On some day after the seventh, God created Jambalaya, but when doing so, he threw away the recipe. Since then, we mortals have been experimenting and re-inventing this classic Cajun/Creole concoction, and many have banked cookbooks and restaurants on “authentic” varieties or on their own unique take on this culinary mix-up.
I wonder how many versions I’ve tried, have cooked?
My first, and still favorite, came from The Cotton Country Collection (Junior League of Monroe, LA), and is actually found under “Sen. Allen J. Ellender’s Louisiana Shrimp Creole” recipe. This one takes a lot of time, and don’t rush, and please don’t think it’s done twenty minutes after you put the shrimp in. …
I sit in the mountains of Virginia, a relatively blue state, though from where I sit, there are more orange plague signs than not. I passed a sign a couple of days ago that said:
“Jesus is My Savior
Trump is my…”
The car slid past, and I couldn’t read the rest. I didn’t back up because I don’t need the bullshit. Equating Jesus and the orange plague, believing that they share guiding moral principles, feels like believing that a soap opera, the Kardashians, Jerry Falwell Jr, and Franklin Graham represent models of true love and sanctity. Or sanity.
We’ve taken long hikes over the past few days and looked at houses that we’re considering for our mountain retreat — a place to be near our older daughter and son-in-law as life continues to unfold. …
A haunted bank of dying grass.
Cracked sidewalks, buckled by eldritch roots.
An old deaf woman delivers caramel apples.
A live oak tree harbors bats who later flop on the ground.
A chili supper awaits. I’m so young on this Halloween,
that my daddy never lets go of my hand.