This story is a draft of the first section of a cookbook and will be used as the prospectus sent to publishers. Editorial feedback is encouraged.
 

You can't go home. Anyone who has chosen to live elsewhere for years knows this. However, we must make the attempt... not to visit the family and old friends, or to try to finish that unfinished business that always seems to remain. Those pressures are certainly there. No, we must go home in the search to find who we are, by discovering who we are not. It 's like trying on that favorite shirt that no longer fits. You couldn't not try. Everyone says it looks great, though they think otherwise. After wearing it, you know too, from the tightness across your chest and the pain in your arm pits, you now wear a different size.

I fly into New Orleans. I am going to Baton Rouge first, and the plane connections are not good. Driving from New Orleans seems more convenient and more familiar. Walking off the plane after eight years absence is odd, familiarity mixed with confusion. The humidity is unexpected (it is only April), but familiar. The strong mildew odor is surprising as well.

After picking up the rental car, I do not go into New Orleans proper. I drive out the access road from Moissant (aka N.O. International) in Kenner, turning west onto Interstate 10, over the Mississippi River spillway, along the southeast corner of Lake Ponchatrain and on toward Baton Rouge. Looking out over the swamp as I drive, I can just see the oil refinery in the distance. The refinery lights up the sky from here at night. I 10 sort of parallels the river, not close enough to see the river until crossing the bridge out of Baton Rouge some 60 miles later. The Mississippi comes almost straight down from St. Louis to Baton Rouge before doubling back on itself umpteen times on its trip southeast to New Orleans. Once past New Orleans the river turns due south again making a beeline to the gulf. The river must enjoy hanging around the bayou country.

Over the Mississippi river past Baton Rouge, I 10 is always being worked on for the next five miles or so. I guess the ground is too soft, with no base. One would think that it would be even worse the closer you got to the Atchafalaya swamp. When I see the sign to Grosse Tete, I know I am finally back in the heart of Cajun country. The next stop down the road is Butte La Rose, where the fish camp was. Then I am up onto the 20 mile causeway bridge through the Atchafalaya swamp, over Pilots Channel and the Atchafalaya River. A train is supposed to have fallen off the bridge into the Atchafalaya once, and they never found it in the deep water. Lake Henderson is next. The causeway goes right by that oil rig where I hooked a garfish in the tail one night some thirty plus years ago, before the bridge I am on was built. Then down off the levy beside which is Pat's of Henderson (the best crawfish bisque in the world!).

I learned how to drive on that levy, when I was thirteen. Well, at least I started there. My stepfather, Ted, and I were coming back from one of our many "male bonding" fishing trips. Ted was never communicative. On this particular occasion, he was driving our '57 chevy on the gravel road on top of the levy, pulling our sixteen foot fishing boat. The chevy was old then, before it became a classic. He grabbed my left hand, put it on the steering wheel and let go. So, here I was, trying to steer the car from the right hand seat, with the boat trailer swaying behind me, on a narrow gravel road, on top of a levy, heading from the Henderson boat ramp toward Pat's like the Mississippi River winding its way from Baton Rouge to New Orleans. Driving from the driver's seat seemed easy after that.
 

Crawfish Bisque

Stuffed heads:
Saute two medium onions a(chopped) nd 1/4 bell pepper i(chopped) n a 1/4 stick of butter until soft. Add 1 tsp. cayenne pepper. Put mixture in a food processor with 12 ozs. crawfish tails (with fat, if available), parsley and onion tops and blend. Add 1 cup of bread crumbs, 1 egg, enough evaporated milk to make the mixture stick together(1/2 cup or less). Salt and pepper to taste. Stuff 20 30 heads. Dust with flour and bake in oven at 350 until lightly brown. Can be frozen ahead and just dropped into the soup.

The Bisque
Make a seafood stock by boiling for 1 hour 2 lbs. of fish backbones in a gal. of water with , salt, 2 stalks of celery and one medium onion quartered(Throw in the yellow skin, as well). Can also use chicken pieces with or as a substitute for the fish bones. Sieve when done.

Step 2: Make a dark roux (The kind that turns black when the celery and onions are added) 1 cup of oil and 1 cup of flour. (Reference making a roux).

Step 3: Add 1 TBS. cayenne pepper, 1 TBS. chopped garlic, 1 large chopped onion, 2 stalks of celery chopped, and 1/2 bell pepper, chopped. When the vegetables are soft, add the stock and 1 TBS. tomato paste. Set at a low boil for 30 minutes.

Step 4: Add stuffed heads and 1/2 lb. of crawfish tails. When the heads are warmed through, add parsley and green onions and serve.

As I pass the exit to Breaux Bridge, the radio station I am listening to fades and I start hunting for some Cajun music. I find it before exiting onto I 49 into Lafayette. I 49 isn't really an interstate, just a four lane limited access road with lots of traffic lights. Driving through town listening to Cajun waltzes, Lafayette does not seem to have changed much. There are still plenty of plantation oaks with Spanish moss hanging from them. Wilco is now Walmart; University Avenue has been extended. The big brass ram at the entrance to Mouton Gardens subdivision seems to be missing, but Southern Seafood is where it has been forever, now surrounded by office buildings. Pouparts Bakery, which replaced our old house, is still open. The new Hilton on the Vermillion bayou seems a little out of place, but the old Riverside Restaurant that was there has been closed for some twenty years.

Mom is, of course, thrilled to see me, as I her. She has not combed out her hair yet, but has managed to lay out a full banquet. We are supposed to go out to dinner in a couple of hours when my brother gets here, but I might get hungry. Admittedly, it is a simple spread by my mother's terms; just some baked chicken, pickled okra, fresh asparagus with herbed mayonnaise, steamed artichokes with an Italian vinaigrette, cheese rice, assorted raw vegetables and condiments. I, of course, please my mother and myself by having a full plate.

My sister is out of town and my oldest brother is hiding. He doesn't want Mom to know that his wife is pregnant again. It would be just me, Mom, my older brother and whoever he brings with him. He arrives with a couple of buddies in tow. My brother prefers bringing his friends by to introducing his women. We learn less about my brother that way. He only introduces women he thinks he is really serious about. I have met two of them in thirty years, but have heard of many more. Some might describe my brother as a good ole boy. He is older (by 22 months) and smarter (undergraduate GPA), but has chosen a non professional life. He prefers the solitary life of wheeling and dealing, befriending who he wants when he wants, working when he feels like it, as opposed to the world of working for someone else. Mom hasn't complained about him yet, so I guess he got around to doing the last thing she wanted him to do and they are currently getting along. He often balks and they don't talk for months. But not today, and his friends are interesting and entertaining, as always.
 

We give our "snack" an hour or so to digest before going off for my birthday dinner. Today is my birthday. It is the excuse for my visit. We go out to a little place on I 49, halfway to New Iberia, The Boiling Point. This place is a bit "upscale" for such places. They use trays on which to dump the boiled seafood rather than on newspaper on the table. Maybe they just don't do that anymore. I don't ask. Boiled crawfish, crab and shrimp, fried softshell crabs and Po'boys. No boiled crabs today. The weather has not been good for them lately.

Boiled Crawfish, Shrimp and/or Crabs

Step 1: Find the biggest pot in the house. It should be at least the size of a canning pot, although a spaghetti pot will do in a pinch.
Step 2: Fill the pot 3/4 full of water and heat to a boil.
Step 3: Get a package or two of crab boil and add to the pot double what they suggest. If the crab boil does not contain salt, add 1 1/2 cups per 5 quarts of water.
Step 4: Throw in 3 bay leaves and a handful of cloves. (I once put in some star anise. it was different, but good).
Step 5: Rummage around the fridge for vegetables suitable to add to the pot, including 2 stalks of celery, 3 onions quartered. 2 lemons cut in half, squeezed in and thrown in.
Step 6: Allow the broth to boil for ten minutes before adding seafood.
Step 7: Throw in seafood. 5 quarts of water should fit 5 lbs. live crawfish or 5 lbs. shrimp, or a dozen crabs. The seafood can be cooked a bit at a time, but the spices should be measured by the amount of water in the pot, not the amount of seafood you will ultimately cook.
Step 8: Remove the seafood. Shrimp take the least time to boil. Take them out when the water comes back to a boil. Crawfish take 10 minutes, after they return to a boil. Crabs take 15 to 20.
Step 9: Cook new potatoes and corn on the cob in the spiced water.

After talking to the waitress for several minutes, I discover that they do have a some of that new local microbrew, though it is not on the menu. I am welcomed to it. They have had it for six months and nobody else will drink it. My brother and his friend (only one joined us for dinner) have a Miller. We talk to the friend about his life in the art world and in New Mexico, where he is recently from. It keeps us from asking my brother questions that he will dodge or talking about me and my entirely too middle class life style. We complain about the "gub ment" and how too many people are moving to Lafayette. I notice my accent is changing. I am slipping into the local vernacular. Does my shirt feel a bit tight? I point out that the population problem is not just Lafayette, but everywhere. So it can't be people moving in. There are just too many people. They politely do not disagree, but continue to complain about the people moving in.

Most local people my generation speak French. None of my family does, as my father died young and Mother is from Texas. I took French in school and at the university, but the instructors were all from Indiana or someplace and were far more interested in the existentialism of Albert Camus than the local culture. Most of them couldn't even speak French themselves, at least not by local standards. Although I could not speak French, I could make people think I spoke French. Just throw in a few French words with a strong Cajun accent, and I would have shop clerks talking away. As Cajuns readily switched back and forth, all I had to do is say something in English to have them switch back. This was good training for me in other countries. I discovered I could get by on very few words of the local language, and it always put people at ease to think that I spoke at least a bit of their language. But once after a long stay Overseas, I went into a Lafayette butchery to buy some hogshead cheese and red boudin. I realized I had lost the touch when the butcher asked whether I was from New York.

Hogshead Cheese
Start with four fresh pigs feet, a 2lb. pork roast, and one hogshead, cut in half with brain and eyes removed. Boil with 4 cloves of garlic, 1 onion and 2 TBS. cayenne pepper until the meat falls off the bone. Strain, saving the broth and the meat. Chop the meat into small pieces. Boil the broth down to 2 quarts. Return the meat to the broth. Add green onions, parsley and gelatin. Refrigerate in a mold until set. Serve sliced with saltines or water crackers.

We do not stay long in the restaurant, probably only 45 minutes. Mother never did like to linger in restaurants. Now that she is in her seventies, we have an excuse not to linger. We say our good byes to my brother and his friend at the house. When asked, I tell my brother I might drop by later, knowing that I will be too tired. Mother and I then start our next project, packing the ice chest for my return home. There was a new Cajun sauce Judy asked me to bring back, and Mom doesn't have any tasso. So off to Adrian's Supermarket we go.

Adrian Langlinais used to be a neighbor. You might say he started the commercialization of our neighborhood. He built a little grocery store in front of his house, two doors down from ours. I used to hang out there and bag groceries with Tommy, who is two days older than me. I didn't get paid for it. I just did it. When it got slow, Tommy and I could then go back to the house and play chess. We must have been eleven or twelve at the time. The original store is gone, replaced by a life insurance building. Adrian built his first supermarket on the corner, on the other side of our house. The building is still there next to Poupart's Bakery, but it is not an Adrians anymore, although I think the family still owns the property. Adrian has been gone for many years and Tommy is the local grocery king, operating several supermarkets.

Adrian started his career as a butcher, so he made excellent boudin and hogshead cheese. His stores now carry a local brand name. He never did sell red boudin. It did not keep long enough. In France, where this sausage originated, the word "boudin" means blood sausage. In the last two centuries, the Cajuns have been playing with the recipe, first by adding meat and rice, and ultimately removing the blood. So now Louisiana boudin does not contain blood, unless you can locate the hard to find red boudin.
 

Boudin (white)
I once asked Adrian ( I called him Mr. Langlinais ) how to make boudin. He told me to stuff rice dressing in a casing. That is basically what this recipe is, although there is a lot more meat in it than the usual "dirty rice". The recipe in Rima and Richard Collins' book The New Orleans Cookbook is much more complicated, but I don't trust it,. Despite the other excellent recipes in that book, one cannot get good boudin in New Orleans. My recipe is similar to the one found in The Prudhomme Family Cookbook.

1 lb. unseasoned pork sausage
1/4 lb. chicken livers
1 cup onions
2 TBS. olive oil
1 cup long grain rice (I like to use basmati)
cayenne pepper
salt and pepper
parsley and green onion.

Cook the rice. Sauté onion in olive oil and add chicken livers and cook until done. Season with salt, pepper and cayenne. Purée mixture. Brown sausage, stirring regularly so the meat stay separated. Pour off excess grease. Add salt, pepper and cayenne pepper to taste. Combine all ingredients . Mix well and stuff into a sausage casing. Tie off into 1 foot lengths. May be refrigerated. May NOT be frozen for long periods, as the rice will crumble, casing the texture to suffer.

To serve, heat by wrapping a wet paper towel around each piece and putting in the microwave. Serve hot with saltines or water crackers. Use a sharp knife to cut 1/2 inch pieces to put on each cracker.

On the way back to Mom's, I am thinking out loud of what we are not putting in the cooler, stuffed porkchops from Veron's Meat Market. Mom thinks their recipe is too rich and promises to give me her favorite recipe. Once home Mom pulls out her recipe scrapbook to give me a batch of recipes she has saved, including stuffed porkchops. As she does this, I try to call Tommy to wish him happy birthday two days late. The phonebook lists a Tom Langlinais. Tommy never went by Tom. I try the number anyway, asking if it is the number of Tommy Langlinais of Adrian's. "Not now," is the woman's reply. Not knowing what that means, I apologize for bothering her and hang up. Was that Tommy's first wife or second, or just a wrong number?
 

Stuffed Porkchops

8 0ne inch thick porkchops with a pocket cut in each
1/4 cup minced onion
1/2 cup chopped celery
1 stick of butter
4 cups peeled and chopped eggplant
2 1/2 cups cornbread
3 cups seasoned breadcrumbs
2 eggs
1/4 cup milk or broth
1/2 tsp poultry seasoning
1 tsp. cayenne pepper

Sauté onion and celery in butter. Boil or microwave eggplant with salt until soft. Combine with the rest of the stuffing ingredients. Allow to cool before stuffing porkchops. Dust porkchops with salt, pepper , cayenne pepper, and rubbed with sage. Porkchops can be baked, broiled or pan fried. I usually brown them on top of the stove then bake until done.

The following morning Mom insists on making me a big breakfast of scrabbled eggs (with a tablespoon of butter in a nonstick pan), cheese grits, buttered toast and turkey bacon (healthier for me). I do enjoy Mom waiting on me, and the food is great. I eat it all except a small bit of grits. I wouldn't want Mom to think she hasn't cooked enough food. After breakfast she shows me around the garden, her favorite pastime. People who are interested in gardening almost always focus on vegetables or ornamentals. I am a vegetable gardener. Mother is one of the rare people that loves both. She no longer tends a large garden, but uses her now small backyard efficiently with vegetables and flowering plants intermixed artfully.

After the tour, I pack up the rental car, give Mom a big hug and take off. I pass a local grocery advertising cracklin'. I am tempted, but don't stop. I go by my brother's to drop off some quilt scraps, a shrimp plant, and some Steen's cane ribbon syrup for Vonnie. I dated Steen's daughter in college a couple of times. My brother and I have a long conversation about Belize, his latest vacation spot. He shows me pictures and artifacts. He talks a bit about the job he is going to in St Louis. I talk a bit about life in Oregon. He might come visit. He did enjoy visiting us in New Hampshire. He and I don't really relate well, but we have been trying to all of our adult lives.

It is just before 11 o'clock when I get back onto I 10. The station is not playing Cajun music any more, so I start hunting again. I find classic rock and roll, hard rock and roll, easy listening rock and roll, rap rock and roll, and country and western rock and roll. Oh Rush Limbaugh is on, but luckily I recognize his lead in, so I don't have hear his poison. I finally settle back on the original station. Miriam McPartland is just starting. Somehow it seems to fit better, as I drive over the levy onto the causeway, heading for New Orleans, gazing over the vast expanse of Lake Henderson, filled with cypress knees, rotting stumps, and the occasional moss covered tree, not a fisherman in sight, listening to the bitter sweet sound of piano blues. The Hawaiian shirt Judy bought me last week in San Diego fits just fine.