I Could Get Used to This-Part One

Another Sno-ball from Hansen's. The sno-ball season is ending, and I have managed to pack in three trips total during the dwindling, haggard end of summer, which is walking away like a tired, old dog, slow, but still quite present.

The line today seemed to stretch out into infinity, due to the staff drawing out their time, knowing today was the final day, the last mile, extending each customer's visit by making conversation. I allowed the wait to be one of meditation; a long moment to stand in the sun and let the warmth awash my body, thankful I live in such warm climes. However, by the time I got to the front about half an hour later, I definitely needed to cool down, and I wistfully began thinking of fall...how the leaves change color and the air begins to cool down, harkening the call for jackets...how the crisp smell of autumn is searing, and how the air is tinged with a sort of smokiness.

This feeling didn't last long, mind you. I ordered a "Hot Rod" this time, (a sno-ball with a scoop of ice cream in the middle.) Nothing was "hot" about it. I loved how the vanilla ice cream provided a brief relief from the searing, icy cold of the chocolate snow. "What do they put in these things?" I wondered. "Fairy dust?" It still made me ridiculously happy and cold inside. I felt the coldness emanating through my core out to my pores, turning me into a human icicle. 

I could get used to this.

I find it odd, yet delightfully amusing, how many storefronts advertise, "Prepare for fall!" "Fall is here!" and how there are Halloween decorations everywhere. New Orleanians take Halloween very seriously, but I have not even begun to think of my costume yet. How can I, when the sun is shining brightly outside, and the greenery refuses to quit? It is not fall. Not even close. It will still be in the 70's through November, not that I mind this at all. What will Thanksgiving be like without bitter cold? What will my birthday be like? Will I actually be able to do something outside on December 18th for a change?

I could get used to this.

Yesterday, I finally fixed up my bike, (that's right, I can handle a wrench! Who knew?), and I rode through Audubon Park. The trees swayed gracefully overhead, and I sped past other bikers and walkers, gleeful of seeing a palate of greens and blues and browns collide and swirl past my view. Manmade lakes dotted the terrain, and gazebos held lovers holding hands. I momentarily wondered if I'd ever get to do the same. 

I pushed along and arrived at the Fly, a beautiful area of Audubon park, near the zoo, where people play frisbee and walk their dogs, and college students play loud music and drink beer. I wasn't paying any attention to the clutter of sound and action. My attention was robbed by the beautiful vistas of the Big Muddy, the Mississippi River. The river pulsed slowly along, the current looking strong, and certain.

Again, I marveled over my good fortune of living so close to water. I need to live near water. Sometimes I wonder if instead of blood coursing through my veins, I have river water, and sea water, and waters of the estuaries giving me life. (For those of you who don't know, I attended a maritime studies program almost two years ago, and that's when I really gained an appreciation for water. http://ireadlips.blogspot.com/?spref=fb)

Something about water just hypnotizes us, and has a strong hold on us. We have always relied on water for transportation and sustenance. Rivers and seas gave birth to ancient civilizations, and even today, population density is highest in areas close to water. And if we trace back even further, the seas gave birth to humanity, a cesspool of atoms, coming together to form single cells, and then multi-celled organisms, which came crawling out, gasping onto land.

I sailed by the Mississippi on my bike, wishing I could dive in, and jump onto a steam boat. I wished I could travel back in time, and team up with Davy Crockett, and work on a keelboat. Ah, how I love living near water!

I could get used to this.

Sno-Ball, Nectar of the Gods

I have a new bible. And I am now a follower of the Good Book. HALLELUJAH. I have discovered religion. And it comes in the form of food.

The Good Book is called "Gumbo Tales: Finding My Place at the New Orleans Table," by G-d, AKA Sara Roahen. It shall hereafter be referred to as "Gumbo Tales."

Each chapter goes into intense, mind-blowing detail describing each kind of New Orleans food I must try. As a D.C. native, and as an extremely health-conscious eater, merely reading some of the descriptions gives me heart palpitations. Since many foods are loaded with butter, fat, salt, and grease, it is hard for a faux-tarian, (a fake vegetarian), to come to terms with living in a state that is the fifth most obese state in the country. Yoinks.

I must admit, I read this book during slow hours at work, and I have to have snacks on hand because each word sends me into the fiery throes of hunger, and I cannot get the taste of the imagined foods out of my head. I don't deal well with being hungry. At all. I am a Mama Bear to my stomach.

However, I am determined to not let all these factors foil me. I have made it my mission to devour the epicurean delights of New Orleans in MODERATION. But, it'll still prove to be an exciting gastronomical adventure!

Yesterday was my first real day trying out one of the religious precepts. New Orleans is known for sno-balls. That's right, not snoWballs. But sno-balls. And they're not the gritty, teeth breaking ice chips we're used to. They're soft shaven ice which melts the instant it hits your tongue, just like real snow, mmm. It's the perfect cure to a hot September day. (Yeah, that's right, September and still almost in the 90s. I knew my photosynthetic body moved here for a reason. I even have a tan! Anyway, I am grossly digressing.)

Roahen mentioned a wonderful iconic sno-ball stand called Hansen's Sno-Blitz. It's been around for 72 years. And what do you know, it happened to be on my street! But she cautioned it usually closes around labor day. I lamented my terrible fortune, cursing the fact I moved here in the fall and not the summer. However, the other day, I drove down Tchoupitoulas Street on my way home from work, and lo and behold, I saw a long line of people outside of...Hansen's! My stomach convulsed with joy, and I craved a sno-ball, even though I had never had one.

Yesterday was Saturday, and I didn't have much to do. Breakfast was dissatisfying. I had a banana. and a really mealy peach. Ew. And there was no bread left. Nor milk. And I was feeling rather lazy. Eventually, lunch time rolled around, and I was in the midst of running some errands. I passed by Hansen's, and with my blood sugar dropping dangerously low, I made a frantic U-turn and parked on a side street. My hand shaking, cash tightly gripped in my pocket, I joined the line spilling out of the entryway. "SUGAR SUGAR SUGAR," my brain screamed. "NEED...SUGAR...NOW." The walls were covered in history. I amused myself by looking at all the photographs of happy, smiling customers, some of which looked dated back to the 1940's. I wanted so badly to be one of those happy, smiling customers. The line inched along. My stomach gurgled. "It's okay, tummy. Not much longer now," my brain whispered to my stomach, trying to console it like a mother would a child.

Screaming, sugar-rushed kids ran past me, their faces coated in homemade syrup of all colors. The size of the sno-ball intimidated me somewhat, and they haphazardly sloshed with each child's jump or skip.

Roahen mentioned something called a "Junior Atomic." I was quite intrigued. I needed to eat what she ate. Nectar of the Gods. So finally, I approached the counter and blurted out, "Junior Atomic, please!" The two people working at the counter looked at me questionably. Their eyes widened, and then they smiled approvingly. "You know it's a process, right?" said the cashier. "Um, okay!" I squeaked, my stomach knotting up with nervousness. I handed over my cash, and watched as they made it. Ice, syrup, more ice, syrup, more ice, syrup, condensed milk, crushed pineapple, marshmallow, (spelled marshmellow on their menu), a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and a cherry to top it all off. It was HUMONGOUS. It was what Frankenstein would have pieced together if he had been experimenting with sno-balls and not dead bodies.

"Holy mother of Roahen," I thought. "What have I gotten myself into??"

"What IS that?" asked a customer standing next to me.

"Uh, the Junior Atomic, I haven't had lunch..." I mumbled.

"WOW!" was all she had to say.

Everyone stared as the young man handed me my Junior Atomic. I'm quite positive they were thinking: "How can someone so small eat something so large?" The cherry precariously balanced on top of the ice-cream, threatening to fall off at the slightest provocation. "Quick! Eat it! And the marshmallow is about to fall off! You better lick it off!" said the cashier. I did as I was told, and they burst into laughter and applause. I think they knew it was my first time. And I suppose they had expected I would just order a regular sno-ball. Don't underestimate me!

I hurried away from the throngs of people. I felt really self-conscious about eating it...people kept stopping me and asking me what it was. I finally got to the privacy of the shade by my car.

I bit into it, still nervous about whether or not I had just wasted six dollars. How on earth would I ever finish swimming across this sea of ice and sugar? However, I was hit by a wall of wondrous flavors. The crushed pineapple danced beautifully with the marshmallow, and the ice cream, and the shaved ice. I wondered if I had died and gone to heaven. I closed my eyes. I could barely handle it. It was so strong, so beautiful, composing a melodious sugary symphony on my tongue. And the stickiness of the marshmallow hardened. It was like eating caramel. I felt so happy to be alive and my heart sang with each bite.

My brain buzzed gleefully. The most sugar I ever have in one day usually might be my one scoop of sugar in my coffee in the morning. Boy, oh boy. I felt like running 100 miles. I wanted to scream and jump and leap for joy. It was only due to societal constraints that I instead resigned quietly and drove back home in my car, smiling and feeling drunk. My body shook for a good hour afterward. My hands refused to steady themselves.

That night, I ingested a fried oyster poboy, complete with airy french bread and dressed with tomato, lettuce, pickle, and butter. Yup, you read that right. Butter. It was also quite delicious. Although, I'm not sure anything will ever equal the joy of eating a Hansen's Junior Atomic. I have vowed to myself that I will not get it again until next summer though.

Now, to find a gym...