Nothing to do with Sarkozy or Merkel.

There is more than one way to be say grace... [ One Way Thursday comes early this week by popular demand. -WK]

Continental styles on American shores.

Every American should be thankful for the peace we enjoy within our shores, just as Silvio Berlusconi has plenty to be thankful for.  Berlusconi knows how to do the "bunga-bunga."

After Veterans Day passes, Americans tilt our heads in the direction of Thanksgiving.  On the eleventh day of the eleventh month in the eleventh year, at eleven minutes past eleven o’clock AM, 111111, 1111 in military time, peace was declared.  It is right to give thanks and gratitude to Providence.

There is a penthouse suite in Rhode Island's capitol city that is called, informally, the “Berlusconi Rumpus Room.”  It overlooks Brown University, up on College Hill, off Power Street.  Italy’s premier bunga-bunga practitioner has often been overheard to say that Providence is his favorite place outside his mother’s arms.  The people who live here understand the attraction.  They live it every day.

The stalwart citizens of Providence, of good dissenting stock, gather round the table in distinctive style.  No stern, puritan ways for them.  Instead, their dining room set is the Legacy Classic Orleans 7pc Dining Set in Golden Brown.   Rich finish, refined lines, and an open inset of tangles...  We could be describing the quintessential, stereotypical New Englander.  The whole picture takes on a different meaning in Silvio Berlusconi’s, presumed favorite city.

7-piece dining room set in golden brown.

It takes a special man to be head of state.  Not everyone can be Roger Williams.  Somebody has to be Silvio Berlusconi.  A cranberry needs its sourness sweetened to make its sauce savory.  A Thanksgiving meal has many flavors.  Would you prefer dark meat or light?  Breast or thigh?  The dressing is in one's eyes.

Carve the turkey.

Brown without gold is verdigris.  The heart of pine makes grown men weep, and it makes women weak in their ankles.  Take six chairs and pair them with a table large enough to seat them all.  That's how they do it in the Ocean State, and it is how they do it across the ocean, at Silvio Berlusconi's Thanksgiving meal.  After all, he is known to love all things American.


There is always free shipping to Rhode Island. 

Goggling agog and agape in New Orleans

The day began humdrum enough.  I had to go to Covington, my first time, across the the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, a twenty-four mile  long bridge with nothing to look at.  I know people who drive this span everyday to New Orleans and back.  It would kill my spirit.

Approaching the opposite shore, I was struck, as I usually am, by the flatness of the land.  In this part of Louisiana they measure elevation with a yardstick.  I passed through Mandeville into Covington.  I don't mean to insult the aesthetics of my new state but, as the lady of the house has commented to me whenever we venture beyond Orleans Parish, Louisiana is ugly.  Not the land.  The landscape is intriguing with its fecund wetness and nooks and crannies.  The towns are ugly.  The buildings are ugly.  The layout that men and women have built for themselves is ugly.

I'm used to my New England landscape where stone walls border twisty roadways and recede into the woods, where a town is anchored by a public green with a white, steepled church, a sprinkling of monuments, and houses and commercial buildings that have stood the test of time.  New England isn't overly fancy but it isn't plain.  It is lived in.  Outside New Orleans, everything is functional and seems to have been built on the cheap.  Louisiana's towns, when they are even incorporated, aren't fancy and they lack any fancy whatsoever.  Uniform, slab housing and sheet metal buildings predominate.  It is an industrial streetscape even when it is intended to feel homey.

A power station Uptown.

Returning to New Orleans, a city aswarm with craft and details, I was happy to be back home.  I don't live in Louisiana; I live in New Orleans.   I wandered a few hours, getting my bearings and getting the city back under my skin, savoring the little things.

The details are always interesting.

Having a home in which I have ample room to spread out may curtail my constant perambulations about
the city.  Not too much, of course.  I am still an urban animal and I enjoy being around people even when I don't engage with them too much.  Given the choice between sitting in a smoky barroom (and smoky barrooms are my habitat of choice) and here...

...sitting on my back porch, it will be a tough decision to make.  Both are in New Orleans and both are part of life in the city.  I'm sure I'll strike a balance somehow with both gadabout WK and homebody WK sharing the best of both worlds.

I am sanguine about moving out of the Lower Garden District.  Magazine Street has spoiled me and the constant ferment that goes on in the area is good for me.  Greater Treme is another world.  I'm sure I'll love it, it is New Orleans after all and what's not to love, but I don't know the area well enough yet.  The Lower Garden was an easy fit.  I'm sure Esplanade Ridge will be too, just different.

Heck, all of New Orleans is different from anywhere else I've ever visited, let alone lived in.  Let the games begin.  I find myself content with my surroundings, as if I've eaten a bellyful of oysters.

Cheers,
WK

Alligator Santa and alligator reindeer

Bayou Santa

While the town I grew up is inland, for the past two decades I have never lived someplace in which I didn't pass an ocean view at least once a day.  New Orleans is surrounded by water, the Mississippi on one side and Lake Pontchartrain on the other, but you have to go out of your way to see them.

On the riverside, you can go to the French Quarter's Moonwalk (named after the current mayor's father, a mayor himself) or to Audubon Park, Uptown.  Neither is particularly convenient.  While I enjoy watching the barges and ships ply the Big Muddy, there isn't any surf and you can see the opposite bank.  It puts me in mind of the vastness of the continent through which the river has flowed through rather than the vastness of the globe beyond the horizon.  Aside from these two walkways, the views of the Mississippi are blocked by the backs of warehouses and the backs of levees.

On the lakeside, I can drive my little Ninja along the shores of Lake Pontchartrain.  There isn't much going on there, just some lawns and gazebos and a few trees.  Not much activity, though I'm told it used to be busy in the old days (pre-2005).  The road along the lakefront is elevated.  You can't dip your toes into the surf.  In fact, there isn't any surf.  The opposite shore is invisible but there aren't any breakers, just dimpled water as far as the eye can see and, off to the west, the Causeway carrying its cars and truck traffic.  Gazing at Lake Pontchartrain doesn't make you wonder what's on the other side.  The causeway gives it away: the suburbs of Covington and Mandeville, which are probably little different from the suburb of Metarie which I can reach in ten minutes without crossing any water beyond a concrete-bound drainage ditch that is called a canal.

I mentioned to a woman the other day that I miss the ocean.  She said there is a beach I can reach after a three hour drive.  Three hours!  I didn't like to drive two hours across Connecticut to visit my mother, especially because it would be another two hours back.  A trip to this beach would be six hours round trip and there wouldn't be any rocks on it, just featureless sand and the lap of little, blue Gulf waves.  As we talked further, I realized that I miss two things: the hoary, gray Atlantic and rocks.  I haven't seen a rock of any size jut out of the ground since I've moved here.  There aren't any, not so much as a pebble.

I'd say I miss hills too but I don't.  While I find the flatness monotonous, my bicyclist legs don't miss hills.  Commanding vistas perhaps, but not the geologic understructure that makes them possible.

I miss puddingstone and granite.  Otherwise no complaints, certainly not about the culture....

Thanksgiving comes first!

In a city in which Mardi Gras is the major holiday, the others seem like an afterthought.  I haven't heard anyone mention X-mas or July 4th or any of the other major holidays.  In New England, these and Thanksgiving are the big ones.  Independence Day is the big civic holiday.

I mentioned that I had made reservations for Thanksgiving, not having any family here, and the person I was speaking to said she was surprised I didn't just order a prepared meal for home.  In fact, I said I was in Zara's Supermarket on Prytania Street yesterday and saw they were selling a turkey dinner but it included a can of cranberry sauce and I would rather make my own.  "Oh really?!" she sniffed as if that's something unheard of here.  I did see bags of cranberries labeled as "fresh" in quotation marks at Zara's (celebrating 70 years in business).  The quotation marks around "fresh" gave me pause.  Were they previously frozen?  Leftover from last year and stored in the back until this Thanksgiving season?  I'll probably buy some in the next week, cook down a batch of too much sauce and freeze what's extra.  What difference does it make?  I must admit it will seem odd to have such a New England food, a taste of the old Cap Cod cranberry bogs.  I think I've read that Wisconsin is the #1 cranberry-producing state now.

All of this is neither here nor there.  The real news is that X-mas decorations have been hung on Canal Street...before Thanksgiving!

The first picture on this post is a little out of focus but it reflects what Canal Street looks like at 6:00 in the morning.  This second one is a little dark for noon.  It was a brilliantly bright day today in the 70s.  I understand Connecticut has already seen snow.  It is the middle of November and, while I have worn a sweater on some nights, I haven't had to break out a coat.

It's odd to see wreaths and artificial pine wrapped around the light poles in this semi-tropical weather.  The natives tell me not to be surprised if we see snow.  I was talking to a local who had visited Boston in August. "Man!" he said, "It was cold at night!  Even in August!"  Yup.

One last picture of Canal Street in the morning, this time in focus:

Then again, maybe not.  It's very pretty but somehow lights on a palm tree don't really say X-mas to me.  Besides, blue and gold aren't X-mas colors; they're Navy colors.  I have learned thought that purple and yellow are LSU colors.  At least whoever is in charge of holiday decorating didn't go that route.

Happy Thanksgiving to all!  It's a week away and then we can think about Christmas with a clear conscience.
-WK

Two blue states.

Your humble narrator, Whalehead King

Wandering about New Orleans and sometimes going somewhat further afield in each direction of the Mississippi River, I have recently been pondering the differences between where I am from and where I am.

First of all, New Orleans is like no other city in Connecticut.  Comparing New Orleans to Bridgeport or New Haven or Hartford or Waterbury (the four biggest in descending order) and then Stamford (#5 and the only one that is gaining population) is like comparing a carp to a goldfish.  They are of the same genus but the differences outnumber the similarities. My favorite description of Connecticut's capital: "The Nation's Filing Cabinet."

I compare the populations of the two states, which are roughly equal.  Of course, Connecticut is maybe a twentieth the size of Louisiana.  When I entertained visitors from out Iowa or Oklahoma or Texas in the Nutmeg State, they compared it an anthill.  There was always somebody else nearby and very little true solitude.  I guess that's why Yankees are so adept at not acknowledging the presence of others.  We have rich interior lives.

As an armchair vexillologist, I spend a lot of time studying flags.  Connecticut's and Louisiana's are similar in composition and especially in background color:

 Few people in Connecticut speak Latin.  The state motto is "Qui Transtulit Sustinet."  Few people in Louisiana speak French anymore but you would think this former French colony would have a Gallic motto.  Nope.  It is "Union, Justice, and Confidence."

Hot dogs or turducken?

Open 24 hours a day

There is no more beautiful sight than Bud's Broiler, especially in the wee, small hours of the morning.  Located up by City Park, about a half hour from my humble abode by bicycle, this is the place that robbed me of my chance to meet President Obama.  I didn't really mind.  While I'm not a hamburger fan, Bud's serves a hot dog unlike any other in the Crescent City.  Cut in quarters with barbeque sauce on a hamburger bun, it a treat.

Not having any family in New Orleans we are looking for a place to have Thanksgiving dinner.  I figure Bud's is a good choice if they are open Thanksgiving Day.  I'll have to make a trip after work; their website doesn't say.

Not that I think a hot dog meal will go down well with the lady of the house.  She's got something else in mind....

Win free groceries!

Still meandering down Magazine Street in New Orleans.

You can win a year's worth of free groceries by clicking here.  It's not a hoax but a sweepstakes from the "World of Pasta" family of brands.  You don't get food stamps but the first prize winner gets a sweet check for $5,200.  450 runners up will get $100.

You have to name your favorite brand of pasta from a predetermined list.  Unfortunately, Prince spaghetti isn't on the list.  Wednesday is Prince spaghetti day, as everyone in New England knows.


I know Luzanne is tea and Dixie is beer.  Blue Plate is mayonnaise.  I assume Crystal Preserves are jelly.  Is there a New Orleans pasta?

Guess what Juan's Flying Burritos sells.  I'll give you a hint: It isn't flying donkeys.  The shop is very popular.  I haven't tried it so I can't recommend one way or the other.

My camera battery gave out the day I took all these Magazine Street sign photos.  I didn't get halfway through photographing them all and we haven't gotten halfway through the ones I took.  There are that many thriving little storefronts along about three blocks.

And, sorry, I couldn't resist one more:

Mutant crawfish

Where I come from they call crawfish, crayfish.  No body's ever seen one, but we hear about them.  Where I come from, we've got lobsters.  Big ones.  Cheap.  Fresh off the dock.  A three-clawed mutant was just caught off the coast of Gloucester.  Good morning, Gloucester.

For those who don't know, Gloucester is pronounced "Glowstah."  The 'ow' is like you hit your thumb, not like 'glow.'  If you happen to be looking at a map of Massachusetts, the second largest city in New England, Worchester, is pronounced "Woostah."

When an oversized lobster is caught, say a ten pounder, it can make the news.  These are either tossed back after ample pictures have been taken or they are put in a tank at some lucky restaurant to live out their days as a tourist attraction, usually with a nickname like "Mr. Big" or "Lucky."  No one will ever accuse New Englanders of being imaginative.  Lobsters never stop growing so Colonial era reports of a six foot lobster may not be exaggerated.  I haven't read that crawfish ever stop growing.  I don't know if one has ever gotten a chance.

Another kind of lobster guaranteed to make the news is the famous blue lobster.  These are a rare mutation, along the lines of albinism.  They are still good eating though people rarely eat them.  Again, they get put in a tank as conversation pieces, sometimes in restaurants but more usually in aquariums.  I have yet to hear of a blue crawfish.  It might happen.  There's no reason to think otherwise.

Blue lobsters, and presumably blue crawfish, turn red when boiled.  I suppose if there are a blue crawfish the same thing would happen, I wouldn't know.  I have yet to boil one myself.  I buy them pre-cooked and pre-seasoned.  They are always red.

Of course, there is one blue thing I encounter every day, my Little Blue Ninja.  Today's photo of that most beautiful bike was taken in the Blue Ridge Mountains.  You can see them in the distance.  Breathtaking country; some would say it's God's country.  I remember when sport bikes came out and people said they looked like insects.  No one ever accused them of looking like crawfish.

Some comparisons

Beautiful and bustling downtown New London, CT

I'm from New England, a land of small states packed with plenty of people.  Here are some comparisons:

Connecticut (where I'm from originally):  Area: 5,543 square miles.  Seems like a lot of space, doesn't it?
Massachusetts (my current legal residence):  Area: 10, 555 square miles.  Even bigger.
Louisiana (where I'm moving to): Area: 51,885 square miles.  Whoa, Nellie!

Population (as of 2008):
Connecticut:  3.518,288 or 703 per square mile.
Massachusetts: 6, 593,587.  It's got twice the space, after all.  That's 809 per square mile.
Louisiana: 4,410,796 or 102 people per square mile.  That leaves a lot of elbow room.

Let's look at the cities I've called home since I find this interesting....  The area is for land only.
New London, CT: 5.5 square miles, 26,174 people which comes to 4,725 people/square mile.
Boston, MA: 48.43 square miles, 620,535 people which comes to 12,813 people/square mile.
New Orleans, LA: 180.6 square miles, 336,644 people which comes to 2,518 people/square mile.

I don't want to say New Orleans seems like a ghost town, because it doesn't.  You'll excuse me though if I don't find it particularly crowded.  There are plenty of people and there's plenty of activity so it doesn't seem as empty as these statistics suggest.  Once I take a tour of the rest of the Louisiana though, I don't know.  I imagine it will seem like the Moon compared to the quiet corners of Connecticut.

Of course, the New Orleans numbers don't include all the tourists and conventioneers that visit the city on a regular basis.  Boston also has its share of visitors.  They tend to come in the summer when all the college students (which these figures include, about a quarter of the total) vacate the city.  Few people stop in New London unless they are lost, so it's numbers are pretty stable.

No Swine Flu in Dorchester

Though I am a dues-paying member of the Casimir Polaski Post #1 of Polish Amrican Veterans in New London, Conn., I don't have a drop of Polish blood in me as far as genealogical records can tell. This must be readily apparent since when I visit the Baltic Deli or Euromart on Dot Ave or D&J Market on Boston Street, all grocers deep within Dorchester's notorious Polish Triangle.
Before I can utter a word, the counter help, who have been speaking Polish to everyone else in the store, addresses me in English. I'm not complaining, but I am wondering how they can tell. What inborn gland activates this Polish radar?

Easter kielbasa is a traditional Polish dish and, with Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox Easters all having recently passed, I thought I could score a good deal on a two-foot link of the genuine article. I went to one of these stores and was immediately told when I stepped up to the sausage case, "We don't use Mexican pork." I was told this in English.

I wasn't thinking about trichinosis or Legionnaire's Disease (another fraternity to which I belong) when I considered what to have for dinner tonight. Now, I was suspicious. The lovely lady behind the counter said, "We've been getting a lot of questions this morning because of the Globe article about a swine flu epidemic in Mexico. Now I start every transaction by stating our pork is not Mexican. We guarantee none of it comes from south of the Ohio River. There are no worries here in the Polish Triangle." That was good, if not necessarily fresh, news.

"Can I have two feet of kielbasa?" I asked. "Of course," she answered as she proceeded to separate two curled, pink links from a rope of ground meat and spices smoked in natural casing.

"Is the casing imported?" I inquired, feeling mischievous. "No, sir," she replied, "This sterilized intestine comes only from USDA certified Massachusetts hogs. If not, you can rest assured, the donor came from Connecticut, New Hampshire, Vermont, or upstate New York. We like to use trusted, local suppliers. We may depend on Pennsylvania suppliers but you won't find Maine casings here. Mainers only know how to fish lobsters and grow potatoes, but their hog raising practices don't measure up to close scrutiny as far as we're concerned."

The kielbasa weighed down my satchel with pure, local, Polish goodness that didn't add a smidge of gravity or drag as I pedalled my way home. I put the kielbasa in my refrigerator for later use but even with the fridge door closed the lady of house said, "You've been shopping. Something smells good here." Indeed it did. Something was good in the house and it was free of the fear factor of impending disease.

Bad Weather

With winter over, one would think I'd stop complaining about the weather. I was very happy when the heat wave hit a few weeks ago. It is a memory now. Though the temperatures are pleasant enough, I have a bone to pick with Mother Nature's gamemanship in Boston.

I ride a motorcycle to and from work now that winter is through. I enjoyed taking the T when the streets were slippery but, frankly, it takes to long and it isn't as exhilerating as weaving through traffic to get stuck at the next red light. Don't get me kvetching about school buses, which are a subject for another rant. I am told that school ends in a week or two, so it will be postponed until September.

During my lunch break for the past two weeks it has been pleasantly sunny. I take of my jacket, roll up my sleeves and stroll around Mission Hill. I stop in a park and soak up some sunshine, wishing I could spend the whole afternoon doing just that. I look forward to watching the clock tick closer to quitting time.

Every day for the past two weeks, the sky has been overcast by the time I leave work. Some days it rains just as I get a quarter mile from home, and it's not a long commute. Most days it's just about ten degrees cooler than at noon. Today, I looked out the office window and saw that thunderheads were rolling in. The bottom of the cloud cover was like soiled cotton heavy with moisture. When I left the office, the wind was peeling the leaves back from the trees. Oh happy day!

It hasn't rained yet, though I have witnessed lightening striking over Dorchester Bay. The wind has died down and it may not rain at all, though some thunder just rolled overhead. Even if it doesn't rain, I have the feeling I am being gypped. I am from Connecticut, a stone's throw away in global terms, so you would think I'd be used to this kind of weather. No. I am from New London, Conn., a city where the sun always shines and every frown is turned upside down. My Seasonal Affective Disorder may last all year.

Dot Update

Our man on the Dot has been busy. Check out the local news page of bostonnow.com to read his commentary on his newly adopted community on the right hand side. Forever out and about, even in a little smidge of Boston, Whalehead King has his eyes and ears and heart open and his wet finger in the wind.

Woonsocket, Rhode Island

Your intrepid correspondent travelled far afield today, to the romantic city of Woonsocket, Rhode Island. Foreign territory indeed, it is a city with a beautiful name, built by Canucks and now home to a large Cambodian population. While the city of Woonsocket will never compete with our beloved New London, it has much to commend it.

It is a friendly city and one in which it is easy to lose one's way. It is home to a lovely Thai/Cambodian/Laotion restaurant where the hostess is lovely and professional and discreet. She is also the cook and she accomodates special orders. The food is delicious, especially when enjoyed with delicious company.

My companion and I landed in Woonsocket by happy accident, the way most accidents should be. I would never have consciously chosen Woonsocket as a destination, but now I can recommend it wholeheartedly, should anyone, for whatever reason, want to replace New London's excitement with the thrills to be found in an old industrial city along the Blackstone River.

We started our jaunt in Providence, that queen of Rhode Island cities. No, I did not take the motor scooter to Providence. I took Amtrak, which was very convenient and very pleasant. It took an hour to get to downtown Providence and 50 minutes back to New London. Round trip cost: $45.00. The staff was pleasant and professional, as if they had been running trains for more than a century. Since Providence's train station is located right downtown, I would recommend this as a means of travel to the Ocean State's capitol. It helps especially if you have a pleasant friend to meet you when you arrive.

Challenge of the Decade.

The Berlin Pilgrim offered Whalehead King a challenge. He wants to go head to head against New London's Unelected Poet Laureate. Three poems on themes of the challenger's choosing presented in public. Mr. King only writes in prose paragraphs even though he often waxes poetic. He picked up the glove and slapped his adversary on the cheek. "Accepted, sir."

Next Wednesday at Kream Coffee House, Mr. David Spinelli and Mr. Matthew King will alternate readings of their newly written work on three themes of Mr. Spinelli's choosing at Open Mike Night. They are not rehearsing. This is not a cabaret. These are two earnest and erstwhile writers trying to best each other, no holds barred. It is a wrestling match of words worthy of the Ocean Beach Boardwalk.

This is a serious joke. It should be rowdy and enthusiastic, with plenty of applause and hissing. Great ideas will be presented with all the folderal poetry promises, but it will not be dull. Mark your calendar and clear your datebook on Wednesday after 8:00 PM.

Friendly acquaintances, Mr. Spinelli and Mr. King are forgetting their previous handshakes. It will be each man for himself performing without a net. This is the biggest event ever to unfold at a coffee house poetry reading. Everyone will be a winner.