My wife and I were in Louisiana this past weekend to celebrate my brother’s wedding. He married a sweet girl named Stephanie, whom he met while living in Los Angeles. She hails from Pittsburgh. They were married outdoors on the front steps of Mount Hope Plantation, a restored piece of history that had on its front lawn an enormous oak tree that must have been at least 150 years old. It’s muscled boughs swept low to the ground and many of its branches had managed to fuse together in their long era of twisting growth across and atop one another. Not 4 feet above the ground, one could actually lay in its arms, as a hammock of sorts. Incredible. For an outdoor May festivity in Baton Rouge, the weather could not have been any better: odes of sunshine and surprisingly low humidity, normally an infamous trait of south Louisiana’s sub-tropical climate.
The ceremony, conducted by a Justice of the Peace, was short and to the point, a quality I’ve always appreciated in such formal settings like these, especially while standing proper in formal attire. Dressed in black coats, black pants, black ties, black shoes and white shirts, we boys led the procession around the side of the main house to the front steps wearing our sunglasses in an effort to be cool. These guys pulled it off, but yours truly, not so much. The bridesmaids, some from Pittsburgh, others from New York and Los Angeles, managed their way across the erratically paved brick walkway in their black stilettos. Stephanie’s mother gave her away and, in one of the funniest wedding acts I’ve ever seen, their dog, a Pug named Pig, was the designated ring-bearer. When it came time to place the rings, my brother BB turned to the rear where Pig alertly waited behind the audience, called for him and the little pooch came running down the aisle. It was classic and perfectly timed. That’ll do, Pig. That’ll do.
I often get teary at weddings. It usually happens at the part where promises are made and oaths sworn. A beautiful bride, a dashing groom, and the oak-strong echoes of words spoken long ago: the promise to look beyond self, to serve one another and to commit to something so intangibly deep and timeless that I often wonder why the earth doesn’t tremble when the words are spoken by mere man to mere woman and her repeat of its refrain. At its core is the power of love and promise, to never leave or forsake, to commit to life and to death, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health and to remember that these very same promises – our lasting hope – have been uttered by Love incarnate abounding in life and unfettered by death. At my best, I am its guardian. At my worst, I am ever-reminded.
My parents, Janie and Charlie, graciously hosted the rehearsal dinner on Friday night at their home. Meal choices included shrimp gumbo, jambalaya, etouffee and, the coup de grace, fresh boiled crawfish. I helped my dad with the heavy task of “the boil”. For those who may never have experienced a live crawfish boil, it is a bizarre and wondrous ritual. It goes something like this:
1. Purchase live crawfish (imagine a small lobster). We got two 40-lb. sacks (remember, they’re alive and kicking/biting/pinching) inside that plastic netting.
2. Hustle home and purge said crustaceans: a process that involves cleaning out their “systems” via salt water (crawfish, after all, are bottom feeders). Dump an entire sack of crawfish into a large bucket or pail, turn on the water hose and start filling up the bucket, pour in a half a pound of iodized salt = purger. Drain water. Voila, “clean” crawfish.
3. In a separate water-filled pot (in this case, 80 qts.), bring to a boil over an open flame.
4. Lay out seasonings and spices (both liquid and powder seafood boil mixes, cayenne pepper, salt, onions, fresh garlic cloves, corn, small potatoes and the kitchen sink 
). Add seasonings to water. Note: beware of wind-borne cayenne pepper; it burns like hell when it gets in your eyes. I hereby give testimony.
5. Into boiling, and highly potent, water add live crawfish. Though it must suck to be boiled alive, don’t worry there is no “screaming” as when dunking lobsters.
6. Water returns to a rolling boil for a few minutes. Turn off flame and let simmer, covered, for 20 minutes or so. With a good beer in hand, taste-test every now and then to judge taste and cook time. The last thing you want is overcooked (very hard to peel) or under-seasoned (bland food is a sin) crawfish.
7. With 2 able-bodied persons, drain crawfish over cooking pot. Note: beware scalding water.
8. Pour crawfish onto outdoor table. Have plenty of napkins and/or hand-wipes on hand. Cold beverage at the ready.
9. Commence peeling the tails and sucking the heads. The more juice, the better. Sweat is good. There’s no head-rush like a good, brain melting cayenne-induced crawfish-boil-rush. Ahhhhyyeeee!!!
10. Drink lots of water and chew on breath mints.
It’s a ton of work, prepping, eating (salt in cuts or wounds is trigonomically painful), but especially the cleanup. My parents are champs for hosting the event for my brother and his wife and her out-of-town family. Hats off to you, mom and dad. You make Louisiana rise far above its sea-level altitude.
All in all, it was a great trip to see family and to be “home”. I don’t care much for Louisiana politics (You may have read that New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin, the goofball idiot who decried Pres. George Bush and Governor Kathleen Blanco for the debacle that was the Hurricane Katrina aftermath, was incredibly and inexplicably re-elected by New Orleanians on Saturday. This is the same guy who, when the buck was being passed, proudly and ignorantly proclaimed New Orleans to be a “chocolate city”. Idiot. Now N.O. gets 4 more years of him.). I never much cared for the summer weather or the mud-brown opaque waters caressing the banks of so many rivers running through the land, unless I was fishing them. But family and food, those are the things that transform a place into a home. They get into your blood and they transform you in the process. Bienvenue en Louisiane.