The Couscous Chronicles » Food Legacy

Road Kill

labd — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 14:30:42 +0000

I know now what’s been missing in my life for the past thirty years. You know that itch you could never satisfy. I found it heading east on Interstate 70 near New Castle, IN off of an exit dubbed “Wilbur Wright Rd” in a rusting hulk of a sign bearing the word “Nickerson”.This sign represents an incompleteness that not much unlike my itch is one of many obsolete road food establishments living on in my cluttered brain chasm.Growing up my family traveled all over the Midwest and South by car. In my mind it was the “golden” era of travel during the early nineteen seventies as it coincided with the dawn of the interstate highway system. I still remember the detours through the farmland of central Illinois along side mammoth tangles of yellow “caterpillar” earth moving machinery building the youngling Interstate 57 and the back road detour along piney wood bordered two lane higway through Grenada, Mississippi paralleling the soon to be born Interstate 55. Most of all I remember the new crop of road side food establishments designed especially to take advantage of luring traffic off of the busy interstate highway interchanges.One in particular stood out because my father wisely avoided it knowing any stop there would be the detour to hell with my mother sucking up precious road time in an unending search for the latest Indian souvenirs and odd flavored peanut brittles. Of course my father would occasionally misjudged a tree shrouded exit (predating today’s Jedi mind trick blue commercial interstate signs representing the businesses off each exit with their logos) and be forced to stop at a similar roadside gas station-diner-yellow roofed store called Stuckey’s. The nostalgia for Stuckey’s is not as strong as “Nickerson” because Stuckey’s still exists in a sort of modernized shadow of its previous self, sort of like when Prince became “the artist formerly known as Prince” we now have dotting our interstates the “roadside establishment formerly remembered as “Stuckey’s”.Yes Stuckey’s still sells pecan logs and even a distant cousin of the southern “praline”, but they no longer have the “grill” in the back where in antiquity they sold all the road food: greasy burgers and fries! If you’re lucky you’ll find one with a Dairy Queen attached.Now a days I find it more interesting to scout the remnants of former Stuckey’s seeking out the distinctive pitched yellow Stuckey’s roof still haunting random exits. In some cases they still rise out of weed choked lots like old archaeological ruins. In other cases these sites have been resurrected into something far more interesting than the “new” Stuckey’s: rated XXX video stores with parking lots full of tractor trailers and neon signs flashing “Adult Video”. Now when I travel with my family I love to point out insignificant road “kill” images such as this reminiscing about what once was and barely earning a return sniff or sigh from my wife and the kids as they either sleep or bury their heads into their Harry Potter tomes and the latest J California Cooper yarn.So who is “Nickerson”? Just like Stuckey’s, Nickerson was what I like to think of as the fore runner to today’s aesthetically current Cracker Barrel “old country store” restaurants. If I am not mistaken the founder of “Nickerson” was actually a former employee of Stuckey’s who out of a dispute branched out his own. More specifically “Nickerson” was Nickerson Farms. They grew out of the construction dust of the newly born Federal Interstate Defense Highway system. What made them stand out was each one had a trademark high pitched tudor roof (kind of reminded me of the old iHops) and on one end of the building was a swarming bee hive attached to the building. This was no ordinary hive as it actually transcended the external side of the building inside where it reappeared within a plastic encasement behind the register counter allowing for full viewing of the honey making process. He knew all too well that old Nickerson had one upped Stuckey in chocking full his stores with even better catch all web of Indian or more appropriate to today’s standards Native American souvenirs and all manner of peanut brittle. But of course it was not all the above that made him not want to stop, no it was the most important part of Nickerson’s spider web: the ubiquitous bee hive. You see he knew my mother could not leave without buying a half dozen jars of Nickerson’s infamous flavored honey!I still recall my first eye witnessing of the Nickerson Farms honey making bee hive, partly because this is what drove it to such lore but also because my father had never stopped here and I stood there mouth wide open and feet firmly planted observing the whole process of millions of honey bees in an indoor beehive knowing I would likely never see it again. While the previous statement has held true or at least until some enterprising entrepreneur resurrects the Nickerson concept, I can at least say I have laid eyes on a vision in a dilapidated rusting “Nickerson Farms” sign validating a memory of what once was.

Strange Fruit

labd — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 13:03:14 +0000

“After the storm, after the rain, after the harm and after the pain, after we laugh and after we cry after we live after we die, we need a healing”Strange Fruit Project “God is/After the Healing” I finally built up the courage to watch the four hour Spike Lee directed HBO documentary “When the Levees Broke, a requiem in four acts” DVD set.Having lived in New Orleans in the early nineties I easily felt a part of myself died in the months following the impact of Katrina.In the last seventeen years that I have been since removed from the Big Easy, I have always seen “her” as my “mistress”. Following my relocation from the Big Easy, she has never let me down in constantly beaconing me to return to enjoy and sample her culinary and festive pleasures. When I relocated from New Orleans to Detroit, I somehow figured out a way to return on business and connected rerouted business trips on almost a monthly basis for the first two years I was gone. Since this blog has a foundation build on food I could not help in the aftermath of Katrina to recall one of my favorite NOLA establishments, “We Never Close”. I have no idea if this little “greasy spoon”- shadow of a once thriving convenience store – sandwich joint even exists any longer as New Orleans East was inundated with the deluge of flood waters and We Never Close was situated along the “ridge” on the venerable Chef Menteur Hwy. It would be unfortunate if We Never Close is now dare I say, closed?! Sad enough my only brushes with the place were limited, but I can say at least my first visit was a watermark event. My first encounter with We Never Close came on the heels of my first job offer. Following two days of intensive interviewing in a reflective glass office tower overlooking Lake Ponchatrain in suburban Metairie I received a job offer from the consumer products conglomerate Procter & Gamble that eventually led to an eighteen year marketing career. Upon leaving their offices with an offer in hand and joyously sharing the occasion with two of my LSU classmates who had received internship offers, we all decided we were thoroughly hungry and a celebration of food in the “City that Care Forgot” was at hand. Fortunately, Sabrina who had graciously offered to drive had the idea of driving forty five minutes out of the way in rush hour traffic to a “dive” of a po’ boy sandwich shop called “We Never Close”.It was love at first bite and that is not to be confused with “sight” as We Never Close is truly visually arresting. From the outside it looked like at one time perhaps twenty years earlier it enjoyed an existence as a “Stop n Go” type convenience store that had been haphazardly planned into being built on the edge of the swampy light industrial nowhere that was Chef Menteur Hwy in eastern New Orleans. It literally sat isolated from any signs of residential life and looked as though it had simply sprang up right out of the cypress stands that surrounded it. It was totally out of place. So given its reputation was more of being a place for great sandwiches and less of a convenience store started to make sense. Upon entering the establishment, I could see why. The store consisted of two thirds convenience store and one third sandwich counter. The convenience portion looked like an after thought, it was practically a museum of convenience America. The place was a quissential “hole in the wall” and I recall my initial reaction as I saw several flies darting about the interior and the general unkemptness of the place almost scared me off. There was literally a quarter inch layer of grease permeating the place. Fortunately my senses returned as I recalled I was in the Big Easy and noted the long line of folks at the back of the store waiting to place an order for what Sabrina had spent forty minutes in the car describing across every salivating burst of breath as the best sandwiches we would ever lay our gums into.Fortunately the prognosis was good. The po-boys arrived over the counter in aluminum foil wrappers and when you opened them your senses were met with a burst of steam and the scent of freshly fried seafood! What made these po-boys exceptional was two things the freshness of the seafood (in my case shrimp) and the New Orleans style po-boy french bread. I had never eaten anything like it. Fifteen minutes later we were heading west over the I-10 “high rise” bridge with the only sound outside the incessant groaning of Sabrina’s car motor being that of lips smacking down on the best po-boys we had all ever had. I recall the revelry in the car on the way home. We all had fresh job offers and full stomachs to match. Damn! We though life could never be so good!

The “Best Back Bone Dinners in Town”

labd — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 13:32:44 +0000

Re-new-al

the act or process of renewing something, or the state of being renewed
something that is being or has been renewed
the rebuilding and revitalization of an urban area

When the deacon of my church asked me to write about my spiritual renewal, I had no idea it would indirectly become the underpinnings of this blog. As a result my research lead me back to the humble beginnings of my own spiritual journey and an important gastronomic chapter in my life at my grandparents church in LeBeau, LA.

LeBeau is one of those “blink and you’ll miss it” towns. Actually to call it a town would be generous, what LeBeau simply is not is a city, town or even a village it is a small community made up primarily of the ancestors of a former colony of freed slaves.

This little community is bisected by a picturesque bayou and on the banks of this narrow meander of bald cypress and opaque water sits one of the most beautifully simple country churches one can ever lay their eyes on, the Immaculate Conception Catholic Church. Established in 1874 by the man for whom the community gained its name, Father Oscar Pierre LeBeau, SSJ.

This church represents the foundation of my spiritual my life. It survived in its various assemblages several fires and the great flood of 1927. Despite it all, the church, its school and rectory have been rebuilt, restored and renewed several times and are still standing on the banks of the Petite Prairie Bayou as a testament of the faith, spiritual nurturance and social life it provided for the small black community of LeBeau.

My own spiritual foundation grew with each visit to my grandparents in LeBeau. This is where I experienced Saturday evening Mass at the “LeBeau church” with my immediate family and grandparents. The church was too small for a choir, but a bass guitar and percussion ensemble and a vocal group of parishioners more than made up for the lack thereof. The sounds of the “soul” ensemble and the songs sung by the parishioners in their south Louisiana patois nearly elevated the church off its foundation. Immaculate Conception’s liturgy also took on a distinctive ness as it was accentuated by the local flavor. Through it all this became the anchor of my spiritual foundation.

Over the span of my life my spiritual journey has taken many twist and turns and an occasional lapse. One such lapse occurred in 2001 after my family and I arrived in Cincinnati. With a newborn in the household we were not efficient in finding a church home. It was not until I was talking to Waldo Jeff at work one day and he mentioned the kente cloth robed choir of his church. My spiritual renewal had begun.

Since 2002 my family and I have found a source of spiritual renewal by way of the St. Agnes Church in Bond Hill. This renewal has grown as I not only have become more immersed in the liturgy, but also in time spent getting to know my fellow parishioners, taking advantage of spiritual education opportunities and the opportunity to volunteer my time.

For me personally this is not only a renewal of spirit, but it is also a renewal of a foundation that began in the LeBeau church. Alas my last visit to the little church on the bayou was my grandfather’s funeral in December 1995. In time I will make a return pilgrimage to reacquaint myself with all the LeBeau church has to offer and if I time it right I will visit during “Trail Ride” week so I can experience the “best backbone dinners in town”, in the meantime not unlike the LeBeau church, St. Agnes Church offers a since of community and a renewal all its own. Every Sunday as I hear our pastors and deacon speak with a reverence of relevance and our choir and musicians resonate reverberations of heart felt spirit I too at times still hear the echoes of that little church on the bayou and feel a renewal in my soul. We can all experience our very own renewal in faith by making a choice to begin with “baby steps” to become more involved in everything our church has to offer.

Feel free to take a virtual visit “down on the bayou” to the Immaculate Conception Church via the church website: lebeauchurch.com.