Of Friends and Pot Roast

"Life is partly what we make it, and partly what it is made by the friends we choose."
-Tennessee Williams

Last week I had the rare pleasure of entertaining friends at an informal supper party held at my home in the Faubourg Treme. "Plauche House", as it was named when it was built sometime in 1840, is a classic Creole Cottage in architecture, the two rear units that open to the courtyard were added on sometime later, probably mid-last century. I often think about the lives lived in this old house over the last century and half, and wonder about the people who lived them. Not a lot is known about former residents, but it is rumored that this house was built by Claude Treme himself to house his mistress and his six illegitimate children. Of course, it is known that wealthy Delta planters and early industrialists of this area freely took mistresses and provided for the families that they produced. This neighborhood especially was home to many Creole, quadroon and octoroon ladies with children by married men. A block or so away from here is a neighborhood street known as St. Claude, named for the same Claude Treme as mentioned earlier. This street was once known as Good Children, named for all of the children born of bastardy and fornication who once inhabited this area. I suppose city planners didn't want them to feel so bad about their lot, so a street was named in their honor. Awwwwww........

Anyway, I had the great honor of entertaining the recent newlyweds, Zak and Angie, and was graciously assisted by my glamorous houseguest, Toniesha Shabazz Johnson (aka Kevin) who created cocktails of such amazing delight that Matassa's Grocery had to be telephoned to deliver more vodka and ice. The good times rolled.

Conversations are always interesting in this magnificent company, and the myriad topics covered were a rich tapestry that wove intellect and reason into a sparkling affair. We discussed personal New Orleans crime stories, falling down on the streets, (by the way, a number of friends, including myself and La Shabazz, have fallen victim to the heaving streets and banquettes of the neighborhoods recently. It seems that often the pavement just leaps before you, grabs you by the ankle and pulls you to the ground. Old World charm or urban decay? Hmmm...a post for another day.) groceries, genital piercings, sexual intercourse with melons, restaurant reputations, animal husbandry.....the topics were endlessly fascinating as we sipped sweet tea vodka cocktails until dinner was served.

Pot Roast. I have long been known for slow-cooker meals through the years. Large pieces of meat braised in flavorful liquids destined to become gravies or soup bases later. The roast was slow cooked in red wine, beef stock and a finely minced mirepoix that was later thickened to be served over the tender beef along with ethereal mashed potatoes flavored with garlic. The perfect meal for either a gray November day or a late July supper with good friends sharing laughter and tears.

During dinner, I screened my latest obsession: Grey Gardens. Angelique and Zak had not witnessed this spectacle before. I have to say that Zak was profoundly affected by the tale of American aristocracy on the skids. I found it so amusing that Angie and Zak were in hysterics when Big Edie points out to the Maysles that a cat was urinating behind her oil portrait. The camera pans down to the familiar expression of a cat going potty. See, Angie and Zak are proud cat owners, and they recognized the expression of this feline relieving itself. Priceless. Zak lamented later after dessert that he regretted that he would not be able to relate or discuss this film with anyone in his circle, being that they are straight people who probably haven't seen it. Angelique asked Kevin and I, "Why do gay guys like stories about broken down, crazy women?" Kevin smartly replied, "Because there is one deep inside of all of us." Hear, hear.

I look forward to combining this company again. It is the very least I can do to demonstrate my love for these particular people who grace my world and enrich my life. Someday I will have to recount the story of Christmas a few years ago in St. Petersburg, Florida when Angie and Zak were unwilling refugees from New Orleans. The story is ribald and racy and desintegrates into something that everyone involved should be ashamed of, with the exception of our sister, Paul Anater, who is a paragon of virtuous behavior and abstinence. It was a most memorable Yuletide. Perhaps I will post that chestnut at the holidays.