The Catskill Chronicle

February 1, 2010

This seems like an auspicious moment to start my correspondence from New Orleans where my husband and I and our two cats, Flo and Hazel, are spending several weeks this winter.

The city was giddy with Saints love and Super Bowl furor before ever we got here last week, and it began to bloom on Saturday night, Super Bowl Eve, when Bourbon St. and much of the French Quarter was jammed with revelers, hoisting “to go” cups in joyous toasting to one another with the famous “Who Dat?!” exclamation. We were cautioned not to use our car during this weekend because we would surely never again find a parking place and so, obediently, we hiked hither and yon through the celebrants, giving out high fives on our way to and from various destinations.

That morning, I had gotten a little taste of what was in store for us when I attended services at the historic St. Augustine Church in the Treme district. The ushers wore Saints t-shirts, the choir was in black and gold. The priest gave a rousing sermon about the meaning of “Be not afraid,” and exhorted us to “sink our teeth into the challenge of life and run that ball through the goal posts and bring back the trophy.” The congregation erupted into many verses of “When the Saints go marching in” interspersed with “who dat up there who’s dat down there.” We left convinced that the spirit of the audience would make the victory inevitable.

Our niece, R, our self-appointed and gratefully accepted guide to all things New Orleans, brought us to a Super Bowl party, given by a woman of celebrity status in the New Orleans food community.

Wine and Makers Mark flowed and, in addition to perfect fried chicken and sausages and the mandatory chips and dips, our hostess had created “Dirty Boys,” resembling a Sloppy Joe, but made with something suspiciously like liver. When asked what we were eating, she would only say, “It’s a Dirty Boy. It’s good.” She was right. She had arrayed five television sets throughout the inside of her house. Not only that, but the family next door was showing the game on the side of their house next to their hot tub, so there were lots of damp party folks as well.

The two parties rolled together seamlessly with people moving inside and outside as excitement built. The inside televisions were set up in three rooms that gave onto one another – the front room, the dining room, the family room off the kitchen. Somehow, the reception in the front room was 7 seconds faster than that in the family room, and 3 seconds faster than that in the dining room. Thus, those of us in the family room in the back of the house were warned of up coming game excitement by great howls or cheers emerging from the front. So when Tracy Porter intercepted Peyton Manning and ran with the ball for 74 yards to make the winning touchdown, the roars of elation rolled back through the house. In the back, we knew the wave of joy was coming, but we didn’t know how for 7 more seconds. It was even better that way because we could get ready to be thrilled, amazed and overjoyed, and then do it. And, we did.

After the game, we rolled through the city with the rest of them, exclaiming “Who dat? We dat!” in delight with every opportunity. Cars and buses erupted with celebrants, parked themselves with crazy joy and haphazard sport, bicycles wheeled madly, their riders yelling and chanting. New Orleans was beside itself, justified finally in its soulfulness, its exuberance, it’s suffering, its joy. At least for now, all is made right and it’s a new beginning.