Once More, with Feeling
By Patti Nickell
Twenty five-years ago, I followed a man to
Losing the boyfriend was bearable, but as I write this from my sisters’ home in
A quarter of a century ago I took
Images come flooding in in kaleidoscopic fashion. The first time I saw a jazz funeral, celebrating a life rather than mourning a death; the first time I sucked the tail of a well-seasoned crawfish; the first time I heard the happy tune from the Riverboat Natchez’s calliope or the distinctive clang and clip-clop of the Roman Candy Man making his rounds in his colorful horse-pulled cart.
I think back to the glamour of my first Mardi Gras Ball when I had to make sure that my gown reached past my ankles (carnival protocol, you know) and the Woodstock-like atmosphere of my first Jazz Fest (where I spent the entire afternoon mired in mud from a May deluge that turned the Fairgrounds into a quagmire.)
I revel in memories of Breakfast at Brennan’s. No egg-beaters and turkey bacon here; breakfast starts off with a Brandy Milk Punch or Ramos Gin Fizz and ends three hours later with a flambeed bananas Foster. Those memories segue into ones of Friday afternoon lunch at Galatoire’s, where we regulars show up promptly at
As a writer by vocation and painter by avocation, I have discovered just how nurturing
It was, in fact,
He was right. Just ask Evangeline the Oyster Girl or Ruthie, the Duck Lady. Where else but New Orleans would you find a coroner who doubled as a trumpet player, or a District Attorney, Harry Connick, Sr., who would often show up for cabaret gigs with his famous son?
I can’t wait to savor a muffaletta at Central Grocery Store across from the French Market or a piping hot beignet at Café du Monde across from
It can’t be soon enough for me to belly up to the bar at the Fairmont (which native New Orleanians still refer to as the Roosevelt) for a Sazerac, a local concoction that those who don’t know any better swear is made from lighter fluid. Or to join the cadre of bon vivants who turn every Friday afternoon into an “Obituary Cocktail Party” (that’s after they stumble out of Galatoire’s, of course.)
Those who wonder if
Until that day, the words of Satchmo himself, will continue to resonate: Do you know what it means to miss New
Yes, I do.
Oh, me, too, Patti. Me, too... As soon a New Orleans is ready for company, I'll be there.
2 Comments:
I am Patti Nickell's sister in Lexington, KY, and I am curious about where you found her article. She originally wrote it for the Louisville Courier Journal.
It is interesting to find out how it made its way around the internet.
The article was sent to me via email by a relative who was born in the New Orleans area and thought I'd appreciate the sentiments expressed. Obviously, I did indeed. Where they found it, I don't know, though I suspect it came by email to them as well--which makes me wonder if the Louisvile Courier Journal has an online version of its contents. The piece touched a chord with so many during a difficult time. Please tell Patti thanks from me for having written it.
Warmest, Jennifer
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