[Baked or fried? You decide.]

Natchitoches meat pies are one of those special little treats with a name as fun to say as they are to scarf down. Nackadish--that's how you say it--is a small town we drive through on our way north to visit Alexandria or Oklahoma, and it's where Steel Magnolias was filmed, and it's famous for these little pies. It's a beautiful little place, with a picturesque riverfront lined with shops and restaurants that have their own sort of French Quarter-ish wrought-iron balconies (remember the Easter scene where Jackson slapped Ouiser? That's the riverfront!).  But you don't have to go into the actual town to get yourself some meat pies; just stop at any gas station right off I-10. They all fry them up and they're all pretty wonderful.

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I come from a long line of German women who feel compelled to produce baked goods pretty much nonstop from October to January.  I'm not even fudging this fact a bit. I refer to the phenomenon as "extreme baking," or the condition during which our collective kitchens are completely dusted with flour and sugar, all of our tupperware containers have been filled with sweets and handed over to neighbors, and our feet ache from standing over too many mixing bowls, yet we continue to bake without ceasing.  I suffer from the condition, and I don't even have a sweet tooth.

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Mother's is a New Orleans institution, famous for long lines, great grits, and heavenly baked ham.  The first time I went there, I ordered a ham po-boy--the ham is what's touted on their sign, after all.  But maybe I shouldn't have gone for the ham the first time.  It's the most perfect ham sandwich in the world.  The problem is that I can't order anything else on the menu.  I'll try the jambalaya or red beans or grits that other people at my table order--and bless them for doing that--but I'm committed to the ham po-boy above all else.

This is it.  I know it doesn't look like much, but trust me, it is the holy grail of ham sandwiches.  The truth lies in the simplicity and honesty of the ingredients:  shaved baked ham, shredded cabbage, mayonnaise, Creole mustard, pickles, and fresh French bread.  The ham is slightly sweet, the cabbage has a PhD in crispness, and the mayo and mustard create a background chorus that Ray Charles would hire on the spot.  I know I'm hyperbolic, but do you know that I would never get hyperbolic unless I felt it was my duty?  Because I wouldn't, I promise you.

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Crawfish has two usages as a verb in Webster's: one is to catch crawfish, and another is to back out of something you've committed to. But I'm proposing a third definition: to crawfish is to celebrate the deliciousness of the little creatures by churning out as many recipes as you can in one weekend and stuffing yourself full of their glory. And with that definition in place, I can honestly say I have been doing a lot of crawfishing lately.