Soul Food

I recently dined at the downtown DC cajun eatery, Acadiana, which ended up being, not only a memorable culinary experience, but a searing sweet childhood memory catalyst.

On a client lunch, I sat primly in the formal dining room, feeling natural in my business suit, easy amongst my companions (a group of Congressmen were seated nonchalantly beside us), and perfectly comfortable uttering menu items like "remoulade," "tarte à la bouillie," and "foi gras" (in both pronunciation and familiarity). All-in-all, a very "grown-up" experience.

Then, as I was perusing the menu -- just prior to selecting the best shrimp and grits I've ever had -- I stumbled across the "Natchitoches meat pies." My decidedly adult moment was washed over by a flash flood of early memories of my maternal grandmother, a grand old cajun lady from Natchitoches, Louisiana -- Granny Lu (derived from "Lula," familiar for "Lavesta").

Although she died when I was young, I vividly remember Granny Lu and her intoxicating blend of southern charm and hard-earned eccentricity. Her house carried the heavy aroma of the township's famous meat pies in the morning, and the scorched sugar scent of pralines in the afternoon.

During our summer stays in Natchitoches, I'd spend my days with my southern cousins, foraging through the waist-high grass of Granny Lu's yard: a tangled habitat for fiberglass deer and other species of plastic lawn wildlife, a beguiling bayou for adventurous kids. The scent of my dad's shameless vacation cigars mingled with the tangible heat of the Louisiana summer and my mother's rediscovered drawl would roll across the yard from the porch, where the grown-up's traded old stories and easy laughter.

Nights were more enchanting. Being the only granddaughter, Granny Lu bestowed on me the distinct honor of sharing her great big bed with the special satin sheets and the late-night tales. Long after the parents and cousins and siblings and aunts and uncles were dozing soundly, recharging for another day of slow-like honey fun, Granny Lu would divulge the sacred stories of her girlhood -- misadventures of when she, like me!, was all stumbling alacrity and awestruck by that which surrounded her.

Now that I am a good bit older, a lot wiser, and a little sadder, those memories -- hers and mine -- are carefully stowed, so sharp I can smell the meat pies, so tangible I can feel the slip of satin and the scratch of grass. Even if it takes a piece of my tidy adulthood to stir the stories and bring the best ones, once again, to the surface of remembrance.

Politictionary, anyone?

It is a well-known fact that I love words. And I am fortunate to be in a line of work where words, whether wielded as weapons or used as tools for building and productivity, are appropriately revered and agonized over. It's not uncommon for me to hit up merriamwebster.com 10 times a day, in search of just the right word to consummately convey that very specific idea.

I recently stumbled across Merriam-Webster's Word of the Year "Truthiness" -- a satirical term coined by comedic commentator, Stephen Colbert, and often used by Colbert and others bent on mocking the President and denigrating his every move.

1 : "truth that comes from the gut, not books" (Stephen Colbert, Comedy Central's "The Colbert Report," October 2005)
2 : "the quality of preferring concepts or facts one wishes to be true, rather than concepts or facts known to be true" (American Dialect Society, January 2006)

Truthiness was the readers' top pick from the ten words the folks at Merriam-Webster deemed to be the most worthy of recognition. The other contenders?

google
decider
war
insurgent
terrorism
vendetta
sectarian
quagmire
corruption

Crimony! Was 2006 a political year, or what? The midterm elections were largely painted as a referendum on the President and the War in Iraq -- did this bleed over into Merriam-Webster's nerdy word contest?

This is interesting to me, though, because I think it heartily demonstrates the effect that the steady drum-beat of message (in this case, that put forth by a largely anti-war, anti-Bush, and often anti-Republican media) can have on collective consciousness.

For better or worse, we consume, digest, and -- as evidenced above -- regurgitate the information we're served.

The year is young, but this is my favorite day so far...

Saturday, January 13

After leisurely caffeinating with my roommate, while pouring over Bridal magazines and gushing over wedding gowns (I informed Carla that I would be the first official Bridezillamaid), I embarked on a day of perfect simple fun. It started out at the apartment of original mensch Matty Hogan, where I rendezvoused with the notorious Michael Sanders and his band of merry mates, who were gracing Northern Virginia with their much-desired presence for the weekend.

In brief homage to the aforementioned mates... These guys -- my brother and his friends -- are the most rollicking, quirky gentlemen I know. And I heart each one of them. (They always let me choose my Monopoly piece first and roll before anyone else, while turning a blind eye to my dubious strategy for domination; they listen to my dating horror stories and respond with the perfect blend of levity and protection; they seamlessly fold me into their boys club without for a moment falling down on their chivalry or good manners).

At Mr. Hogan's house, my brother and I put on a veritable concert of epic guitar songs with Guitar Hero, which might just be the most simulated fun I've ever had...

This was followed by lunch at Elevation Burger in Falls Church, home of my second favorite burger in the sub-gourmet category and my all-time favorite french fries. This obviously spurned a lively, and at times contentious, debate on the "best burger ever" and made each of us take a serious look at our own evaluation criteria for such critical topics.

The dramatic climax of the day was disc golf in Arlington. In the 60 degree heat wave, I went sans long sleeves and procured what might be my first ever January freckles. Aaron Stone, once again, tried to help me with my pathetic forehand throw. And my brother, the self-proclaimed John McEnroe of disc golf, demonstrated that for one to truly be successful in one's throw he (or she) must make the sound of the creature on his (or her) disc as it is thrown. My driving disc has a banshee on it. I opted not to howl, but I did enjoy my brother's sith-like scream as he lurched his...

It was sad to see the Lynchburg crew pack up and go. I can't wait for the Spring and similar days in such good company.