Old Boat Dock, Caddo Lake

Image of an old boat dock located in Caddo Lake. This picture was taken near Pelican Lodge in Louisiana.

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Route 66

Growing up, my favorite television series was Route 66.  I never really knew where Route 66 went but I rarely missed an episode, and never on purpose.  All I had to do was listen to the Theme From Route 66 to get into the mood for adventure.  Todd Stiles and Buzz Murdoch were my heroes.  Buzz always got the girl and Todd always got a broken heart but whatever happened they faced it with a sense of adventure and elan.

Todd and Buzz were Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.  I’m not sure who was which (or maybe which was whom).  One thing I do know, that lusty red Corvette was their faithful steed that carried them into battle.

Tonight I was in a restaurant in Edmond, Oklahoma with Marilyn.  Two men came in and sat across from us at the oblong-shaped bar.  They asked the bartender about Route 66.  He pointed them to a wall in back where they had a few pictures but proclaimed to know little about the subject himself.  It dawned on me that neither did I.

Although I’m originally from Louisiana I’ve lived in Oklahoma for many years.  Route 66 goes directly through Edmond.  I wondered briefly if the two men were sons of Todd and Buzz.  I don’t know but when Marilyn and I left the restaurant we saw the back of a gorgeous 1960 Corvette disappear around a darkened corner.  Yes, it was fire engine red.

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Rustic Tree House on Caddo Lake

Here is a picture of a tree house built over Caddo Lake between several cypress trees.
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Ghost of a Chance Excerpt

"Here I am!"

The boat's approaching wail sounded vaguely familiar to Buck but it was too late to worry about it. As it streaked past, it's wake lifted his boat almost out of the water. The little craft remained afloat but rocked dangerously. Then he heard the other boat turning for another pass.

Buck held on, waiting for the swell to subside. The wake had swamped the motor, stalling it. When the boat stopped rocking he yanked the starter cord but the motor only sputtered and died with a sick sounding thump. He had little time to worry about the stalled engine.

The marauding boat's headlight blazed through the fog, powering directly toward him. With little time to react he abandoned ship, diving overboard before the speeding boat plowed into his own craft with a tremendous crash and an ensuing explosion of wood. The wake of the collision sucked him to the bottom of the shallow lake, pinioning him in the murky ooze for a long, terrifying moment. When the wake passed, releasing the suction, he tried to kick toward the surface, his arms flailing against swirling muck and slimy vegetation. But something had his foot in it's clammy grasp and refused to let go.

The crooked branch of a submerged tree, part of the rotting mass of vegetation at the bottom of the lake, had trapped Buck's foot. He struggled but his futile attempt served only to deplete what little oxygen was left in his lungs. Despite his efforts, he gained no leverage against the algae-covered stump.

Buck's eyes bulged, his head threatening to explode, his lungs desperate to gasp something, even blood-warm water, into them. Just before losing consciousness he felt icy fingers encircle his ankle. Ephemeral hands freed his ankle from the sunken tree and pushed him toward the lake’s surface. Stroking upward in near panic, he belched foul liquid from his lungs as he burst from the black water.

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Triskaidekaphobia

Triskaidekaphobia is defined as an abnormal fear of the number 13.  Hope no one has that fear today.  Happy Friday the 13th.

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New Orleans Whiskey Sauce

Here is a recipe for New Orleans whiskey sauce that goes great with bread pudding and many other desserts.

1 cup heavy cream

1/2 tbsp corn starch

3 tbsp sugar

1/4 cup bourbon

Bring cream to a boil in a small saucepan over medium heat.  Combine the corn starch, sugar and bourbon, then add heated cream while whisking.  Bring to a boil and be careful not to burn the mixture.  Whisk and let sit just a bit before removing from heat.

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East Texas Mardi Gras

Jefferson, Texas is a sleepy East Texas town not far from Caddo Lake.  The town is historically significant because it was once the largest port in Texas, even larger at the time then Houston.  Michener devoted an interesting chapter to Jefferson in his book TEXAS.  During the 1800’s as many as 35 riverboats a day brought goods from New Orleans and returned with Texas cotton.  In addition, they brought along the celebration of Mardi Gras.

During a recent trip to Jefferson, I kept noticing Mardi Gras posters in many of the myriad curio, souvenir and antique shops (all dated, and collector’s items, I presume).  I soon learned the town celebrates Mardi Gras every year the weekend before Fat Tuesday.  It even has its own local krewe, the Krewe of Hebe. 

The water level along the route to Jefferson is no longer deep enough to support large boat travel, but more than 100 buildings are still recognized as historically significant.  Tourism is the main gig and the town reminds me of Branson, Missouri before it was converted by country music into a mega-tourist attraction.  The same could happen someday to Jefferson and I heartily recommend you check it out before then.  At least if you’re in the neighborhood.

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How to Cook Perfect Louisiana Rice

Rice wasn’t introduced as a Louisiana staple until after the Civil War. Today it is an integral part of New Orleans cuisine. My Mother tells a story of a distant cousin that married a man from south Louisiana and was soon divorced because she couldn’t properly prepare a pan of rice. While I don’t know if the story is true, I do know that rice is an important addition to almost every south Louisiana dish.

Most rice grown in the United States is the long grain white variety. The kind used by many New Orleans cooks is long grain white rice that is regular milled. This means the milling process has removed hulls, germ and outer bran layer producing distinct and fluffy grains when properly cooked. For those of you contemplating marriage to someone from New Orleans, here are simple instructions for preparing perfect rice every time.

Do not wash the rice before cooking or rinse it after cooking. Doing so will only wash away nutrients on the grains. Many cooks in New Orleans always use the same brand of rice. This is because the most important step in cooking perfect rice is using the correct amount of water and this may vary slightly from miller to miller. Too much water makes the cooked rice soggy and too little water leaves it dry. As a rule of thumb, use 2 1/4 cups of water for every cup of long grain rice. One cup of rice serves about four people.

The volume of rice triples in size so it is important to use a pan that is large enough to accommodate the desired final amount. Bring water to a boil on the stove top then stir in the rice, salt (about ½ teaspoon per cup of rice) and butter (about 2 teaspoons per cup of rice). Cover tightly and simmer for twenty minutes. Finally, remove the pan from the heat and uncover until the rice soaks up the remaining water. This usually takes about five minutes.

Once you cover the rice, don’t open the lid until you are ready to take it off the heat. Peeking is a definite no no. Doing so lets the steam escape and lowers the temperature. Don’t stir the rice after it comes to a boil. If you stir it, you’re going to have gummy rice - also a no no. Finally, don’t let the rice stay in the pan that you cooked it in for more than five to ten minutes. Doing so will cause the grains to pack. Got all that? If you do, your marriage is safe. Well, at least from the rice cooking aspect.

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Disco Days

In 1977, I was freshly divorced and working in a high-stress job as a geologist - "A new drilling prospect every week or you’re fired!" Nights would find me in a disco called Clementine’s located in the basement of Oklahoma City’s Penn Square Mall. The place was dark, the music loud, the drinks and women loose. I was usually inebriated, or well on way to getting there.
Yes, it was in the post-Vietnam, pre-AIDS era. Practically every night I would spend hours line dancing to the anthems of Gloria Gaynor, Donna Summer and KC and the Sunshine Band. 1977 was the year I first saw the movie Saturday Night Fever and fell in love with the music of the BeeGees.

There were two ways to enter Clementine’s. You could walk down a narrow flight of stairs or slide down a chute. Either way you’d wind up in a huge open room that was illuminated only by a rotating disco ball, colored strobe lights that warped your reality even if you weren’t drunk or stoned, and a few discreetly placed floor lamps that provided little more than a dim haze. Most of all there was a pressing multitude of warm bodies and the sounds of disco, belting out the message of freedom, expression and free love.

A huge bar extended across the front of the room where three bartenders served drinks as fast as they could pour them. The dance floor of diamond-shaped black and white tiles was rarely empty, the occasional cooling fingers of vapor rising from grids in the floor making the swaying dancers feel like uninhibited creatures from Hell’s nether regions.

The dance floor was like hypnosis, insanity and blasting sound. Bodies crushed together amid the beat of drums as ancient as Africa. Once, across the crowded dance floor, I saw a beautiful young woman staring at me. Our eyes locked. We danced toward each other. She passed me a note with her phone number and when I called her the next day she invited me for spaghetti that night at her apartment. I showed up with flowers and a bottle of wine.

Marti was her name. A single mother, she had a five year old son named Chris. We ate our spaghetti and drank wine by candlelight. When we finished, I helped her with the dishes and then she put Chris to bed. Afterward, we made love in her bedroom.

"I want to thank you so much," was her unexpected reply as we lay beside each other in her little bed..

"My pleasure," I said.

"You don’t understand," she explained, sensing the flippant tone of my voice. "I’m in remission from cervical cancer. You are the first man I’ve slept with. I’ve been so worried that I would never have the feelings of a woman ever again. You proved to me tonight that I’m okay and I thank you."

Confused and too young or too stupid to understand the depths of Marti’s feelings, I contributed little more than small talk before saying good bye and disappearing into the night. I never saw her again and I don’t think she needed me to.

Those were the days of disco. My days of disco, for whatever that means. Some people have even suggested that disco isn’t cool and people that liked it were somehow less than intelligent. I don’t think so. I think we were all just as young, human and vulnerable as any youth today.

And I do know this. Whenever I hear Gloria Gaynor, Donna Summer or the BeeGees, I find myself back on that same dark dance floor with wisps of vapor cooling the sweat dripping from my neck and forehead as I pulsate to a hypnotic beat and message of love and coming together. It makes me feel young again.

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HAPPY NEW YEAR

Happy New Year from Ghost of a Chance and Eric Wilder. http://www.ericwilder.com