Lucky duck in her magical Louboutins. Bet you can click those three times and go absolutely anywhere.
PS: A story for you (was reminded of while chatting with Emily on Saturday): I had a pair of brown suede platform Louboutins. So hot. I inadvertently left them in Dublin when I picked up sticks lickety-split and moved to NOLA after Katrina. My ex said he’d send them to me. He did not. Some size 41 Irish bitch be wearing my shoes!
So let that be a lesson to you: vindictive exes and fancy shoes do not mix.
On a side note, I never thought I’d come back to the States for good ‘til I visited NOLA two months after the storm; what I saw there pulled me back and made me want to … I dunno … be an American again. There was no question in my mind that my then-boyfriend was not the man for me (nor I the woman for him) so the decision to break up with him was not difficult. What I don’t understand is how one person in a relationship can see things so clearly and the other still thinks marriage is down the road. No offense, but guys take a long time to catch on to things that are right in front of their eyes: basic compatibility, likelihood of everlasting excitement. At least in my experience.
Or maybe I just get bored easily. Which is true. But I think I’ve met the two things that can keep me interested my whole life long: a little city called NYC and a little man called M.
I’m not sayin’ it worked, I’m just sayin’ this was our Super Bowl party invite:
Subject: Bo ssäm Voodoo
This is my theory: New Orleans is home to some of the best food in the world. Indianapolis decidedly is not. So the better the food served on Super Bowl Sunday, the better the chances the Saints will win. (Don’t think too hard about it. Just go with it.)
To that end, we’re making bo ssäm for the Super Bowl, and we’d love to have you join us. (For those who’ve never had it, it’s frickin’ voodoo in a lettuce wrap. Mystically delicious.)
Quick pickles (Bosc pears, radishes, English cucumber, and fennel) which I could eat all day long and with anything. Plus kimchi and ssam jang.
Pailey girls load up…
The first of two wraps I inhaled with delirious joy. The quality of the pork butt was THROUGH THE ROOF. We got it from our friends at The Meat Hook. I mean look at it:
If you ever make bo ssäm (take a cue from Kristin and give it a go!), spend extra to get good pork. Last time a snafu with a local pig farmer meant we had to buy our butts at Whole Foods and they were merely delicious, not orgasmic.
Finally, here’s a recipe, though not the one we used which is TOP SECRET. But if you email me I’d be willing to share it. (Like I said: TOP SECRET! :)
What a weekend! Let’s work backwards shall we?
The Saints won the goddamn Super Bowl! Here’s me and (some of) my Tulane girls praisin’ Breesus and all that jazz.
The first half was Estrogen Fest XLIV. Look at all them ladies! M.’s was the sole Y chromosome ‘til after half-time (and he was mostly in the kitchen, cooking — ha!). Then Mark and Petey showed up. Petey trained it all the way from Harlem to catch the end of the game with us. He was there at the play-off game and he thought — rightly — it’d be bad juju for the Saints if he didn’t show.
On a side note: Mark and M. are intellectual gourmands (sorry, no other words for it) who drool over each other’s bookshelves and spent 20 minutes crafting a cocktail around a very serious and very potent bottle of Creme de Violet from Paris. Meanwhile they’re tossing around arcane football terms and commenting on the finer points of the game — and they’re first to admit they haven’t watched football since the last Super Bowl. Where do men pick up this knowledge? Secret Boys’ Club meetings?
Anyway.
Laura was voted Most Team Spirit with her superhot gold leggings and homemade pralines.
INTERCEPTION!!!!!!
When they won we put on “Glory Bound” and “Feel Like Funkin’ It Up” and danced around like we were down in New Orleans. There’s just no dancin’ like the dancin’ we do down there.
Oh and then I think Akiko screamed “Show us your tits!” and M. took his shirt off. We didn’t even have beads to throw him!
He’s always looking for an excuse to take his shirt off.
There’s never been a Super Bowl song this HOT. “Glory Bound” featuring Aaron Neville, Theresa Andersson, Ivan Neville, Jon Cleary…. God DAMN.
It had me dancing at my desk — with tears in my eyes. (I’m a fool when it comes to that town.)
Thanks Julie for the tip.
Gumbo A-Geaux-Geaux
So what WAS I doing? Only throwing an awesome party, thankyouverymuch.
As you know, the star attraction was gumbo (and M. was MVP). We’ve been cooking for days. Here’s the play-by-play:
On Friday night, Pinchy went in the pot … soon to be joined by her sister Grabby. Then we made shellfish stock with their shells plus shrimp shells.
The traditional assembling of ingredients.
The roux begins…
…and 45 very anxious minutes later achieves the proper shade of deep brown. I should have remembered this from last time. Yesterday, I went into a mild panic at about 3:30 pm, convinced the gumbo wouldn’t thicken in time and I’d have the shame hang over my head for years to come. But of course it did — just as it did before.
Success! Just look at those bulging biceps. ;)
A good gumbo should have a little bit of everything in every bite.
The spread, which included authentic queso — melted Velveeta with RO*TEL. A much-loved Texas recipe that Chris learned in college. So wrong it has to be right.
M. made wonderful hapa-style fried okra — coated in panko and served with a kewpie and ssamjang dipping sauce.
First quarter and all is quiet on the Northern front.
But not for long … I love Liz, Andrea, and Peter’s faces in this one.
No, Julie was NOT a Kappa!
Not everyone digs football. We welcome all kinds.
***
So the question now is … what do we do for the Superbowl? I must admit I was worried the Saints wouldn’t make it, so I took the opportunity to make gumbo for the play-offs (and it was of course perfect that they played my home team).
But now what? Two gumbos in two weeks is a bit much, even for me. Maybe we go in an entirely different direction. Maybe … bo ssäm?
What a game, am I right? (That’s Andrea and Peter in overtime.) Admittedly, I didn’t start watching ‘til the fourth quarter (nothing good happens in the first half anyway), but it was cool it was tied up when I tuned in.
And yeah, even then I had one eye on the game. I think I get it from my Dad. He watches the Vikings on Sunday afternoons with the sound off and opera on, while tending to a loaf of bread in the oven and whatever he’s got braising on the stove. Considering that an average football game has only 11 minutes of game play (via dihard), if you’re not doing something else … then what exactly ARE you doing? ;)
I was in Germany when Italy won the World Cup and this was a thousand times bigger. No one is going to work tomorrow. Everyone was praying to Breesus. We all waved our fingers in a prayer spell when they flipped the coin in overtime and that was it.
It all goes in the big pot: roux (flour + butter), Holy Trinity (onions + green peppers + celery), okra, bacon, parsley, homemade chicken stock, homemade shellfish stock, smoked ham hocks, homemade Andouille sausage, ham shank, chicken, shrimp & crab. Plus spices, of course.
Hey Mandie! No tomatoes. Just for you. ;)
Sunday’s N.F.C. Championship Matchup
Hey! Don’t laugh. I like football … when it involves deliciously fattening food, my best friends, and two of my favorite places in the world: NOLA and my home state of Minnesota.
And to commemorate this historic showdown, I’m making GUMBO. (This is as close as I get to a religious experience. Gotta use CAPS.)
The last — and only — time I made gumbo, I used a recipe that called for a slew of assistants. Jane and Andrea were champion choppers but let me tell ya, when you’re making gumbo, you want M. in your corner. The other night he made Andouille sausage and then he roasted 3 chickens and made a couple gallons of stock for the gumbo and then he braised some pork shank … just ‘cause. I mean, who wouldn’t want a little pork in their gumbo? (Plus smoked ham hocks for flavor, which he also sourced for me.)
Today he’s getting live crabs and shrimp and okra and later we’ll make seafood stock with the crab and shrimp shells. I think that maniac is even planning to cook and shell the crabs before I get home from work.
…
Stop right there. I know what you’re thinking. “Seems like it’s M. who’s making this gumbo.”
See that’s where you’re wrong. On Sunday, I will be the one adding flour to hot butter to make the roux, stirring it ‘til it’s the just-right shade of deep chestnut brown. I will be the one gently cooking the Holy Trinity, then the okra, and adding spices, salting, tasting, waiting for the exact moment to add more stock, then sausage discs, chicken pieces, shredded pork, crab, and shrimp. I will be the one again tasting, testing, adjusting, and finally — at the instant when the flavors meld, dance, and explode into unmistakable GUMBONESS, I will bring the pot to the table.
That’s how you tell the gumbo master from the gumbo ya-ya.
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