Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

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just an average night of magic in the quarter

On Tuesdays I like to share stories or recipes from the Lazy W kitchen. 
But this week, let’s talk about New Orleans some more.
She certainly deserves the attention.

 

Our dinner plans last night included a long, slow walk from our downtown hotel, along Bourbon Street, past Canal and past Toulouse, the cross street where you’ll find the Saint Anne-Marie. (Next time you have about three hours to sit and listen, ask me about this place.) We strolled easily hand in hand, in zig-zag lines from the uneven brick sidewalks to the open streets and back again to the sidewalks. We dodged the craziest revelers but enjoyed the atmosphere. People watching in the French Quarter is a measurable spectator sport, and we are skilled. The weather continued with such pleasant mildness. I was comfortable in my sundress but also happy to have my denim jacket when the cool breeze kicked up or a retail shop’s open door gushed out icy air.

Our destination last night was my choice, a place we’ve now visited twice, and it’s taking hold as one of our favorites. Right there in the middle of all the action, Bayou Burger on Bourbon has incredible food with excellent service and all the views. We were happy to wait maybe fifteen minutes for a balcony table, and everyone from the host to the server and management made us feel welcomed and not the least bit rushed.

Okay, the food. Remember how I told you that this week I’m indulging in local foods selectively? Trying to enjoy the trip but not sabotage my nutrition before the marathon? Well, last night’s meal was a great example. I ordered something decently healthy but also something you just can’t get anywhere else: I had a Gator Burger, and it was amazing. This thing was a thick, succulent patty made from a mix of ground alligator and lean pork. It’s cooked but still pink, served on a small brioche bun with almost dry jalapeno cole slaw. Very little dressing, just lots and lots of flavor. I chose sweet potato fries as my side, and they were not greasy at all. Perfect. All these flavors and textures together were like magic. Sweet and salty, savory and spicy, hot and meaty, cool and crunchy, soft and chewy, crispy… My gosh. This is the kind of meal that makes all mediocre restaurant meals and afternoons of deprivation worth the wait. And it actually filled my cavernous runner’s belly, which my closest friends will tell you is no small feat!

This is website photo obviously. And for a change, the real thing looked even better. I had mine sans onions and no chips, sweet potato fries instead. You guys. So good.
This is website photo obviously. And for a change, the real thing looked even better. I had mine sans onions and no chips, sweet potato fries instead. You guys. So good.

While eating and talking and laughing and flirting, thoroughly enjoying the balcony view, perfect weather, and eerie rooftop landscape of the French Quarter, Handsome and I noticed a police-escorted black SUV on the cross street. We assumed it was Michelle Obama, as we’d heard the First Lady was in town to pay commendations to the NOLA police department. (They have been successful in eliminating homelessness here among their veterans. Wow!) Immediately behind that quick scene was a small, sudden jazz parade!! This is one of the many benefits of balcony seating: A bird’s-eye view of unplanned parades!

The parade was small in size but not in spirit. They overtook the area with joy! The group was led by a man wearing a much-sequinned black tuxedo, white and silver feathery plumes, a sparkly white derby hat, pageant sash bearing words I couldn’t read, and tap shoes. He danced out front with abandon, frothing up every spectator and sending the energy all around him up to the clouded sky. The band played smooth white instruments, and they were followed by a large group of people wearing business clothes and convention name tags. Everyone was on cloud nine, including us. The party turned a corner in front of our balcony and we took our seats again to watch them pass. We could hear their music for several blocks, not to mention the wake of celebration they left.

date night jazz parade

As we returned to our delicious meals, I felt a twinge of happy-sad. I looked up at my husband and recognized the same expression in his green eyes. As I’ve said many times, this city has a hold on us. She draws us in and toys with our emotions. She makes us feel like we belong then reminds us that we are outsiders. Embraced then rejected, over and over. So weird. Do other people have such odd connections to foreign places?

After dinner, both fully satiated, we walked back up Bourbon and stopped in at the Jazz Garden to listen to Steamboat Willie play. An older couple was dancing before a tightly packed crowd of maybe 200 people. Some standing like us, some seated at little iron tables bearing paper plates of beignets and powdered sugar. When I say this couple was dancing, I do not mean they were swaying timidly; they were lost in the moment. Twirling, spinning, trading the spotlight, dipping and circling each other. Wow! Wearing sensible shoes and tourist clothes, they moved quickly and with complex and perfect coordination, a beautifully fluid harmony between them. For much of the interlude her eyes were even closed. Watching them, I felt tears well up in my own eyes. Handsome stood behind me, holding me, and we swayed in our own way, just amazed. Eventually I felt someone watching us. The patio lights blurred. The banana trees dipped down to embrace us all as one pulsing, weeping group. When their dance was finished, they took an exaggerated bow and the intimate crowd rewarded them with such applause!

date night wille band

The very next song was “What a Wonderful World,” that Louis Armstrong classic. Willie crooned into his microphone and Handsome crooned into my ear. Chills. We held each other and soaked up every vibe. I wept for happy reasons and sad ones and suspect he did too. A few times when the song approached key lyrics, the singer invited the crowd to join in. So he sang Friends shaking hands, saying how do you do? They’re really saying… Then the crowd, in a hushed but muscular voice, I LOVE YOU!! I got the tightest squeeze around my middle from the best arms in the world. Then at the end, slowly, Willie sang, And I think to myself… and the crowd, so softly, What a Wonderful World…

We kissed and danced in our small, timid ways in the undulating banana tree shadows then left for the short walk back to our hotel. My heart finally agreed with my head that this place is meant for such moments of magic, for nights of refreshment and connection, not for living. We got that magic last night, all of the refreshment and connection, and still a good life waits for us. A very good one.

And I think to myself…
XOXOXOXO

 

 

 

marathon monday: tapering in heaven

This year I am spending Taper Week in the most magical place on earth, New Orleans. The Big Easy. Specifically, the French Quarter. What an ideal environment for resting actively, i.e., still walking a lot, maybe snagging a three-miler here and there, some hotel room yoga, but overall just slowing down and gathering up lots of good energy for next weekend. Enjoying nourishment for body and soul from all the sights, sounds, smells (okay not every smell here is divine), flavors, and just… vibes. All the incredible feelings that pulse from this unique cultural microcosm my husband and I love so much. If ever a city within a city were well suited for intense active rest, it’s the Quarter. I always go home deeply refreshed and fully inspired after a few days here.

Once again, that weird feeling that I've come home to a place I've never lived. Every dang time.
Once again, I have that weird feeling of coming home to a place I’ve never lived. Every dang time.
Green, dripping canopies everywhere. Especially breathtaking in the morning sun. Much appreciated around the hard edges of all that wrought iron. Gorgeous combination.
Green, dripping canopies everywhere. Especially breathtaking in the morning sun. Much appreciated around the hard edges of all that wrought iron, this is such a gorgeous combination.

This morning I spring loose from our hotel and walk a couple of miles in search of perfect coffee. Office workers and traveling business people are buzzing around at a much faster pace than me, briefcases and shouldered messenger bags flying behind them. Lots of runners are out on the streets too, sweating it up in the glorious Coastal South humidity. This makes me a little happy-antsy and I have to force my legs to take softer, slower strides. Wearing three-inch wedge sandals helps. As I walk through the streets and clock one landmark after another, I notice feeling less like a tourist than ever before. I am even able to give a woman directions successfully (I guess)(probably) (good luck lady). How many visits to the city earns me honorary residence? If NOLA could only know how much I love her.

Street sweepers are finishing their work as traffic increases. They spray lemon scented, sudsy water that foams up and runs in spirals around every curb, rinsing away last night’s debauchery.

NOLA suds

I can’t stop smiling as I pass so many (dozens! thousands!) of familiar shops. My heart is glowing just to recognize these little places. The same fern-collared potted evergreens. The same painted wooden signs and chalkboard menus on the same uneven sidewalks. The same changing artsy window displays behind glass next door to the same haunted hotels. So much opulence and rusticity all in the same space. Everything together in harmony and contrast, it’s all so beautiful I have to choke back tears.

This shop in particular always turns out fantastic window displays. Three cheers for fairy lights on in daylight! Three more cheers for black and white art with colorful flowers beneath.
This shop in particular always turns out fantastic window displays. Three cheers for fairy lights on in daylight! Three more cheers for black and white art with colorful flowers beneath. I love it.

Is it silly to see bohemian artists setting up shop at Jackson Square or on Royal street, displaying painted work I know well, and have to suppress the urge to rush up to them with tight hugs and lots of encouragement? They are so young. They remind me of our oldest, and I want to make sure they’ve eaten today and that their boyfriends and girlfriends are treating them right. (Then I Snap-chat that beautiful girl and say about the forty-seventh prayer of the morning for her and her little sister.)

Eventually, big goofy smile plastered to my face and tears drying in my eyes, I land at my favorite shop to sit and drink perfect coffee for an hour or more. They are so nice here. They smile at you and cheerfully offer refills. You can sit by the window and people watch and notice mule-drawn carriages pass by under the ancient shade trees. The windows here are tall and arched, not insulated, the wooden frames painted maybe a thousand times by now. Across the street from where I always sit is an ocean-themed mural boasting an impossibly blue “water” background, sea turtles, dolphins, a plain yellow jellyfish, and one huge black and white killer whale not quite in the center. I’m pretty sure this building is a school.

Today it's sunny out and the nearby French doors were wide open, but you should sit right here during a rain storm. My gosh. xoxo
Today it’s sunny out and the nearby French doors are wide open, but you should sit right here during a rain storm sometime. My gosh. xoxo

Food is of course a big part of the New Orleans experience. And despite some recent efforts to slim down, I do intend to enjoy myself this week. Selectively. Last night for dinner I ate a good sized omelette loaded up with mushrooms, tomatoes, craw-fish, and shrimp. It was delicious! So so so good. And around here you add “Crystal” hot sauce, not Tabasco. It’s the local thing to do. So we do it. Next I’m looking forward to big salads topped with more Gulf-fresh seafood. Lots of fresh produce from the French market. Maybe some gumbo or red beans and rice. And toward the end of the week, closer to the race, some kind of amazing local bread like on a muffaletta sandwich. Or pasta. Or both.

How fun that my first taste of pineapple and watermelon this year is happening in my favorite place.
How fun that my first taste of pineapple and watermelon this year is happening in my favorite place.

Being here always refreshes me. It always gives Handsome and me a boost of romance, and the time spent in this culture actually deepens our appreciation for all things good and nourishing about the farm. I am so grateful to enjoy all of this and also get myself rested up for the marathon. Less than six days friends!!

Here’s hoping your week is just as lovely, however you are spending it. I wish for you provision and comfort beyond your wildest dreams. Reflection on lots of blessings (because remember that gratitude is an attractant), hope for the things that break your heart, and strength to meet every single challenge. And watermelon. I wish for you watermelon if it’s in season and perfect coffee every morning. Thank you for stopping here!!

“In the spring of 1988, I returned to New Orleans, and as soon as I smelled the air,
I knew I was home. It was rich, almost sweet,
like the scent of jasmine and roses around our old courtyard.
I walked the streets, savoring that long lost perfume.”
~Anne Rice Interview With a Vampire
XOXOXOXO

 

 

 

friday 5 at the farm: cravings

Happy Friday! Are you landing once again at the cusp of a hard earned weekend, equal parts exhausted and exhilarated? We sure are. What a week it has been at the W and in the worlds surrounding us. Whew!

april sky

Today I have some cravings that just won’t be shaken. So I’m gonna stir them, Friday 5 style:

  1. Running: Marathon tapering is in full effect and I feel restless to the max. I am up to date on all my training miles and actually grabbed my last 8 mile run on Wednesday, anticipating nasty weather this weekend, but other local runners are still looking forward to ten miles on Saturday. So now what? I feel weird. Really super duper weird. Like, am I off schedule now? Will my energy be weird until the race in 9 days? So, because at this point in my life running is the answer to every problem, I snuck outside in the soft rain for three easy miles on hills then wrapped it up with 20 minutes on the elliptical. Feeling good. Excited. But still craving a few long, stretched out hours of running!
  2. Tex Mex food: Like, as if that’s ever not the case. But rainy weather makes this craving stronger. I could really go for a massive steak fajita salad with warm tortilla chips, pico de gallo, guacamole, lime juice on black beans, freezing cold Diet Coke, and lots of sombreros hanging on the plaster walls. Maybe some mariachi music too.
  3. The Beach: Hot, abundant sunshine, limited clothing, and new books by Aimee Bender and Dean Koontz. Plus snacks and my husband sleeping next to me or swimming in the clear, salty water, watching birds and fish. No electronics.
  4. Fun: To laugh until it hurts with my favorite people. To stay up late by the bonfire, trading stories and screaming at imagined ghosts. To give and receive countless hugs and high fives. Games. Jokes. Connection. Yes to all the fun!!
  5. My babies: To have my girls here with us. Or at least to have continued assurance that they are happy and well. I have been dreaming of them so vividly this past week, very much along the same vein as those dreams I had right before Joc came home. It’s encouraging and thrilling. I crave the real thing.

What are you craving? Tell me everything.

XOXOXOXO

how not to fight with your loving husband if you are tapering during PMS

Or, this could be titled, “how not to fight with your loving husband if you are experiencing PMS during your taper week.” However you look at it. Is a zebra back with white stripes, or white with black stripes?

Either way, for the second year in a row, I am tapering for the marathon during the exact days my body is, shall we say, waning toward its new moon? Yes, let’s say it like that. I am about to be depleted in every conceivable way (no pun intended) (not that we’re conceiving), and if I’m not careful things could get dicey on the home front. Normally during these few days I’m not a total nightmare, but I do cry easily at Geico commercials, and here is the general sum of my personality: I am highly suspect of all politeness, assuming it must be a fearful if silent comment on what a bad mood I’m in.

Seriously, if Handsome and I ever engage in marital battle, it is almost exclusively during those few days of PMS, and it is almost always because I was so fed up with him being so careful with my feelings.

side-eye-chloe-meme-generator-could-you-freaking-not-be-so-nice-712d5f

LOL. His wife is such a peach.

So, throw some bouncy legs and an anxious mind into the mix, and we have ourselves an interesting situation. Here’s my 5-step plan to keep the peace:

  1. Eat Healthfully. No last minute extreme dieting, but also no emotional binge eating to soothe my nerves. I’m gonna eat right, stay hydrated, and continue taking iron, vitamins, and if necessary, Midol. (“Do you mean the bitchy pills, Ray?”)
  2. Gentle Exercise. Since my running (the obvious stress buster) has to be slashed down to a bare minimum, I’ll spend the next ten days walking plenty, and I’ll do it outdoors for the best mood lifting results. I’ll also spend time with my favorite yoga videos.
  3. So much reading. I am up to my splintless (thank-you-baby-jesus) shins in really good books right now, and with all this spare time on my hands (what with the not running) I plan to zen out with great food for thought. One is Sydney Portier’s spiritual memoir. Another is a new release piece of fiction by Dean Koontz (haven’t read him since probably my twenties, got a sudden craving for his language). And then there’s our book club’s current selection, which is another memoir: this one is by a female photojournalist who spent most of her career in war-torn countries. Hhmm. Okay, so maybe I’ll save that last one for after the race. Book club is exactly one week following, anyway. Plenty of time later.
  4. Reality Check. I will remind myself as often as needed that this whole situation is completely voluntary and that it was me, not him, who volunteered for it. Moreover, that along the way he has been incredibly supportive of me and brags about me constantly for no reason, so I really have no right to make him pay an even higher price for my pent up adrenaline by fighting with him. No matter how many weird little moments of rub we may experience, I am resolved to not over-thinking a single word or facial expression.

    Among other sweet gestures, he makes sure my shoes are the bomb.
    Among other sweet gestures, he makes sure my shoes are the bomb.
  5. Fingers Crossed and Dark Chocolate in the Pantry Just in Case. Because you can’t be too careful.

 

I hope this is useful to at least one other woman out there who has such similar good fortune as me to taper during PMS. It is so awesome and I really hope this happens every time I run a marathon!! Can you hear me gritting my teeth as I say that?

Now share with us your own wisdom. Have you ever tapered at an already difficult time? How did you cope? Are you local and will you come rescue my sweet, wonderful husband?

The struggle.
It’s real.
XOXOXO

to translate or not to translate

Several weeks ago I ran across a really interesting website called Smartling. Some of their work is to translate websites into other languages; more of their work is to share classic pieces of literature with wider audiences than just those enjoyed by the work’s language of origin. Interesting, right?

Have you ever read something that has been translated to your language? Do you ever wonder what was lost, what essence was maybe missing? My biggest experience with this has been Russian fiction translated to English. Still beautiful! Addictive even. But I always wonder… what must it be like to read it undiluted? Unaltered? What is a Russian-speaking woman enjoying that I’m not? So this cool project by Smartling got me thinking about some of my own favorite books and what might happen to them if translated to a different language. What would I really want to remain consistent, and how does the original language bring the piece to life?

Oh man. This is a difficult question, much harder to answer in fact than I first thought it would be.

First of all, I simply do not have one favorite book. My reading tastes are wide and various, and at any given moment my “favorite” is just whatever is open on my coffee table right then.

More importantly, though, why would we want to limit translation? I have always wished I had studied harder in high school and landed at adulthood with a few extra languages in my brain. Words are beautiful and meaningful, and verbal communication is so vital to our wellness as people. The complex nuances of well crafted sentences are just delicious to me. And I feel so strongly about most books I read that why wouldn’t I want everyone around this blue planet to have a shot at devouring them? So, translate everything! And while you’re at it, teach me all the languages.

More, more, more.

Still, yes, things are lost in translation. Great things. Most everything I read and love has an element that would suffer from a language change. How best to preserve those special elements?

What a fascinating and thought-provoking question this is. So I thought and thought.

My hard wrought answer, finally, is Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. You can read my original (amateurish) book review here. Our Oklahoma book club discussed it way back in June, 2012. Doesn’t this seem like yesterday, ladies?

grapes of wrath snapshot

To my mind, this book stands out as one that deserves some special treatment.

As you probably know, the story follows an Oklahoma family through the spirit-testing landscape of the Dust Bowl and Depression of the early twentieth century. The Joad family endures one hardship after another in search of stability and on their journey west from Oklahoma. Steinbeck offers raw storytelling as well as timeless, lyrical wisdom that could apply to any slice of humanity. It’s definitely a story for the ages and for all people, even if Oklahomans hold it with special reverence.

The main reason I feel like The Grapes of Wrath would lose some of its strength if translated is that so much of the story is grown up from uniquely Oklahoman roots. The physical landscape might be described just fine in other languages, and I’d love to know for myself, but please read this…

“A large drop of sun lingered on the horizon and then dripped over and was gone, and the sky was brilliant over the spot where it had gone, and a torn cloud, like a bloody rag, hung over the spot of its going. And dusk crept over the sky from the eastern horizon, and darkness crept over the land from the east.”

If you’ve ever seen a sunset in Oklahoma then you know this exactly nails it. Beautiful.

And the vernacular! Of course, nearly a century later, this isn’t exactly what you’d hear from most of us, but it’s still so illustrative:

“Why, Tom – us people will go on livin’ when all them people is gone. Why, Tom, we’re the people that live. They ain’t gonna wipe us out. Why, we’re the people – we go on.’

‘We take a beatin’ all the time.’

‘I know.’ Ma chuckled. ‘Maybe that makes us tough. Rich fellas come up an’ they die, an’ their kids ain’t no good, an’ they die out. But, Tom, we keep a-comin’. Don’ you fret none, Tom. A different time’s comin’.”

This second passage here is echoed today in what we know as “The Oklahoma Standard,” something modern day Okies will acknowledge with tempered pride and great affection. The term was coined following the 1995 Murrah Building bombing. Our state’s former Governor Brad Henry said this: “Something called ‘the Oklahoma Standard’ became known throughout the world. It means resilience in the face of adversity. It means a strength and compassion that will not be defeated.” Perfect. How much better could the spirit that carried our great-grandparents’ families through the Depression be articulated now, a century later? And to reflect on this in April, the very month of the anniversary, is stilling.

memorial reflecting pond

I could continue justifying my hope that this book is never diluted by translation to a language that might not do it justice, but then I’d just regret that so many people who don’t read English would miss out on such a powerful story.

Also, there’s the very honest fact that I am partial to this book simply because of heritage. There’s something special about saying you were born and raised in a certain place, and for that place to be Oklahoma, the land of both rejection and opportunity, agriculture and overcoming, is central to me. It’s undeniably part of my heart.

oklahoma

What about you? What pieces of literature do you think would lose something in translation, and how would you preserve those precious elements? Where are you from? Is that part of you, that heritage?

Thanks for joining me on this thought train, friends! Check out the website and do some thinking and tell me your own ideas.

It’s okay to call us Okies now.
Okie is a term of endearment.
XOXOXOXO