Vacations Blog

There’s something mysterious when you pull into Louisiana…whether you know it or not. We got up and – thanks to the disapproving looks of the locals, who no doubt heard Tim & I last night singing along to the newest Darkness album around 3am – found the way through our haze to unplug that which needed to be unplugged and dump that which needed to be dumped and get on the road.

Louisiana, as mentioned, seems to carry its own blanket of both old-fashioned mystique and an even more-rooted general dislike of things different to what has become the norm. The gas station we pulled up to not only did not carry my new found favorite cigarettes, but met my fancy request with a raised eyebrow. Tim fought back with his own form of vigilante by winning $4 on video poker. Had it not been for the dilated stares of the No-Doz chewing truckers, he might have stayed longer.

While it might seem repetitive, this rewarding backdrop with the characters that want to make you work for it, it’s simply how things seem to work around here.

Another problem that we’ve faced, and will continue to face, is the fact that while my friends trust me, they don’t believe me. For example, I’m sure Collin trusted me when I said that the photos of the bus do not do justice to the actual size of the bus, which resulted in us not only saying more than one prayer for the satellite mounted on top while driving through his neighborhood, but in Collin and I having to pull out both the ladder and hacksaw from his Father’s garage to make room. T&R fell prey to this problem as well. They’ve been warned about Collin’s love of food, even laughed at the previous story of his, but didn’t believe me enough.

The meal helped them understand.

12 pounds of crawfish, 12 crabs, 4 pounds of shrimp, 4 links of boudin and the fixin’s that come with it. And beer. And bourbon. And dirty martini’s made with Tom Olives – something of a delicacy. Now, you might have eaten any of the aforementioned, but until you’ve been taught how it’s supposed to be done from a Cajun, you’re most likely only eating about 60% of what you should be. Crabs are first turned upside down, the membrane mixed together with the juice and then slurped. Crawfish, along with their heads, can be separated with one hand, the other either holding a beer, or in my case, bleeding profusely from initial attempts.

We ate. We drank. We laughed. Repeat. Collin’s Father, Jim, walked out of an old novel and into the kitchen to join us and then start a bonfire a few hundred feet from his very-Southern porch, complete with a few rocking chairs, swing and hidden spray valves that, in the summer, released chrysanthemum to ward off ‘skeeters’.

More drinks down on the fire, with the damn-near full moon poking her head from the bottom of the bayou. Jim brings down oyster chowder and we eat some more. The dogs chased imaginary night chickens and we drank some more. Think about the last time you huddled around a bonfire with more beer than you can drink and 2 sets of amazing friends you just got to introduce and you’ll start to understand the occasional chuckle I had.

More food? You betcha. A neighbor turned up with a King Cake (taking our total to 2) and we quietly asked our stomachs for a little understanding while we chewed gingerly – not out of fear of getting the baby, but for the crawfish leg Tim put in when we weren’t looking, claiming ‘I thought the point was to hide things’.

Back to the pub, a little Wii, a few more bourbons and we all responsibly went to bed around midnight, knowing that tomorrow held the French Quarter – never kind to anyone.

Photo Credits (in order of appearance):

DFWOutdoors.com

Aric Q