I am not dead but I have been remiss in my usually daily updates. Allow me to correct that.
Crows cluster where scarecrows fail. This is New Orleans.
Vincent is sitting next to me. “That’s a good picture of Leather,” he says. I guess I agree. I would much rather see Leather in person rather than in pixels.
Leather and I have a date for Super Sunday. When Leather and I meet, we cross swords in good fun. Life in New Orleans is a lark in the park.I know
Birds of a feather flock together. I say this while acknowledging that Leather and I share little in common beyond our neighborhood and similarly sour dispositions. Happiness loves company.
Baked beans is the special today. I ordered a cup. Python Lady said, “You are not going to like these.” Python Lady knows me well.
I just told Python Lady that we have a prostitute alert. “I know. I’ve already seen it,” Python Lady said.
Compared to Muncie, Indiana, or Mineral Bluff, Georgia, New Orleans is a phantasmagoria.
Back to these baked beans. They are disgusting. Something was lost in this recipe’s translation.
Life in New Orleans is a romp in a fantastical world.
As someone who hails from the Land of the Bean and the Cod, these baked beans are terrible. Python Lady was right. Python lady is usually right.
Mrs. King is always right. That is why she is the better half of this operation. I am just the window dressing.
These are pinto beans, which is fine. I have no quibble with that. They are mixed with some kind of shredded stringy meat—a lot of it. If you bother to chew, the strings of meet will be stuck between your teeth. This must be why they keep toothpicks by the exit door.
It is the little details that restaurants take that make Guy Fieri smile.
So, here is the thing, these beans are laced, I use that word intentionally, with shredded stringy mystery meat. Is it pork? It could be squirrel. The beans are cooked in barbecue sauce. The bowl tastes like barbecue sauce, just the way Guy Fieri likes his beans.
The cranky Yankee in me cannot condone these New Orleans baked beans.
Baked beans should have molasses, not barbecue sauce.
I am not talking about red beans on Monday. That is a different thing, as every Orleanian will tell you. The special at every restaurant in New Orleans on Mondays is red beans.
Louis Armstrong, of all people, signed off on his letters, “Red beans and ricely yours, -Louis Armstrong.”
Now, I am going to talk about how I fed sardines to dolphins at the aquarium this morning. You really should become a paid subscriber.