We took a day and a half to drive the thousand miles to Slidell, Louisiana. When we pulled onto Treasure Isle, home of our host, Al, fiance of Kit, mother of Ryan, it was past dark on Thursday. Nevertheless, Ryan scooted out to greet us on his skateboard, and directed us into our spot, complete with hookups, without the aid of those little orange glowing flashlights. Izzy and The Little Guy were not far behind. Hugs around, it was a great reunion, even though not much time had passed since our last encounter.
Our timing, they told us, was perfect. After introductions, Al and Kit served up some good ol' fixins: butterflied shrimp with linguine, green beans and portabellos, fresh salad and stuffed artichoke. What a welcome! Al's house sits right up against the shore of Lake Ponchartrain, and the evening view from the dinner table was lit up by the lights glowing along his dock. They informed us they already had the crab traps set and the fishing poles rigged for a good Louisiana fish fry on Friday night.
The dock in Al's backyard.
Table talk consisted mainly of gator stories. Al had just gotten off probation for shooting a 10-foot gator that had crept up into his backyard in pursuit of BlackJack. In other words, a 1/2 ton reptile was looking to make dinner out of Al's standard poodle—he acted in defense of his canine family member. His neighbor called Fish and Wildlife and they had promptly showed up in time to flash badges, arrest the perpetrator, and make silly claims. Claims like, "An alligator seriously endangering your family is no excuse to shoot it out of season." (That's right, even if it had been his child he would have been reprimanded for his actions.) And, "When you saw the 10-foot gator preparing to attack your dog, you should have simply called the Fish and Wildlife." Al's report that just a few houses down two large dogs had been devoured recently mattered not to the officials of the state.
Then they told us that there was a gator digging a nest just 10 feet from our campsite. We hoped to see him out of the water, but not in it.
During our four-day stay on Treasure Isle, we learned all sorts of new information. Like about nutria. Not the sweetener, not slang for good eating, but rather a denizen of the bayou. Like a beaver without the tail or the teeth. Apparently these little critters were quite prevalent in the bayou, and folks were even making nutria coats, retailing for up to $20,000 a pop. Here the local Louisianans had always thought of nutria as your run-of-the-mill road kill, when all the while the little suckers were swimming around, scavenging the swamps wearing pelts worthy of Nieman Marcus.
We learned a bit more about fishing in the brackish waters of Ponchartrain. And how cool it is to be able to traipse right out into the back yard, walk the long length of your private dock, and stand at the edge of the planks casting into the night sky with your buddies. The already-established fishing champion, Izzy, continued to live up to her title. Needlefish gloated near the surface, translucent in the bright flood light cast upon the water. And speckled trout fed just at the edge of the glow. Al brought out some "sweetener:" real shrimp, though deceased. Suddenly the plastic lures became something the likes Robert Palmer would sing about. They became simply irresistable, and each cast was a winner.
We learned about the wonders of Nawleans cooking: from Al's delectable banana fritters, to the always delicious barbecue, to the absolute best way to prepare white fish: Zatarain's Fish Fri, a New Orleans tradition since 1889. It took me the whole duration of our stay to get the name right. First it was Zanadu's, then Zachariah's, then Zatahoochie. But regardless what you call it, the stuff is just plain good.
We rigged up Al's fishing boat to act as wake provider, and took a few spins behind the cruiser in the lake on a calm Saturday evening. Even in October, the water temperature in the lake is 80 degrees!!! And though a few jelly fish make it in from the gulf, the gators steer clear of the open water, making for a fun ride along Treasure Isle.
Ryan cruisin'
Aryn cruisin'
Izzy chillin'
Al drivin' ... da boat.
One morning we all piled into Al's caddy (even The Little Guy) and drove the 23 miles into the French Quarter. Of course, we had to visit Cafe du Monde, where we gorged ourselves on beignets and Kit showed us what you're really supposed to do with all that powdered sugar: namely, blow it across the table, preferably onto someone wearing black! (Both B and I fit this bill that morning, and therefore were covered with more white powder than an epileptic coke addict.)
We wandered around the French Market, oggling petrified gators and searching out Izzy's preferred hot sauce. In the amazing selection, we found it. The label is a little cartoon character, seen from behind, with a big red handprint on his nether cheek. The name of the sauce? Smack My Ass and Call Me Sally. Izzy swears it adds great flavor.
In the square on the Mississippi side of the great cathedral in the middle of the Quarter, there was plenty to see. Gaggles of psychics, tarot masters and palm readers set up shop all along the outside of the garden. Artists hung their wares on the wrought iron fence and chastised anyone who dared stand in front of them. Street performers vied for the crowd's attention. Most notable was a juggler who combined comedy, skill and danger from atop a 15-foot unicycle. Then, of course, there was the growing collection of human statues. There was the silver guy with the silver alien, the golden guy on the golden milk crate, the white angel, complete with full-length wings, and the black-caped black death statue. Quite impressive how still they can stand. There was also a killer jazz band, with clarinet, sax, guitar, bass and broom player. You read right...one of the band members played a mean air guitar on a broom stick. He might have been a bit loopy, but he was definitely having fun.
