Turkey Re-Hash

"No more turkey. I will have some more of the bread that it ate, though."

-Hank Ketchum

I love Thanksgiving. I could have it all year round. I adore the idea of a feast for your family and friends, good wine, lots of laughs and the splendid vision of a fully dressed turkey, proudly resting after a long, sizzling slumber in your oven, presented in a fashion that would make King Henry VIII himself, blush with envy. Basted until it yields the golden brown skin and succulent flesh that home cooks the world over seek yearly. I have read of many techniques designed to keep that bird juicy and moist, but most seem bizarre and too troublesome to even attempt. I read of one that tells you to roast your turkey breast-side down for a portion of the cooking time, then flip it over for the remainder. I can picture myself struggling with a hot, stuffed 20 lb turkey wearing some kind of clumsy gloves to turn the bird right side up. Probably splashing the contents of the roasting pan to the floor, disgorging some of the stuffing and, if I didn't drop the turkey to the goddamned floor, I would, at the very least, have a greasy mess to clean up when I would much rather be enjoying a bottle of vino tinto and perhaps a pharmaceutical or two, in the presence of some very nice people who have come to marvel at my skill in the kitchen. Forget that.

I am also a fan of brining. That is where the bird takes a 24-hour bath in a salt and sugar solution in the fridge before being brought to room temperature, dressed and roasted. My buddy and chef, Zac, has presented turkeys with tremendous success in the brining realm. Positively bursting with juice from neck-to-popes-nose. That term, popes nose, for those interested in food history, was began by the English Protestants during the Tudor period, to denote the tail of a roasting fowl and to express contempt for the Catholic Church by suggesting that the Pope's mouth was likened to a bird's asshole. It's filthy, filthy asshole... (For fans of Showtimes divine series, The Tudors, Season Three's DVD's drop on December 15th. I've discussed with my friend, Paul that I am already coming up with ways to cope when that series ends. Wish me luck.) Back to brining. Being that I had purchased a 20 pounder this year, there is nothing that I had at home or could purchase, for that matter, that would accommodate the size of this bird and the brine. I briefly considered buying one of those Ziploc Brand Giant bags, or whatever they are called, but the pictures on the box showed that the bags were designed for storing sweaters and blankets, but not one photo of a raw turkey submerged in brown liquid stashed in someones fridge. My beloved Nigella Lawson suggested to me to purchase a small garbage can for this purpose. Alas, though I follow the words of Ms. Lawson as if they are religion, who's fridge can accommodate a small wastepaper basket as well as everything else in the icebox needed for this day? Not to mention the regular groceries that reside in there as well? Brining was out.

Martha Stewart suggests soaking a length of cheesecloth in melted butter and wine and draping that over the turkey while roasting. I have heard of people actually doing this to great success. The turkey, as well as the cheesecloth become mahogany and the flesh is unbeatably delicious. Even though Martha Stewart is another of my illuminated inspirations, I went with a method that not only makes that bird incredibly moist, but provides the most velvety gravy you've tasted. Here I present my Maple-Roasted Turkey. This also works with a Sunday Night chicken and would be delicious with a pork-loin roast as well. Although with the latter, I would roast some charming lady apples alongside, to be presented as a buttery, spreadable condiment along with the pork. May legions of home cooks take note and grow rich:

Brandon's Maple Roasted Turkey

What You Will Require:

A glorious bird of any size

Your beloved Grandmother's Cornbread Dressing

A stick of butter, softened and blended with savory herbs (thyme, sage, marjoram)

Salt and Pepper

A pound of thick sliced bacon (first quality)

A half cup of pure maple syrup (no detestable maple flavored corn syrup, please.) diluted with a cup of water or stock

Some turkey stock

Procedure:

Preheat your oven to 425 degrees.

Bring the bird to room temperature after thoroughly washing in cold water and patting dry with paper towels. (This is a good time to drink a cup of coffee and smoke a cigarette, while thumbing through your latest issue of Martha Stewart Living, or just fantasizing about the marvelous feast you are going to present to your eager guests who will no doubt boast about your turkey for decades to come.) Remove the bag of guts from the cavity. Sometimes the processors will hide it in the neck cavity in what I am certain is an act of cruelness to an inexperienced home cook. I chop up the liver as fine as I can and blend it into the dressing. My grandmother would not have done this, but she also cooked pork until it was the texture of particle board. Break up the heart, neck and alarmingly enormous gizzard with a knife and strew the pieces on the bottom of the roaster with enough water to cover the bottom of the pan.

If you choose to stuff your turkey, be reminded that it will add some time to it's sojourn in the oven, do this now. Pack it in. Don't forget to stuff the neck cavity as well and tuck the neck flap under the bird's shoulders. This gives a turkey that beautifully rounded appearance, suggesting goodness and plenty for all.

Carefully loosen the breast skin and massage about half of your softened herby-butter all over. Gently melt the rest. (I used the same pan I sauteed the mirepoix for the dressing in) Don't neglect the turkey's armpits. Tuck the wing tips under the turkey's corpse, bring the skin around the cavity over the stuffing and fasten with wooden skewers. With cotton kitchen twine, cross the legs at the ankles and tie a tight knot so that the turkey appears to be coquettish and winsome, protecting it's cavity from prying eyes. Brush the entire bird with the melted herb-butter generously, and cover the entire pan tightly with heavy-duty aluminum foil for the first third of the required cooking time. Of course, times will vary according to the size of your turkey. I bought a 20lb turkey, so the foil was on for about two-hours. I adore leftovers.

Remove the foil and reduce the temperature to 350 degrees. Shingle the bacon over the entire breast and legs, overlapping the slices as you go. Brush the turkey with the diluted maple syrup and back into the oven, basting with the syrup mixture every 20-30 minutes. If you notice that the legs are getting too dark too soon, cover them loosely with foil.

At this point, the bacon will have begun rendering it's sweet and salty fat over the entire bird, anointing it with a haunting smokiness. When the bacon has reached the point that it is a crunchy carapace of, what is in fact, candied pork-belly, gently remove the bacon and reserve it to crumble over the finished bird, or chop it into bite-sized pieces and present to your guests as a homey amuse bouche. They will be grateful. When the turkey (and the dressing) has reached an internal temperature of 160 degrees, remove from the oven to a cutting board and tent with foil. A turkey can sit like this for a half-hour to forty-five minutes with no harm while you get on with the rest of it.

The Silken Gravy:

Tip the contents of the roasting pan into a strainer set into a wide-mouthed measuring cup, scraping any browned bits from the pans bottom. While the fat separates from the luscious drippings, get on with the potatoes or whatever else needs to be done. I had the very handsome Zak attend to the mashed potatoes while I did something else at this point. Carefully pour or spoon the fat off of the surface of the dripping, tipping about three tablespoons of the fat into a saucepan. Combine, over medium heat, the fat with an equal amount of flour and whisk until you have a nutty roux. Gradually add the dripping to the saucepan, whisking all the while. You may add some delicious homemade stock that you made the night before with a package of turkey-necks to your gravy at this point. Simmer and adjust the seasonings, whisking, whisking, whisking. Any juices that have accumulated on the cutting board should also be incorporated at this time.

I am not a very good carver, so, I usually leave that job to someone else. It is an honor to be asked to carve someone Else's turkey, so accept the duty as such. I think that in most cases, the hostess is so pleased to be able to share the work at this point, I believe because a few glasses of Prosecco and/or red-wine have been consumed by this time, handing a knife to someone else is a relief to say the least. Zak did a marvelous job.

A delightful feast followed with the obligatory "oohs" and "ahh's", richly complemented by Angelique's divine Mac and Cheese, Zak's delightful stuffed mirlitons (a delicacy in Louisiana), and, it goes without saying, the most marvelous company in the world. Thank you Sam, Angie and Zak for allowing me to demonstrate my love for you all by feeding you on this most wonderful of holidays. My former houseguest, but still glamorous, Toenisha Shabazz Johnson came in after work a little later and enjoyed a plate as well as a slice of Angelique's revelatory sweet potato pie. A staple of Southern holidays. It was a perfect example of what good sweet potato pie should be: not overly sweet and studded with pieces of sweet potato adding texture to each bite. Her crust was buttery and light and literally melted in your mouth. I ate the entire pie in less than two days.

Idea For Leftovers:

Turkey Shepherd's Pie!

Christmas time is a-coming, and I am planning to secure a ham with the bone removed, to stuff with a mixture of cheese grits and collard greens. This is a recipe that I came across in one of Nathalie DuPree's cookbooks. She is a marvelous woman with a real commitment to Southern food ways. She keeps her recipes deeply rooted in the past but with such a contemporary flair that one cannot call her "cornpone". More on the projected success of that ham after Christmas. And don't forget: Hoppin' John for New Year's Day! It is a firm belief that by not eating black-eyed peas on the first of the year, you will invite misery and poverty into your life to such a monstrous degree that you may never, ever recover from the ravages. It is best to eat some black-eyed peas. Don't say that you hadn't been warned.

Po' Boy Sunday

"I am just a poor boy, though my story is seldom told. I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles such are promises."

-Paul Simon

Today I attended one of my favorite festivals in New Orleans. It is an annual orgy of which I have grown very fond. It is The Po' Boy Preservation Festival held on Oak Street Uptown. I have been eagerly anticipating the return of this popular festival since I first attended last year and joyously celebrated the City's most ubiquitous sandwich. Restaurants vie for the distinction of not only serving the most delicious Po' Boy in town, but also the most unique. I must have sampled at least five, and being a compulsive overeater, that is being mighty conservative, I can tell you. I attended the festival for the past two years with my dear friends, Angie and Zak, who, by their own admissions, are as fond of Po' Boys as the laws of nature will allow. Missing from this event was Toenisha Shabazz Johnson, who has been known to enjoy Po Boys (sandwiches, as well as the human variety) with as equally great gusto as myself and the recent newlyweds. Unfortunately, she was unable to attend due to work commitments, even though she had been scheduled the day off. It appears that The Sazerac Restaurant would have to close if she were to ever get sick or require a personal day. She paints a picture of her co-workers almost as a character study of Prissy in Gone With The Wind: lazy, incompetent, ignorant of midwifery. Despite her absence, a good time ensued, though she doesn't know what she missed. Look at the picture of the fun lovin' Po Boy enthusiasts below! Look at the size of them swimps! Only in New Orleans! Santa doesn't appear to have enjoyed many Po Boys this year, as he is quite svelte and trim. Maybe he has a tapeworm or just doesn't eat the bread.

It was hard to believe that an entire year had passed since a variety of tempting Po Boys passed my lips in one afternoon. We enjoyed a stuffed blue crab Po Boy dressed with a traditional remoulade, the beloved Parkway Tavern's Roast Beef Po Boy (which incidentally, could not be beat as far as flavor and value is concerned. A six inch sandwich covered with tenderly braised roast beef, Swiss cheese and mayonnaise for two dollars. AND a bag of Zapp's!) My favorite of the last two years, however, is prepared by a Vietnamese restaurant on the other side of the river, and is a wonderment of quality, freshness and flavor. A Vietnamese Pork Po Boy. Behold the glory: It is perfect in every way. The bread is fresh and has a delightful chew, the pork is sweet and savory, the cucumber salad and the cilantro perfectly balances the heat from the siracha. Perfection on a roll.

As well as about 50 food vendors, one offering what looked like grilled frozen pizza, (I know. At The Po Boy Festival. It is an abomination before God.) there were about seven bands, family-themed activities and a lot of local artists were exhibiting their work. The crowd grows by the hundreds as the hours go by, everyone sampling the riches stuffed into french bread loaves. I really wanted a commemorative T-shirt, but the only sizes available were small and 2XL. Believe me, I see no irony that the extra large tees were the first to disappear at The Po Boy Preservation Festival.

Amster-goddam

"Throughout the city, there are as many canals and drawbridges as there are bracelets on a Gypsy's bronzed arms."

-Felix Marti-Ibanez

I am taking a departure from my typical writing of New Orleans and the glories within, to bring you a very specific memory that I have of my visit to Amsterdam.

I started my day rather late by most standards today, and after coffee and checking comments from a certain "social-networking" site that I belong to, I began in earnest to clean my apartment. I would have liked to wipe my ceiling fan blades of their own grime, but my ladder is still in Toenisha's keep, so I concentrated on other tasks at hand that haven't been dealt with since mid-summer, at least. In a freshly organized Treme apartment (other people who live in this divided house refer to their spaces as "condos", but, as I am the only renter in the house, I call it "my apartment"), I watched a very interesting documentary about regional sandwiches that included po-boys from Domilise's and Central Grocery's Original Muffaletta (ya heard me, Y'all?). See, I give a nod to the city that I love most of all, even in a non-designated post! I am so consistent. After the doco, I prepared taco meat to be enjoyed with the fixin's I like the most inside of a soft flour tortilla. Fresh tomato, grated cheese, lettuce and sour cream. I, regretfully am not enjoying beans tonight, as I forgot them in my order from Matassa's Grocery for delivery this afternoon. See, there I go again. (Shout out! Give it up to New Orleans, Y'all!) Anyway, after the sandwich movie, I started to prepare dinner around 9:00pm and had a glass of wine while listening to Cowboy Junkies croon on "Trinity Sessions". This only fueled my craving for more red wine, blues and cigarettes. Dinner is still unconsumed. (Hell, it is taco-meat. It can be reheated, effortlessly.) I picked up Nigella Lawson's new "look-book" titled Nigella Christmas. I have to tell you, it is a masterwork. I adore her cookbooks. I would never go in for such a book designated for seasonal cooking but hers. I read her seven books over and over as if they are novels. I love her use of language above all. "Bring the brownies, studded with candles, to the table set gloriously and seasonally alight." She is marvelous. I practically worship her.

In one of her chapters, devoted to sauces that can be stirred together from ready-made ingredients, she talks about Dijonaisse, which is really, just mayonnaise and mustard whisked lovingly together, to create a dip for veggies or a sauce to be served alongside carved meats or as a spread for sandwiches. She enjoyed a version of this sauce with pomme frites in Amsterdam, which inspired this post. Finally!

I visited Amsterdam a few years ago with a dear and former lover who was quite aquainted with the city. We stayed at a lovely gay B&B called "The Golden Bear". We arrived in Amsterdam around 9:30 am, and were unable to check in to the place until 1:00. I only had coffee on my mind, so we left our bags and headed out to a charming cafe on a canal and had sweet milky coffee accompanied by crisp pastries while looking at the reflections of canal houses on the water and romantically imagined our anticipated time in that great and beautiful city. We walked around a bit and took in the unusual sights that were familiar to my partner, but new to me. Eventually, we made our way back to the hotel and found our room on the third floor following a narrow and winding staircase. The room itself was very modernly appointed and decidely masculine in its decor. A hidden vanity behind what seemed to be a closet door, revealed such a wonderment to me: a stainless steel sink and fixtures imbedded in fine blonde oak accompanied by minimalist, but effective lighting with a three way mirror designed into the doors. Everything was either wood or black or chrome tying it all together. The toilet was across the narrow hall, as was the shower facility, to be shared between four different rooms on the floor. Finding the accommodations lovely, we made love and napped for a few hours. We awoke and found ourselves very hungry. Bill insisted that the only thing he would eat while in Holland were the pomme frites that the city is renowned for. I accepted and was led to a fry-stand where crisply fried potatoes are prepared to order, and served in a paper cone positively doused with whatever sauce you would like. I chose the ubiquitous mayonnaise, knowing that I would have opportunities to try the different varieties in the days to come. They were more delicious than I ever thought french-fries could be. Crisp and golden and as satisfying as I was told they would be. We proceeded to a place known as April, where there was a revolving bar and the loosest happy-hour on the planet. Immediately upon arrival, Bill was greeted by a smilin' Irish lass known as Kelly (go figure), who remembered him from previous debaucheries in the place. I decided to stick with white wine, you know, to keep myself in check, right? All was fine and mellow. The crowd was jovial and friendly and the good times rolled. The revolving bar opened up in the mirrored back of the bar at 7:00, so why not? We were seated with the fair Irish gal as the barkeep at the carouselled bar, and continued our happy hours. Every fucked-up or refused drink passed our way, due to my lover's association with the place. Red vermouth? Really? Oh, it's a shot! Glug glug glug....When Kelly asked us if we smoked, we both said, "not cigarettes, Kelly." (See, I didn't smoke Marlboro's at the time. I had stopped.) She promptly produced a hash cigarette for us to enjoy. Everything after this point is kind of hazy...I remember Kelly recommending places for late night eats. Finding the toilet was a challenge with the revolving bar and all. The bar actually increased in RPH as the evening wore on. I recall emerging from the bar to a light, cold mist of rain and then eating pizza somewhere...

I awoke in our room somewhere around dawn, in our bed, in my underwear, completely soaked with my urine. Full bladder release had occurred and I was sure that it was mine. Never a signal, never an "I'm-standing-in-front-of-the-toilet-peeing" dream to wake up from suddenly or anything. Full bladder release in my sleep. I uneasily pulled over to Bill's side of the bed and dozed off. We awoke with the problem. "What do we do?", I asked. Bill said, "Just pull the bedding off and it will be alright. Let housekeeping take care of it." I did as my lover recommended, and we set off on our second adventurous day in Amsterdam. Of course, we started the day with pomme frites. This time, I tried mine with the mustard sauce that stained my mouth yellow with a brilliant golden color. Although delicious, I had to take care of the yellow teeth situation. In my mind I could recover from that by buying some chewing gum and chewing the stains away. Let me tell you, European gum is different from our tender, intensely pepperminty kind. It is hard and waxy and hardly amounts to a tiny tooth-sized lump in your mouth, doing no good at all. Regretful in fact...European drugstores are a different matter altogether. More on that later.

We arrived at Anne Frank's House and toured the hallowed place where they hid for so long before being ratted out to the Nazis. I wondered what she was complaining about. The attic was huge! Much bigger than any apartment I have ever had! I remembered reading about David Sedaris's visit to the same place. He raced from room to room with the same idea. "Have you seen this toilet?", he exclaimed when he saw the polite Delft porcelain potty in it's own little enclosed closet. Upon leaving the museum, you are confronted with an interactive feature designed to determine how much of an intolerant racist you are...I figured a 6-out-of-10. Not bad, I think. Afterward, we sought out a restaurant famous for Dutch-style pancakes. The Dutch bake anything into a thin, big-as-a-spread-out-newspaper pancake that you can imagine. I had mine with ham, caramelized red onion and Gouda. The friendly and very handsome waiter told us to try the beet syrup on the table that resembled a thin molasses. It was divine on the meat and sweetly studded, folded paper-thin lunch I enjoyed. It's flavor cannot be compared with anything that I can think of. Deep and minerally comes to mind when I consider wine-tasting terms.

Afterward, we walked through a few shops. One was a deluxe drug-store. If only America had pharmacies such as these! Contact lenses and pain killers readily available without a prescription! I would have bought some new contacts, if only I had my prescription. Dammmit!

Instead I purchased some salty licorice for Gyps and some chocolates for later.

We retired to The Golden Bear for a nap before re-entering the decadent world of Amsterdam. Upon entry to the room, I discovered a note on the bed that asked me personally, to see Management at my earliest convenience. I assumed that it had something to do with international billing, and we made love in the raunchy reflection of the three-way mirrors. When we were ready to emerge from our love nest, we descended the winding stairs, and I approached the front desk about the note that was left on our bed. The conversation went something like this:

Innkeeper: "Housekeeping was very surprised to find your bed wet, very wet this morning when they went in to service the room."

Me: " Oh. Sorry about that. We got very drunk last night and the jet-lag and everything..."

Innkeeper: "It doesn't matter. What matters is that we need you to pay for the cleaning of the bed. It is going to be 125 Euros."

Me: "Oh...OK, Um...can I pay when I check out or.."

Innkeeper: "We need you to pay as soon as you can. This room cannot be let again with a urine soaked mattress. We have to have it cleaned and replaced and..."

Me: "I understand."

I left that hotel completely mortified. Bill was on the street in front of The Golden Bear. When I told him what had transpired, he was amused. All I could think about was my shame in front of that desk at The Golden Bear. We walked into a completely different area of town that was filled with huge and imposing structures. I'm not aware of what I was looking at, they must have been government buildings or something. We went to a cafe where I ordered a Coca-Cola and a hash cigarette, like the one Kelly presented us with the night before. After two tokes, I needed to deal with the new monetary responsibility I had. I decided that it was better to withdraw the funds now and present them to the hotel desk before there was a shift change and I had to talk to a new attendant about the situation. I went to an ATM, took out the cash required by The Golden Bear for my accident. Stoned as Hell and high as Heaven's clouds, I approached the desk with the money in shaking hands. The conversation went as follows, with Bill by my side:

Me: "i have brought the money you require..."

Innkeeper: "Thank you. You know, sometimes people think they can come here and do whatever they please. That is fine, but, the next time you want to do that sort of thing, there is a shower directly across the hall fro your room."

Me: " Uhhh....(mouth agape) OK"

Again, I was mortified leaving the hotel. Again, Bill was amused, "Did you hear that?" he said. "That guy thought that we were pissing on each other!" I was not amused, until I told the story later. Not only was I out about $200, but I was labelled as a piss-queen in Holland. Oh dear. Thankfully, our stay at The Golden Bear was limited as we were leaving Holland for Scotland in the next two days. I mean, you couldn't enter or leave the hotel without walking past that front desk. Forget about enjoying the breakfast that was inclusive with your stay. Who knows what kind of new "friends" we would have made. Golden Bears, no doubt.

The Good, The Bad And The Fugly

"There ain't nothin' big or easy about it."
-random bar guy

As a New Orleans blogger, I have committed to celebrating the glories of this Enchanted City, not because I haven't experienced anything negative, but because I still believe that the city that I fell in love with long ago still exists amid the staggering crime rate and abject poverty that is constantly reported or covered up by a notoriously corrupt local government or ridiculously unprofessional media. Have you read the Picayune? I mean, there are some very informative and smart reporters out there, but come on. The paper generally reads like some backwater Pentecostal church bulletin. To adequately report the crime here in the Crescent City would probably require a weekly gazette the size of a Sunday paper without the funnies and Best Buy and Target circulars.

I moved to New Orleans in the Spring of 2008 with the full knowledge of the crime level of the city. I took an apartment in the Faubourg Treme knowing that it is a tough neighborhood. Across Esplanade Avenue from my house there is a church that displays a Murder List. It must be up to 175 murders so far in November (slow year). Still, I behaved as though I was untouchable. If I was careful to notice any suspicious cretin walking behind me on my way home from the bars at 2:27 am, I would rob any would be assailant of their greatest power, the element of surprise, before they could rob me. The other night as Toenisha and I parted at my stoop on Marais Street and she headed toward her own tony Esplanade address (immediately around the corner), she was accosted by some thug who thinks it is far quicker to stick a gun into someones back and then forehead instead of working an "honest" job to get whatever he can. Unfortunately, he is right. In less that a minutes work, he got away with a single dollar, some shoes and a cell phone amongst other things that would eventually prove absolutely useless to him. The greatest of his spoils was an iPod that any honest person can probably pick up at Wal-Mart for $50. Even though Toenisha carries herself like a person of immense wealth, it is purely charisma. Wealth of talent and character. Yes. Try as you might, you will never steal that from my dear companion.

My dear friend Angelique, who, by the way is turning into Earth Mother Angie by the day due to her common sense and frugality with a buck and affinity for organic anything, has been offering me the sagest (is that a word?) of advice since I moved to New Orleans. "Take cabs. We live in a city where things like muggings and jackings are commonplace. You better start acting like you live in a city like that, because you know what? You do." Really, it makes the most sense. What business on Earth does a white guy, gay or otherwise, have to walk home under the influence of alcohol into one of the most dangerous areas in the city? I mean, New Orleans is the most pocketed city in the country as far as crime and income levels go. Even our friends who live above Canal Street have the same outlook and they have lawns! I happen to think that I live on the most gentrified and beautiful street in the Treme, but right next door a few months ago, a drive by shooting occurred and it shook me apart. Obviously it was what is known widely as retaliation crime, but what the fuck? When I reported it to the police I was called a "snitch" at work by the guys who fit the description of Toenisha's attacker to the T. Shoulder length braids, dark complected, medium build, about 5' 11", around 26 years of age wearing a black hoodie. I have just described about 35% of the black male population in New Orleans. Shit! I work with two of that guy!

Within my first year in New Orleans, I was confronted with a most dastardly crime that hit so close to home and threatened to alter my view of this lovely place. A beloved French Quarter bartender that seemingly everyone knew was gunned down on Governor Nicholls in the residential area of the Quarter by kids for about $40. I did not know Wendy personally. I mean, she served me drinks a time or two at The Starlight Lounge, and I saw her performance as a naughty Dorothy Gale in a turn-about-show, but her tragedy affected me deeply. "This is a person in my community", I thought as I grasped for answers as everyone else did. I walked that same beat alone most nights, and she was shot to death around eight p.m. Still, I walked these streets, determined not to give into fear. Out of that horrible instance, I got to experience one of the most revered and beautiful of New Orleans customs: The Jazz Funeral. Literally hundreds of people showed up that day to demonstrate respect and support for the unfortunate demise of a well loved lady. The second-line route was lined with mourners who, if they weren't marching, were waving hankies like snow white doves in the streets of the French Quarter. We observed a moment of silence where she died to the strains of "Just A Closer Walk With Thee" played simply and mournfully on a trumpet. Afterwards, the music gained in glorious tempo and we marchers filled the streets in celebration of life. I will never forget hearing a choir of 300 singing the chorus of "St. James Infirmary" on Decatur Street that afternoon. Not an eye was dry, I can tell you. Even in writing this, I am wiping tears from my eyes from the overwhelmingly emotional experience that it was and obviously still is.

Even though I am disgusted by the incident and so sorry for my sister's experience within the first few days of her own independent New Orleans life, I am greatly heartened by her insistence to progress in the wonderful place that we call home. I am grateful to God for not allowing it to have been any worse. I believe that good always triumphs over evil. I think that no one gets away with anything for very long, and I still believe that New Orleans is the place that I love the most.