLC, from The Broussard’s Restaurant and Courtyard Cookbook by Ann Benoit, Pelican Publishing Company, Inc.
by Michael Harold DURING THE 1980s, I attended a small university in the mountains of Tennessee. Although it was hardly New England, autumn was much colder than what I was used to in South Louisiana. By late November, you could see the inevitable approach of winter. Tree leaves were brown and dead, skies were depressingly grayer and it was dark by 5 o’clock. Also, at that time, small towns didn’t have good restaurants as they do today; thus, the longing for New Orleans food was at its strongest. I wonder if Louis Armstrong and Billy Holiday dreamed of oyster dressing and stuffed mirlitons while singing Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans? Every Wednesday before turkey day, I would take the late afternoon flight home. For those of you who have never experienced it, let me say that there is no flight more entertaining than the one to New Orleans for Thanksgiving. It begins the minute you arrive at the gate and see the rhinestone fleur-de-lis sweaters and Saints jerseys. When you hear the first “Who Dat?” you feel as if you’ve entered Orleans Parish, despite not having left the terminal. Once you board the plane, you can’t help eavesdropping on the conversations, most of which are about important topics such as “Maw Maw’s leftover turkey gumbo.” After the plane lands, you know you’re officially home when the flight attendant opens the door and the familiar warm, swampy breeze sweeps through the cabin. You smile when you hear the audible gasps from tourists and the allknowing chuckle from locals. “We home, nah!” When I lived away, part of the excitement of returning home was dreaming of food. My mother would have spent untold hours preparing rich dishes that were sadly consumed in 30 minutes. She had the patience to make everything from scratch except for the soft McKenzie’s rolls, which I picked up every Thanksgiving morning. I still miss them. My other job was to prepare a refreshing but treacherous frozen drink called Bourbon Slush, which I delivered to neighbors and served with a cherry on top. During my junior year in college, I lucked out and made it home early. While attending my
Thanks A Lot
Wednesday morning French class, a deplorably hungover freshman from Alabama received a standing ovation after throwing up and splattering the map of Paris hanging on the wall. This prompted Monsieur Le Professeur to cancel class for the morning and allowed another New Orleans student and me to catch the earlier flight. Driving to the airport, we boasted that this would never have happened to someone from New Orleans. We knew how to handle our liquor. I mean, we basically took weekend liquor-handling classes in high school from Miss Gertie at the Mayfair Lounge. But, as we all know, karma can be wicked and cruel. Fast forward 10 years. I’m practicing law in New Orleans. It’s the Monday after Thanksgiving, and I find myself green in the face during a deposition. I ’fess up to a few of the lawyers around me about finishing off Bourbon Slushes with friends the night before. The room is packed to the gills with lawyers, and it’s unbearably warm. I sense this hot mouth sweat coming on and, unlike the poor kid in French class, at least I make it to the bathroom. News of my condition spreads like wildfire, and yes, my walk of shame back to the conference room is met with hoots, hollers and applause. Nice. While reading a magazine earlier this year, I came across a Bourbon Slush recipe, the exact same as my family’s that I thought was lost forever. Maybe it’s time to reintroduce it again this Thanksgiving holiday. The first sip will be instant karma for me and, invariably, a trip down memory lane. Wish me bon voyage! October-November 2015 31