Lazy W Marie

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

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deep sleep, blackbirds, & some magic

We slept so late. More than nine hours in bed. Our smooth new slate-colored sheets must have chamomile leaves woven into the cotton.

We creep outside well past daybreak. The morning is warm and absent of any breeze but overcast, as gray as our magical sleeping sheets. Perfect coffees in hand and one hundred-pound puppy bouncing around our ankles, we start the day already simmering in affection and buffered by safety. Hot Tub Summit. We plan our day.

An hour later we are outside again, this time dressed and sitting at a round metal table next to the barn, facing downhill. We are still wrapped by the warm woolly air, no technicolor sunrise today. Our four-leggeds eat their breakfast contentedly. So fat and beautiful. Hens tease roosters, darting seductively across the middle field, scratching at horse manure, chuckling in the dormant flower garden. The birdsong is exceptional. We hear and scout for cardinals, blue jays, doves, and woodpeckers. Then it happens.

Out of the southwest corner of the farm, a dense flock of blackbirds, half as wide as our property and trailing twice that length, swoops up over the sand hills, maybe from the forest or maybe beyond, and speeds across the farm. They are too high to touch but low enough to force the air down in whooshes with their energetic flight. The birds are massed together into one quilted black flying carpet, undulating and speeding between the sky and the earth, slicing through the moment.

They race toward one tree with one purpose and land on an oak just past my husband’s car shop. Its branches dip and dance from the burden. Every twig now is dotted with a round black bird, the whole mass still twittering and vibrating. Handsome takes photos of the spectacle.

When they eventually hush, the regular birdsong resumes. I cannot tell whether the cardinals, blue jays, doves and woodpeckers were quiet during this stunning display or just out-sung. Either way, the heartbeat of the farm returns to normal.

Chickens laughing again and roosters crowing on every side. Geese preening with soft honks down by the pond. Horses snuffling and bison knocking around a fallen tree with his massive horns.

I have one more cup of perfect coffee to sip before deciding between work and play. But on days like this, when the magic here is so thick, it’s hard to know the difference.

Happy Valentine’s Day friends
Enjoy some magic
XOXOXOXO

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

 

 

 

A Sweet Wakeup in Louisiana

   Too excited for this New Orleans getaway to wait until the next morning, we said goodbye to the farm after dinnertime on Sunday. We armed ourselves with a giant French vanilla cappuccino, an even bigger Dr. Pepper slushie, and a bag of cheesy Bugles then did justice to some excellent road trip music by singing along and performing for each one like American Idol hopefuls. Sort of. We drove all night, stopping once for food and fuel and twice for quick if cramped naps. The tethers of daily life and recent stressors gradually loosened their grip, but the brutality of a marathon road trip was unkind to our tired bodies.
   Very early Monday morning, just as I was really waking up in the passenger seat, stretching and yawning and noticing my need for a good face scrubbing and swig of mouthwash, the beauty of Louisiana unfolded around our rental car. Handsome was still focused on efficiency, still driving and battling the aging GPS machine. Still distracting me with his good looks. The early morning fog was clearing in small efforts as the sun rose. Magnolia trees bigger than most houses, cypress trees old and elegant around every bend, and thick ivy covering hard surfaces as if they were secrets in need of protection. Everything was familiar and exciting. Such a strange thing to feel like you are coming home to a place you have never lived.
   Then rural scenery gave way to a small town where Handsome had apparently found us a breakfast surprise. We both had been craving donuts for about two weeks and had agreed that at some point we would indulge for our anniversary. What better place than Louisiana, on our way to our favorite city?
   He wordlessly pulled our rental car into the parking lot of “Shipley’s Famous Donuts,” where the great flavor debate was already firing away in my head. You can have any flavor you want, but not every flavor you want, I was hating myself for telling myself. My husband has a way of providing surprises, both big and small, in a way that proves he listens and wants desperately to show his love but also does not want to talk about it. So I only gushed over the thrill of early morning donuts for approximately eight and a half minutes. Then I let it go. Because I am nothing if not in control of myself.
   Inside the low, glass front building a woman behind the counter was laughing with a small group of customers, probably regulars, and making the sweet donut air even sweeter with her southern accent. She greeted us brightly with that perfect, cozy drawl and stood sideways so we could feast our eyes on the library of colorful pastries behind her. I remember noticing that the whole place was fully unadorned, not so much as a silk flower or scrap of fabric or framed photo was anywhere to be seen, but that was perfect. The east facing glass building must be almost always flooded with sunlight and a view of nearby gardens, and that wall of color and texture behind the counter is all anyone could really look at anyway.
   We struggled with our donut selections, filled our hands with either coffee or chocolate milk, and sat down at a scrupulously clean formica table for two. The whole place was scrubbed to shining, actually. I ate my monstrous apple fritter witout any runner’s guilt whatsoever. That thing was as heavy as a grapefruit, you guys. It was rich and buttery, overflowing with apple pieces, and had such a glaze on it that it literally crunched then oozed when I sank my teeth in. In seconds all ten of my greedy fingers were crusted with the sticky evidence of the indulgence.
   As Handsome and I ate and flirted with each other, the table of regulars maintainted their laughing, amiable pocket of the room. Huddled around their gleaming formica table as if it provided heat on a cold night, they smiled at each other and made a slow breakfast of friendsip. The woman behind the counter tended to drive-through customers and seemed to love every one of them with equal sincerity. 
   Then an impeccably dressed elderly black man entered the shop and was greeted magnificently by the woman, “Mornin Reverend!”  He responded with a grand bow and warm, booming salutation back to her. The table of regulars also nodded or waved at him affectionately. The gentleman collected his steaming coffee in a porcelain mug instad of a styrofoam cup, and he took that and a small stack of glazed donuts and sat down at a corner table near us. From this table, for the next fifteen minutes that we stayed and probably much longer, he held court.
   One by one, men came in off the street and made a beeline to the gentleman, hats removed and clutched in their hands, sometimes patronizing the donut shop but not always, every time gracious and hushed in their approach. Part of me wanted very much to hear their conversations, but most of me was satisfied just to witness the ritual.
   We polished off our sugary breakfasts, thrilled to be so near the end of a long drive and so near the beginning of another New Orleans adventure. As Handsome pulled our rental car out of that clean, crescent shaped little parking lot, huge droplets of condensation rolled down the windshield and allowed sunlight to blind me. I relished the warm morning and tried to memorize every detail of the neighboring houses and gardens. We left that small town and climbed back onto the Interstate, driving south between forests and farmlands. Trading Oklahoma for Louisiana and hopefully gaining some lushness of spirit in the process.
   And then, just like that, the long, raw night of travel and undercover escape was forgotten. My left hand on is right thigh, we were refreshed and singing love songs again.