Korean Have Fun Marinate Wonder Sauce

This is a good one for chicken, tofu, shrimp or what have you. For best results marinate overnight, well covered, if there’s too much marinade, bag it and freeze it. AND if you feel like ‘bumping' up any of the ingredients (garlic, ginger etc); what can it hurt? Have fun!!

Korean Grilled Whatever marinade

¼ c. good soy sauce (Amino)

¼ c. unsweetened apple sauce (boil and mash a damn apple)

¼ c. chopped onion

1 tsp sesame oil

1 tsp chopped fresh ginger root

1 Tbsp brown sugar

2 garlic cloves, crushed

1 tsp red pepper flakes

1 tsp sesame seeds, plus more for topping

2 thinly sliced green onions for garnish

Central Grocery

Central Grocery

            If I were sight impaired and someone walked me through those doors I would know the perfumed vapors of an old timey Italian market. They’re the smells of garlic, olives, cured meats, hard cheeses and old appetites satisfied. It is an olfactory equivalent of being wrapped in your grandmother’s wool shawl on a cool autumn night; yummy, secure, safe. Linzalone’s in old Chelsea, Molinari’s in North Beach, Central Grocery in New Orleans.

I recently sat down with Tommy Tusa, third generation owner/operator of Central Grocery at his shop at 923 Decatur Street in the French Quarter. As we all know, Salvatore Lupo (Tommy’s grandfather) is said to have been the originator of a more than extraordinary sandwich, a sandwich that is as indicative of New Orleans as the Mississippi River: The Muffuletta. Tommy is tall and trim and, if such a word can be used, dapper in appearance. His age is nebulous; he appears to be ten years either side of fifty years. He and his cousin Frank Tusa run the day to day operations. Like all true Sicilians, Tommy talks as much with his words as with his facial and physical expressions. We sit at the far end of the eating counter, he, of course sits where he can see his employees and the action.

PL: First of all, can we tell everyone, once and for all, what is the proper pronunciation of the sandwich?

TT: Muffuletta, pronounced “moo-full-lette-tah!” People call it a lot of other ways; we don’t really care, as long as they want one.

PL: And the name means?

TT: From what we can make out from the stories that my mother tells, it probably came from a baker named Muffuletta and was called Muffuletta bread long before we started making it into a sandwich.  That’s as much as we can make out, we don’t know if it’s true but it stands to reason.

PL: How did the store get started?

TT: My grandfather, like a lot of Italian immigrants, came here and worked in the grocery business. In 1906 he opened his own grocery about a block away and in 1919 bought this property and opened this (gestures). The Market workers used to come in and buy the ingredients for the sandwich from us, then they’d go outside and buy some bread from a pushcart, sit on barrels and such places, eat the bread (tearing motion) and ingredients. Then my grandfather got the idea of making the sandwich. There were at least six Italian bakeries in the Quarter at the time; in fact there were shops like this all throughout the neighborhood.

PL: This used to be a large ethnic neighborhood. Do you ever see that coming back?

TT: I remember like it was yesterday, the ice house, the fish markets; no, I don’t see it ever being the same. My father was raised in the French Quarter. It was a real neighborhood up until about 1950 and then it started to change. Now what we have here (indicates the street) are these street people; they sit outside panhandling, they camp out at night and you have to clean up after them in the morning, their garbage, food scraps, beer cans. You have to chase them away during the day “you can’t sit here, you can’t sit here” you’ve got to keep telling them. They’re ruining businesses and no one is doing anything about them.

PL: I was told that it’s their first amendment right.

TT: (raised eyes) Yeah, the ACLU…. What about our rights?

PL: Onward. Your mother wrote a cookbook? (1980 Marie’s Melting Pot)

TT: Yes, my mother and my two grandmothers; it took three or four years. Writing recipes, testing them and cooking, cooking. I remember the stories, my mother tells all the old stories, I know those stories. My mother lives in Covington, she’s 103 years old and frail so she doesn’t do interviews… obviously.

PL: Any thoughts on retiring? Any other family members coming in?

TT: I’ve worked here since 1970 so that’s forty-five years; no, there’s me and my cousin and there’s no other generation coming up behind us. Besides, what would I do if I retired (shrugs)? Stay at home and be bored?

PL: Were you looted during Katrina?

TT: Yes, all the businesses were. We opened after three months, and one day after that, Jim Belushi came in and saw that his picture was still on the wall and he pointed and said “well, at least they didn’t get me!!” We get a lot of celebrities in; I’ll show you the photos. Goodman (John) loves the Muffuletta; he can’t eat it here because they (gestures at the customers) won’t leave him alone.

PL: How many sandwiches have you made?

TT: on a busy day we’ll make about five hundred

PL: So you’ve made a million Muffulettas

TT: More than one million. A few million, at least. We’ve been in business over a hundred years (looks at me to indicate that I should do the math). And we ship. Overnight, next day delivery.

PL: What do you see as the future?

TT: Kids these days, they don’t know how to work; you have to tell them over and over how to do the same thing. You tell them to stay off their cell phone and then (making an imaginary call at waist level) you see them in the corner. I’ll tell you a story; when I was just starting working here, one day I made myself a little sandwich and sat down; my uncle came up to me and said “what are you doing?” and I told him. He said (slightly raising his voice) “Hey! You don’t eat here, you eat at home, after you get off; now, get back to work!” And that’s the way it was. Nowadays…

PL: When I was a kid, I had a friend named Rocco, my mother used to call him a “Bacciagalupe”. When I asked her what that meant, she would just point at him and say “Him, he’s a Bacciagalupe!” Do you know what that means?

TT: (laughing) Yes, I’ve heard that word; I think it means wiseguy or weirdo or some such character.

PL: Now, here’s the big one; what advice would you give young folks coming up? What advice do you give your children?

TT: I have two daughters and grandchildren. What would I say to them? (looks heavenward and then into my eyes). I would say “Do whatever you do to the best of your ability. Do it well; and never never give up. Never let anyone discourage you!”

And then, like a true business owner, he shook my hand, thanked me and said: “I’ve got to (indicating the sandwich counter) get back to work.”

Getting Older

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Every Silver Lining

Or

Touch Of Gray

Okay, here’s your life story: From birth to the ‘age of reason’ you’re pushed around and told what to do and when to do it, if you have any gumption, you push back and are called a spoiled, willful, spiteful brat. At seven or eight you’ve entered the world of other people, you become aware of peer pressure, fashion statements and kids that are better looking, better liked and better armed (to take on the world) than you. At twelve you feel the rumblings of your hormones, at sixteen you become a sex and acceptance addict. By twenty five you’re golden and three years later your spirit has tire tracks from being thrown under the bus. At thirty you’ve immersed yourself into a career (because you don’t really know who you are), by forty-two you’re in a mid-life crisis and it’s downhill from there.

In between those years you’ll experience growth spurts, pimples, cramps, confusion, children and a bucket of responsibilities and expectations to live up to. Scraps and scrapes and scars to prove it. You’ll have hated your parents, smoked things, made a fool of yourself, imbibed strong spirits and lost your self confidence and virginity on several occasions. You’ll be told what it is to be mature by a good number of (well intentioned) friends/lovers/kinfolk/others and just how unaware you are of the poor job you’re making of it

Awareness: knowing what’s going on while it’s going on; you’ll experience little of that and sometimes it is a case of “wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.” And of course, if you live long enough, you’ll look in the mirror and wonder who that old person is.

 We’re told from an early age that if we live long enough… we’ll get old. What we’re not told is that it’s gonna hurt. Knees, back, neck, shoulders, feet; they’ll hurt one time or another during each and every day. They didn’t tell me that; in fact, there’re lots of things they didn’t tell me. I’m not sure how the rumor got started that getting and staying older was such a great thing. It’s not. Let me tell you how I know: I am older –and, if you can’t tell-- I’m not liking it very much, if at all, and I don’t think that you’re gonna like it either.

Tee shirt: Mill Valley, California. 1989.  “Eat Right, Exercise, Die Anyway.”

            “Flab. They didn’t tell me that my fine, tight gluteus maximus fabuloso was gonna become my gluteus maximus flabuloso; think that’s funny? Ask anyone my age what they think of their bottoms falling out and ten to one they’ll want to take a swing at you. Smart ass kid.

            Your hair will become as thin as your patience, your teeth will require regular checkups to no avail, your eyesight gets far and near and then hardly at all, your (“What’s that you say?”) hearing(?)…well.  The way you don’t bounce back from a night on the town (if you can stay awake that long) is telling. That fine firm flesh? You can kiss that six-pack goodbye; everything you eat is going right to your waistline and your hips. And that’s the good news.

            You’ll have insurance: health, home, vehicle, life and burial. You’ll have cards for Costco, Blue Cross, AAA, the library, CVS, RTA, AARP and Walgreens. You’ll be cautious about driving, walking, drinking, the safety of your pets and loved ones; by now you know that there are boogie men out there with names like COPD, Dementia, IBS, incontinence, UTI, menopause, Fibromyalgia, ED, arthritis, and cancer. Stick around, Kid, see what it’s like.

You won’t know any of the new technology, popular culture or music and you’ll reflect that the last dance steps you learned was to the Electric Slide. Sex will still be always on your mind but you’ll do less and less about it. You’ll take supplements (and not be any more supple), vitamins, calcium and floss your teeth. You’ll watch your icons, critters, friends and loved ones die... some prematurely.

Aging is a real pain in my butt—and adding insult to injury-- sometimes I’ll see myself through another person’s eyes, the myopic ignorance of youth perhaps, that, like in the Bradbury story, regard me as a being that has been created fully blown ancient. Bitter and pessimistic? It’s hard not to be; but, what’s the alternative? Looking into retirement homes and making out a will? Dying? That’s all I got? Are you friggin’ kidding me?

             Time. Time is something that I have now, it comes too slowly and it goes too fast.  Time is not money or security or something you bottle up and store under the sink for later. Time is ice cream, fried chicken, fresh peaches…bacon. Time is exactly the right temperature, uncomplaining and unconditionally. Time lets you know when to stand up for yourself, when to quietly sit down and how high your bulls**t meter will go before you tell somebody to take a hike. Time is shared like chocolate and fine wine.

            Time is not to be wasted or anesthetized, neither is love or youth; and I’ll venture that you’ve spent enough of it reading this. So, back away from my views, get that picnic, Frisbee, cinema ticket, fishing pole, wine glass and/or bicycle and with a special person (or not), take a deep breath and repeat after me: “evil spirit….depart!

Best-ever Lemon Pie

This recipe was given to me by a waiter/teacher that I worked with in 1999. After searching for years for a great recipe, I have looked no further. AND, I never want to lose it again.

Best-ever lemon pie

1 ¼ c. sugar

6 Tbsp cornstarch

2 c. water

1/3 c. lemon juice

3 eggs separated

3 Tbsp butter

1 ½ tsp lemon extract

2 tsp vinegar

Mix sugar and cornstarch in top of double boiler. Add the 2 c. water. Combine egg yolks with juice and beat. Add to rest of mixture. Cook until thick over boiling water for 25 min. This does away with starchy taste. Now add lemon extract, butter, vinegar and stir thoroughly. Pour into a deep 9” (pre-baked) pie shell and let cool. Cover with meringue and brown in oven

Never Fail Meringue

1 Tbsp cornstarch

2 Tbsp cold water

½ c. boiling water

3 egg whites

6 Tbsp sugar

1 tsp vanilla

Pinch salt

Blend cornstarch and cold water in a saucepan. Add boiling water and cook, stirring until clear and thickened. Let stand until completely cold. With electric mixer at high speed beat egg whites until foamy. Gradually add sugar and beat until stiff but not dry. Turn mixer to low and add salt and vanilla. Gradually beat in cold cornstarch mixture. Turn mixer again to high speed and beat well. Spread meringue over cooled pie filling. Bake at 350 for about 10 minutes. This meringue duts beautifully and never gets sticky. ENJOY!

Curried Cauliflower for all my friends

Canola oil

2TCumin Seeds

4 Bay Leaves

2T Garlic, minced Curried cauliflower

1 Head Cauliflower, broken down into medium florets

 2T Ginger, minced

3 C. Onions

1 medium size Red Bell Pepper, roasted and cut into strips

3 C. Tomatoes, peeled, seeded and largely diced

1 ½ T Coriander, ground

3T Garam Masala

½ t @ cayenne and White pepper, ground

3t Turmeric

2 Jalapeño Pepper, cut in half

4 C. Water

Fry florets, in oil, golden brown, add onions, peppers, remove drain and save oil. Add cumin into the pan, toast a few minutes then add garlic, bay leaves 5 min. Add garam Masala, turmeric, cayenne and white pepper, coriander, low flame  8 min add everything else, stir to combine, adjust salt and black pepper to taste, cover and cook in 350 oven 10 min. Serve with rice. Yum!

Garam Masala

8T cumin

12t coriander

12t black pepper

4t cloves

4t Nutmeg

8 Cardamom Pods

Toast and grind

July 4th update on Bob

Update on Bob.

Well fans, Bob’s still in the ‘nursing home’ and now getting NO physical therapy, No speech therapy, No one attempts to sit him up, talk to him or interact on any level.

He remains in his (now) blow up hospital mattress bed, in a diaper and is delivered pureed food three times a day, he shows signs of fading and we try to keep him and his spirits blown up as well..

            His room-mate Sylvester, a broken bodied young man keeps his TV on 24/7 and the same for his radio which he keep with volume full throttle; Bob puts earplugs in to keep out some of the sound. Bob also sleeps with his light on over the bed either because he doesn’t want to sleep in the dark or that he cannot reach the light string. Bob and Sylvester’s room is not cleaned well on a regular basis, their AC unit does break down on a regular basis.

            We’re working on getting Bob to a better facility: St. Margaret’s at Mercy. It is worth checking out their website. I’ve taken a tour and talked to the admissions person. It’s a country club compared to where Bob is.

            Bob still has his legs locked in the kneeling position and his legs still have sores on them. I’ve been scheduled to have a ‘Care Counseling’ about Bob and my concerns. Since making the date, it seems that Bob’s care HAS gotten a little more attentive. The weekends are the worst because in actuality no one there seems to care a flip about professionalism.

            Bob still is lying in bed 24/7 with absolutely nothing to accupy his time or his mind save for the visits from myself and Debbie. He needs a shave again and his nails need trimming. I’m sure that he’s not the easiest patient to have but he certainly cannot be that much trouble. He does seem to be the easiest to overlook and ignore.

Katrina non-poetry

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Hurricane Musings

Or

Tea and Oranges

There is no new poetry, there are only new poets. Excited wild wide eyed innocents and morose mud-stomping posers alike and as if new, continue to splash additional tattoo-like thoughtless art-ink letters (flotsam really), to wash upon the blank bleached skin shores of crushed vegetable pulp. Bayou crab traps. Fishing lures. Beignet crumb clues from mind meanderings, words forming, strung together, or scattered; painting pictures resonating in our mind’s eyes, whose sole purpose is literary terrorism. Once arms are taken up there is no quarter given.

The words are the party line of life making calls to the imaging thesaurus of thoughts, dreams and, crystallized faith fomenting feelings……………. Ideas and beliefs signaled by so many Mississippi River curves and Mid-City angled lines; so many words, so many pictures. Water lines and flooded houses.. Star analogies hung on the Spanish moss oaks of the indigo night sky; the prickly cosmic hitchhiker stickers giving them importance, meaning, value and merit; hung in the endless infinite otherwise ninth ward vacant heavens with the moon shining like pattern baldness on Pete Fountain’s pate. There is no new poetry, there are only new poets, ghetto word soldiers armed with loaded language, sniping bayonet words to be fixed together, reminiscent dots interpretively connected forming the images that reverberate, vibrate, resound, echo, catch fire, explode,. Boom.   

Thoughts and feelings; these are heartset street musician guitar strings that have always been a little out of tune, strum them; these are fruits of our backyard banana trees, pluck them anew like emotional fruit, sometimes ripe, sometimes not. We open our minds, accept the call, stringing the feelings and experiences of pasts, presents and futures together. Born in pain and nurtured into comfort with the Abita Amber visions, dancing desires, dreams, fancies and fantasies fed by the tropical winds approaching. One plodding, skipping, racing heartbeat hoof in front of another.

An emotional New Orleans gumbo ya-ya served to our mind-senses is a flavor of what has already been recognized, identified, tasted already digestedly known.  Learn that we already know that which is not already known. Learning nothing new, anew, somnambulating second-lining into a greater wake-fullness, wiser than we think, dumber than we look.  Newness:  the old shirt that we find at the bottom of our awareness laundry pile. Whatever doesn’t register we envision, make up, imagine. Confusions of grandeur.

Reading poetry brings to

Mind, the inebriated gathering

Of river foam, humid September

 Nights under the sly Orion

Constellation, wearing SPF 50

Gossamer beer shadow glasses

And burlesque queen lusts.

Louis Armstrong conducting an

Orchestra on the volcanic shores

Of the make-believe Ballroom

Washing your cares away with

Oil spill tones extorting all his

Shoeless children to come dance

Down by the riverside.

            Read again and read it again; fathom, digest and envision intrinsic meaning from the words poured forth, spread out and condensed into bite sized form and fashion, tid-bit teasing surprised poultry pausing mid-road to find rhythm or rhyme, dancing beach tar queen, smoky sloe eyed, sandal-footed wordsmith courtesan; beckoning, one step ahead of our stumbling ability to keep up. That crab stepping pirate leaving hints and allegations that whisper “I know and you do not, repeat after me, repeat after me, assess, dissect and leave no more informed than when you took up the task.” Rooftop stranded significance exists only as the meaning was implied and not as you imagined.

            Selfish writer expounding Kindness

            Compassion charity truth and love.

            Cloaked nuances of sex and power

            Hide agendas in shadowed rhetoric

 Placate me not with false promises.

Come clean villain expose your lies

           

Serpents swallowing tail’s testimony line

By line X marking the spilled ruby blood

Spots at the foot of the umber innocent’s

 Crucifixion turning into self immolation

Disguised as sheaves of sleeping grain

Prestidigitation of the symbolic wordsmith, now you see hidden meanings, now you don’t. The ingredients remain constant, the only constant is the change, the only change has slipped between the cushions of your consciousness and you search for the meanings of poetry as for dimes and pennies to buy another pack of Lucky Strikes. I recall cold comfort from cheerless climes. Mona Lisa smiles, stumbling blocks, stepping stones, the painted sign advertising ‘Undertaker, Gravedigger, Auto Repair’. In the beginning mine eyes saw the glory and now the expressions become another jambalaya served up by pensive Polymnia for Orpheus her son, who reposes in the dirt yard playing with rollypollies. Pray she slakes his mind’s thirst, satisfies his hearts desires, watch his soft lips repeat the food of words meanings: the moon and sauerkraut; for better or for worse and to Hell and back if you really care.

            The bard then takes pity with meter and rhyming

Next easing our plight mastering tempo and timing

Our simple mind’s eye comprehends easy relevance

Because truth be told there’s no strain on intelligence

As ditties likewise recited from youthful awareness

Reveal evidence of poetry’s magnanimous fairness.

Grown jaded and graying into ill-tempered maturity

Still savagely take pleasure from youthful obscurity

Words crooned hypnotic while on soft knees seated

Sing song sweet narratives blurred lessons repeated.

And pity the blind fool who performs (when they can)

The arabesque that starts with “there once was a man…”