When I know I'm about to go to Crabby Jack's, I go a little crazy. I dance a little dance, sing a little song, and hop around, driving Paul bonkers until we hop in the car and go.  This is how hushpuppies got invented, I think.  I'm that little puppy begging for seafood!

If you've heard me swoon about Parkway Bakery's po-boys before, especially if I've gone there with you, then you might doubt what I'm about to say, but just trust me on this. Crabby Jack's is better. It's not in our neighborhood, but it's honestly the best po-boy we've ever laid eyes on, from the seafood (or roast duck) to the bread (the perfect texture) to the fixings.  We've been there several times in the past few months before coming to this conclusion (and I went a few times when I worked at Tulane), so it's not some afternoon fling...it's a long-term love affair.  I get jealous of myself every time I go.

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Sometimes, even though I know I'm a pretty lucky gal, I get jealous of friends who come down to Nola to visit.  They're ready to take in as much of the city as they can, they've got extra money in their pockets, and no amount of walking the Quarter or the Marigny seems excessive.  I remember the first time I visited, for Mardi Gras in 2006. I was enchanted, gobbling up every bit of food and life I could get.  Living here is wonderful--I love it, I still pinch myself sometimes--but I miss that feeling of falling in love with it for the first time.

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I guess you could say I'm a bit obsessed with po-boys lately.  In the weeks leading up to the po-boy festival, I visited a couple of my favorite po-boy spots to reminisce, to remember how good the basics can be.  I had fried shrimp at Parkway and shrimp and oyster at Crabby Jack's, and then those wonderful little odd po-boys at the fest.  I thought I'd had my fill for a while, until Paul told me he'd overhead someone talking about a blackened shrimp po-boy.  My interest was piqued.  Then, he said, "It'd be good with a little bacon sprinkled on it."  Yes, it would.  Then, "And maybe some goat cheese?" I almost fainted.  Yes, blackened shrimp with bacon and goat cheese would be good--very, very good. If it sounds bizarre or even blasphemous to load a seafood po-boy down with extras like bacon and cheese, consider the Peacemaker, that ultra-delicious po-boy of fried oysters, bacon, and American cheese. Sounds crazy, but it's fantastic.  If American cheese can't hurt a po-boy, then for sure goat cheese couldn't.

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The other day I was behind a lady buying two full loaves of po-boy bread, and the check-out guy said, "You making some po-boys?" And she said, "Naw, I'm gonna feed the ducks."  You should've seen the sad look on that man's face.  But I started dreaming about duck po-boys...because I had Po-Boy Fest on the brain!  Seriously, I'd been waiting for it for months, because I'd never made it out to that particular fest. The whole thing lasts a mere 9 hours, so you've got to get up and get yourself there, and the earlier the better, before the booths sell out.  I went looking for po-boys I don't see on menus, for some new experiences.  I could only handle two, but they were mighty tasty. Below, One's pate and pickled vegetables (rich & vinegary):

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This gorgeous woman is my great-aunt Valentina Wilkinson Sanford Duckworth--or as we like to call her, Aunt Rudy.  She's 99 and a half, and has spent most of her life in New Orleans.  She's pictured here with her boyfriend Joe Minacapelli of Slidell.  My grandmother, Frances, was Rudy's youngest sister; they had another sister, Florence, who passed away a number of years ago. Rudy is the oldest and the last surviving, and she recently moved back to the New Orleans area after a long stint in Cleveland, Oklahoma, where she moved to open a needlework business with Frances.

The needlework business was sort of a "retirement project" for the sisters, and they did well with it for about 10 years, but I don't mean to imply that once Rudy left New Orleans for a small town in Oklahoma, her life somehow quieted down. In fact, once she joined up with Frances, Rudy started to travel the world. My grandmother had taught foreign languages in high school, and had become the kind of French teacher who took a group of seniors to Europe each summer. She'd caught an insatiable travel bug, and when the needlework store started taking off, she and Rudy booked passage to Europe, Scandinavia, the U.S.S.R. (it still was, then), China, Australia, Israel, and places in between, with the dual itineraries of heavy-duty sightseeing and textile purchasing.  But let me not forget eating--they loved to try the local specialties, no matter how unusual. So when Rudy talks about restaurants, she's speaking with a wealth of experience, from cooking during the Depression to 13-course meals in Moscow--but you can tell that her favorite memories are from times she had in the grand restaurants of New Orleans.

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Because New Orleans (and all of Louisiana) is such a melting pot, and because Cajun and Creole dishes often have similar roots, including French, Spanish, Italian, African, Haitian, Cuban, German, and Native American, some of the distinctions between what's Creole food and what's Cajun food can be hard to make. In his book My New Orleans, chef John Besh explains that Creole gumbo pays tribute to a "rich variety of cultures and ingredients, whereas Cajun gumbo evolved as the essence of peasant food, a way to feed a large number of people making the very best of whatever meager ingredients were at hand," and John Folse's Encyclopedia of Cajun & Creole Cuisine extolls Creole cuisine as a "more sophisticated cousin" to Cajun cooking. Explanations like these work perfectly when comparing elegant Creole dishes to rustic cast-iron Cajun stews, but the waters grow murkier near a pot of jambalaya.

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Before the intense heat of this summer drives us all inside to eat nothing but cold sandwiches and ice cream, and before every last tomato has been incinerated by the sun, I want to share a special creation with you that we concocted at the beach: shrimp and okra stew with a secret.  The secret is chipotle pepper. (Italics is the typist's whisper).  Not that chipotle peppers in adobo sauce haven't been popularized in recent years--they're showing up in everything from hot wing sauce to salad dressing--but they're not indigenous to New Orleans cuisine.  But they really put this shrimp and okra stew over the top, I tell you!  Wowza!

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I'm going to keep this simple: I believe it's impossible for anyone to not like Mondo.  Susan Spicer's intent with this new restaurant, located in Lakeview, was that every diner would find something to his or her taste, and the carefully crafted menu accomplishes this task.  It might be true that any restaurant serving pizza can boast that it satisfies even finicky eaters.  But what Mondo does is sneak subtle culinary lessons into even the tamest plates, so that nonadventurous patrons will feel satisfied and enlightened at the same time.  Here are some examples, from our first Mondo visit, of the easy-to-enjoy twists put on comfortable classics.  First, our snack of caramel-bacon popcorn:

Do you like caramel corn? Then you like caramel-bacon corn.

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Everybody's rainbow talkin' these days, and I have to admit I say "Double complete rainbow!" at least once every 48 hours.  (If you haven't heard of the Rainbow Guy yet, watch the video at the bottom of the post.)  Now I'm shamelessly stealing one of his most charming phrases for the title of a stir-fry of three proteins and three colors of vegetables.  It might be cheesy, but it's exactly what I said when I was deciding what to add to the three proteins we'd purchased (catfish, shrimp, and chicken) and standard stir-fry sauce-building trinity of garlic, ginger, and scallion: "...and then if I have red bell peppers, carrots, and green onions, it'll be...it'll be like a triple complete rainbow!"  And you know what came next:  "All across your plate!"

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Last Sunday, we went to the Gulf Aid benefit concert with some dear friends. It was an enchanting, oh-so-New-Orleans kind of event: walking through Mardi Gras World, where hundreds of floats and float adornments are created and stored; sampling soundly delicious seafood creations by some of the city's best restaurants and caterers; watching the tugboats and barges troll along the Mississippi; listening to heartfelt, intensely dedicated performers like Tab Benoit call us to attention, lest we forget whom we need to help; chanting "Who Dat?!" spontaneously, like a family, because we are a family.

Singing "You Are My Sunshine"--our state song--a capella, at the tops of our voices.  You hardly ever hear the final Louisiana-specific verses, and we didn't sing them either, but here they are, in all their sweetness:

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