There’s Mayonnaise, and then there’s Blue Plate February 24, 2010
Posted by EDW in Food, New Orleans.Tags: Blue Plate Mayonnaise, condiments, Culture, Food, mayonnaise, New Orleans
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I have a confession: I am obsessed with Blue Plate Mayonnaise. On a recent trip to New Orleans, I regularly embarrassed my traveling companions by asking for Blue Plate mayonnaise whenever we went out to eat, no matter how nice the dining establishment was. Even if I hadn’t ordered a sandwich. Because I can always find something to dunk into a ramekin of Blue Plate, even if it’s just my finger. A waiter at one restaurant in the Marigny was confused by my request.
“Blue Plate mayonnaise?” he asked.
“Blue Plate Mayonnaise, Blue Plate Mayonnaise!” I practically screamed. “I only want it if it’s Blue Plate. If it’s just regular mayo, even if the chef makes it himself, I don’t care, don’t bother.” My traveling companions exchanged glances. The waiter disappeared into the kitchen, and returned a few minutes later with a little cup containing a glistening, pearly dollop of mayonnaise.
“We had it!” he exclaimed proudly. “I never heard of it, and I never would have noticed what brand of mayonnaise we use, but here you go!” (We later learned he was not from New Orleans.)
“Oh, thankyouthankyouthankyou!” I gushed. “You don’t understand about this mayonnaise, it’s not just mayonnaise, it’s like, so good that if it had been around two thousand years ago, the wise men would have brought it to the Baby Jesus.” Then I proceeded to dunk each and every one of my french fries into the Blue Plate, sometimes twice. (The joy of having your own personal ramekin is that you are allowed to double-dip.)
Oddly, my love affair with Blue Plate Mayonnaise didn’t begin with the mayonnaise itself, it began with the glowing blue art deco sign atop the former Blue Plate mayonnaise plant on Jeff Davis Parkway. That sign was pure magic. And too, I thought it was a little funny to make such a lovely monument to mayonnaise. Because back then I didn’t think I liked mayonnaise. I don’t really remember why. But my general impression of mayonnaise was that it was weird, bland, slimy, oily, sometimes tart in an unpleasant way, and sometimes it yellowed when exposed to the air.
Then I met my husband: a bonafide mayonnaise enthusiast. It grossed me out a little bit, how much he liked mayonnaise. I was a mustard girl, after all. But in the name of love I began buying mayonnaise so we’d have it on hand. And I discovered that my local, small-town Central Texas supermarket carries Blue Plate. I bought the first jar for nostalgic reasons. Now I buy it to support my habit.
They don’t make Blue Plate in New Orleans anymore. After Katrina, the plant moved to Tennessee, but on the whole, New Orleanians are still faithful to the brand, and I personally feel that the city will never really be complete without a Blue Plate mayonnaise factory (and beautiful glowing sign). I know it doesn’t make financial sense for the company to uproot its current operation in Tennessee, so that’s why I’d like to encourage everyone to BUY BLUE PLATE MAYONNAISE so they will have to open up an auxiliary plant. And what better place to do it than in the city that loves them so?
La Dolce Vita June 20, 2009
Posted by EDW in Food.Tags: Food, gardening, Life, lifestyle, summer
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What is summer without homegrown tomatoes? This is my first real tomato of the season. It’s probably sacrilege to have done anything to it other than devour it the moment I plucked it, but I was excited and couldn’t resist a little fanfare. Plus, I have a big ol’ potful of basil right outside my kitchen door, so, really, how could I not add a little cracked-pepper-and-basil-and-balsamic-vinegar-and-olive-oil? And cheese? It was that or a bog ol’ blob of Blue Plate Mayonnaise, which our local grocery (miraculously!) carries.
I think that I will devour the next one straightaway, standing in the garden. That’s greedy, I know. Tomatoes do that to me. And besides, there’s something to be said for the warmth of the sun in your mouth, the hot juices running all over your hands and chin, and heavy, glistening gobs of seeds tumbling down your shirtfront. It’s like eating the very heart of the earth. Seems a pity to let all that hot, gooey goodness dissipate into a bowl on the kitchen counter.
The one after that? I’ll eat it with Blue Plate.
Meet Your Meat March 25, 2009
Posted by EDW in Food, Rants, Social Commentary, Things Environmental.Tags: America, animals, Environment, farming, Food, Rants, religion, Thoughts
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This is a very pretty cow.
Last week was Spring Break, and I spent most of it outside, hoeing soil, planting seeds, digging rocks, and of course- doting on my darling baby chickens. Out there in the sun and the fresh air and the birdsong, I couldn’t help but wonder how humans have gotten so far off track. It wasn’t that long ago that most people did this kind of work every day. It wasn’t a relaxing hobby, it was survival. How did we become convinced that it was better to spend eight hours beneath the fluorescent lights than to feel the sun on your shoulders? Who decided that it was preferable to gaze catatonically at a computer screen than to witness the magic of bean sprouts bursting through the soil, unfurling their delicate green necks, and opening their faces to the sky? Being outside, growing plants, feeding chicks, using your muscles and your mind and your heart to coax fruit from the Earth – all of it feels right in some fundamental, supposed-to-be kind of way.
And then a friend of mine sent me a link to this video. It was as though the Universe were attempting to punctuate my thoughts with the contrasting reality. The video is a demonstration of how it’s NOT supposed to be, but is. (more…)
Fricken Chickens!!! March 19, 2009
Posted by EDW in Food, Life.Tags: chickens, Culture, Easter, eggs, Food, Holidays, Life, Thoughts
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For the past three nights I have fallen asleep composing a list of names. Girls’ names. Names that are reliable and lovely, feminine and a little countrified. Old-timey names, reminescent of balmy, sun-soaked Southern afternoons and tall glasses of iced tea beaded with heavy drops of condensation. Names that call to mind the cheerful snap of laundry flying from a breezy clothesline. Names like Eunice or Petunia. Names like Henrietta, Edith, Muriel.
Why? Because I was about to enter motherhood. Well, surrogate mother-HEN-hood, that is.
This morning, the man from the feed store called at a quarter to nine. My husband answered the phone. “It’s Robbie from the feed store,” he said, handing me the receiver. I snatched at the phone. “CHICKENS???” I cried, without even saying good morning to Robbie.
“Chickens.” Robbie said.
Here’s a movie about my chickens, in all their melodiously-peeping-baby-chickeny wonderfulness.
These chickens are part of an Increased Self-Sufficiency Initiative for 2009. They are laying hens, which means that in a few months they will be popping out delicious, free-range organic eggs for me and my husband to eat. Brown eggs! And blue eggs! It’s going to be like Easter, all the fricken time!
The White Flames of Life January 8, 2009
Posted by EDW in Food, Life.Tags: Entertainment, Food, Life, Love, Wasabi-Oriented-Games
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Do you have the cajones?
Last night, my husband took me out for sushi at Kyoto, one of our favorite sushi restaurants, to celebrate exactly one-and-a-half years of wedded bliss. Several carafes of sake later, we invented a very fun game, the rules of which I will generously post here because I’m a lot of things, but a fun-miser is not one of them. Only three things are required for the bon temps to rouler:
- A sizable mass of wasabi.
- A sizeable volume of sake.
- Cajones.
The game, which we christened “The White Flames of Life” is deceptively simple. One person clips away an intimidating gob of wasabi paste with his/her chopsticks, and tauntingly waggles it in the other person’s face, while challenging him/her to eat it. If the challenge is accepted, then it may be returned with a larger wasabi-gob. Victory is claimed when the wasabi makes the challengee cry, or when a challenge is declined.
It’s called The White Flames of Life because as the wasabi gob is dissolving in your mouth, it feels like white-hot flames are shooting up out of your collar and melting the flesh off your face. And after you swish it down your mostly-anaphylactic throat with a scalding gulp of sake, you feel unexpectedly, exceptionally alive. It’s kind of like eating raw oysters heaped with horseradish, only without the mouthful-of-briny-awesomeness that is the oyster.
In case you’re wondering who won, it was my husband. He ate a gargantuan, gumball-sized blob of wasabi, and the glory is his – but, in defence of my honor, he only did it after I told him I was going to blog about it and announce what a super-tough-wasabi-gulping-badass I am. Not that it makes him any less cool. I could have one-upped him, but my stomach counciled me otherwise.
AND…while we were playing, a man took our picture for an online Austin social column (we’re the second picture, obviously). It’s not exactly Page Six, but I felt totally famous nonetheless! A girl’s gotta start somewhere, after all!
Idol Worship January 5, 2009
Posted by EDW in Food, Life.Tags: blogging, books, Life, Thoughts, writing
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You know you want it.
So, I haven’t exactly been faithfully churning out the riveting bloggery like I have in months past. I like to blame that on the fact that I am trying to write A Novel. But then I read a book by Joshilyn Jackson, and it was really good- I mean, REALLY good, like if the novel was chocolate mousse, I would not only have eaten it, I would have rubbed it onto my skin and snorted it through a straw in the hopes that it would get all hot and melty in my cranium and soak into my brain cells. I admit: I’m currently a wee bit obsessed with Joshilyn Jackson. It’s teetering on the crumbling cusp of religious mania.
So I did what anyone with a case of I-Wish-I-Were-You-itis does: I Googled the object of my affection obsession. And I discovered that not only does Joshilyn Jackson write brilliant novels, she blogs. Like, prolifically. So, I don’t have any excuses. I mean, if I’m a writer I should just be writing all the time, every minute of the day, words should just be gushing out of my fingertips and oozing out of my pores.
Last night, after I devoured one of her books, I ran out to my husband’s woodshop, all borderline-teary-eyed and overcome. He was like, “Hey, what’s wrong? Was that book sad?” And I wailed, “Noooooooo! It was like, the most perfect novel I ever read, and how, oh how, howthehellamIevergoingtodothat?” And then I buried my face into his machine-oil smelling t-shirt and hoped that the fumes would kill me.
But, of course, they didn’t. And he pulled back and looked down into my eyes and assured me that one day I too would be a brilliant novelist, and that my book was brilliant, and that I am brilliant.
Hmmm. Let’s see. I had a point when I started this post, but it wandered away. I guess I’m confessing the guilt I feel for not blogging better, since there are clearly no excuses, not even Novel excuses, since apparently Joshilyn Jackson can blog and novel and even watch TV and be a wife/mom.
So get ready, y’all. I may start ramming a bunch of blog posts down your throats. I always read that you shouldn’t blog about things like your pets or the minutae of your day-to-day existence because, officially NO ONE CARES. Techinically, however, that is obviously not true since I just frittered away about two hours reading about J.J.’s cats and gerbils and kids and crappy van. So, if Joshilyn Jackson can do it, then so can I.
“Hoppin’” New Year! January 1, 2009
Posted by EDW in Food.Tags: Culture, Food, Holidays, Life, Thoughts
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Hoppin' John at Milly's house!
Did you eat your black-eye peas today? I did, and- hot damn!- were they ever good! My husband says it was the best pot of beans I’ve ever made, but he says that every time I make a pot of beans, no matter what kind they are.
Somehow, when I was a kid, I was able to hate black-eyed peas without being disowned at a fire station. My mom, (a woman so Southern she refers to North Austin as “Yankee Territory”) always made me eat a big spoonful of the traditional Hoppin’ John every New Year’s Day for good luck. I never felt lucky to be eating those peas. It was like some kind of hot, mushy, salty luck prescription that I had to choke down with a grimace and a glass of milk. I always thought real luck would be not having to eat black-eye peas ever again for the rest of my life. Funny how things change- I’ve been looking forward to a steaming plate of hoppin’ John for at least two weeks.
Considering the ample leftovers we have (I never heard it called “skippin’ Jenny” by the way, but I’m from Texas which isn’t technically the Deep South), and considering that the entire meal cost me less than $3.00 to make, I think my luck has already started!
Chickens Are Très Chic! May 16, 2009
Posted by EDW in Food, Life, Social Commentary, Things Environmental.Tags: animals, chickens, Culture, Food, Life, Love, Pets, Thoughts, trends
6 comments
Miss Edna. Her cheeks are fluffier than yours are.
Just before I got my chickens, I remarked to a friend (who was also about to embark on her own chicken experience) that I anticipated a profound learning experience. I had no idea how right that statement was, how much I would learn, and how much simply having some chickens in my yard would change me.
Chickens are amazing little creatures. Before I had chickens and was therefore able to observe them up-close-and-personal, there were, in my mind, a lot of myths about chickens. For instance, I’d heard that chickens were moronically stupid, and would drown themselves by throwing their heads back and opening their beaks to a rainstorm. Nevermind that this makes no sense if you think about it for longer than two seconds. I never questioned it. I also assumed they were indiscriminate omnivores, and would eat anything you put in front of them. This is also not true. Chickens have very specific preferences. Or mine do, anyway. They love mushrooms and grapes and tomatoes. Especially tomatoes. Tomatoes send them into a fluttering, jumping, squawking, trilling, pecking ecstasy of excitement. They like to be fed the plump caterpillars from my flower garden, which I pluck from the lantana bushes with a pair of chopsticks. They also like to eat my ferns, which is considerably less charming, and seems to be something of a thrill simply because it causes me to squawk and flutter as I shoo them back into the yard. Surprisingly, they don’t care for mango or blackberries, red bell pepper or carrot. And all of them but one are teetotalers. Only Goldie, one of my reds, has a taste for wine. I serve it to her in an acorn cap, like a tiny chalice. No, I am not kidding about that. I have happy hour with my chickens nearly every afternoon. (more…)