Oyster stew is a Louisiana staple, but is prepared and eaten everywhere the succulent sea creature is found. Like gumbo, there are many variations, some heartier than others. Here is one of Lily’s versions. The recipe is included in Lily's Little Cajun Cookbook, now available in ebook format on Smashwords.com.
Lily’s Oyster Stew
Ingredients
1 stick butter
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 medium onion, finely chopped
1 medium carrot, finely diced
2 tablespoons Cajun seasoning, plus more to taste
2 pints oysters (with liquor), drained and liquor reserved
1 quart seafood stock
1 10-ounce can of tomatoes, pureed
1 quart half-and-half
¼ cup white wine or brandy
Garlic croutons
Directions
In a large 2-gallon stockpot, melt butter over medium-high heat. Add garlic, onion and carrot and cook, stirring constantly, until onions are translucent. Add 2 tablespoons Cajun seasoning and stir to combine. Add oyster liquor, seafood stock and tomatoes and bring to a simmer. Cook 10 minutes. Add half-and-half and bring back to a simmer. Add oysters and cook until their edges begin to curl. Add wine or brandy and adjust seasoning to taste. Serve immediately in hot soup bowls garnished with croutons, green onions, parsley and paprika.
Eric'sWeb
Showing posts with label new orleans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new orleans. Show all posts
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Crawfish Etouffee - a weekend recipe

Perhaps the quintessential dish served in the Big Easy is Etouffee, made with either shrimp or crawfish. There are as many variations of this dish, but here is my favorite:
■ ½-cup cooking oil
■ 2 cups finely chopped white onion
■ 1 large bell pepper, medium diced
■ 1 stalk of celery, medium diced
■ 2 cups whole tomatoes, mashed
■ 2 cups tomato juice
■ 1/4 cup lemon juice
■ 6 tablespoons roux
■ 2 tablespoons Worcestershire
■ 1/4 cup minced parsley
■ ½ cup chopped leaf of garlic, or green onion tops
■ 2 cloves of minced garlic
■ 1/4 tablespoon of red pepper
■ 1/4 tablespoon of salt, or to taste
■ 1/4 tablespoon of pepper, or to taste
■ 1 pound of cleaned and de-veined crawfish
Pour oil into a heavy skillet and sauté onions, bell pepper, and celery until limp. Do not overcook. Add tomatoes, tomato juice, lemon juice, roux and Worcestershire.
Bring to a boil, then reduce to medium hat and add parsley, garlic leaf, garlic cloves, red pepper, and salt and pepper. Cook for about five minutes, then add crawfish and cook for fifteen more minutes. Simmer until ready to serve. Over rice, this dish serves four.
Bring to a boil, then reduce to medium hat and add parsley, garlic leaf, garlic cloves, red pepper, and salt and pepper. Cook for about five minutes, then add crawfish and cook for fifteen more minutes. Simmer until ready to serve. Over rice, this dish serves four.
Hey, and read my book Murder Etouffee for more recipes, southern short stories and a taste of the French Quarter.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Chalmette Retrospective

I visited New Orleans for the first time when I was eleven. My Aunt Carmol was an elementary school teacher. She made sure my brother and I saw every historical site, museum and park in the City. Having grown up in rural northwest Louisiana, New Orleans was the first cosmopolitan area I ever visited. It wasn’t the last, but it remains in my mind as the most unique city in the United States and perhaps the world.
My first visit wasn’t my last. As a college freshman, I marched in the Venus parade during Mardi Gras, experiencing Bourbon Street and the French Quarter for the first time as an adult - or at least close. Most of that particular visit was spent in a drunken haze, much in the manner of college students today visiting the City and savoring Mardi Gras for the first time.
I worked in the City once during summer break from college. My job title was assistant micro-photographic technician seismologist. From my salary of two dollars per hour, you can tell the description was a bit overblown, but it did look good on my resume. I bought my first camera, a 35 mm Yashica range finder, that year. New Orleans provided a plethora of scenic opportunities.
Shortly after that sweltering summer I married a girl from Chalmette, a city separated from New Orleans only by name. My marriage to Gail didn’t last but during our seven years together, I learned to love her French Acadian parents, Lily and Harvey, and her entire family. It’s a shame sometimes that you can’t divorce a wife and keep her family.
Gail had two brothers, four sisters and many aunts, uncles and cousins. Most were wonderful cooks but none better than Gail’s mother Lily was. No two pots of gumbo are ever exactly alike. I know because I’ve consumed my fair share. Taste, like I guess just about everything else, is subjective. That said, Lily’s gumbo was the best I ever tasted and, in my opinion, the best in the world.
Harvey, Gail’s father, was a cattleman and fur buyer. During trapping season, Harvey filled the shed behind his house with raw fur. He gave me a lesson once on how to grade a nutria pelt. Like calculus and religion, the lesson didn’t stick. One short story: Harvey and Lily once found six hundred dollars in cash in their deep freeze. Since trappers do not take Visa or MasterCard, Harvey always had large amounts of cash around the house.
They did not own a safe, so -.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Naked and Possessed

Many people believe voodoo is the practice of black magic, but this is only partially true. Voodoo is a contraction of the word Vodoun, a religion brought to the New World from Africa, primarily by slaves.
Vodoun is a complicated religion that has morphed many times since reaching the New World, adding elements of both Christianity and Native American beliefs. Priests and priestesses of the religion are houngans and mambos, respectively, and they often practice both magic - black and white - and the healing arts.
In my novel Big Easy, Mama Mulate is a conundrum within the religion. She is a practicing voodoo mambo, and has a doctorate in English literature, teaching at Tulane University. Unlike most practitioners of Vodoun Mama uses her talents only for good. In the novel, she comes up against a vicious serial killer that is the embodiment of voodoo deity Baron Samedi.
A turning point in the novel occurs during a ceremony on the banks of Bayou Rigolettes. An influential mambo assumes the persona of Lasyrenn, loa of fishes and Queen of the Sea, to instruct a naked initiate. Homicide detective accompanies Mama Mulate to observe the ceremony, and becomes a possessed and unwitting participant.
I personally think the ceremony scene is one of the hottest, most sexually charged chapters ever to appear in modern mystery fiction. I invite you to read Big Easy and decide for yourself.
Vodoun is a complicated religion that has morphed many times since reaching the New World, adding elements of both Christianity and Native American beliefs. Priests and priestesses of the religion are houngans and mambos, respectively, and they often practice both magic - black and white - and the healing arts.
In my novel Big Easy, Mama Mulate is a conundrum within the religion. She is a practicing voodoo mambo, and has a doctorate in English literature, teaching at Tulane University. Unlike most practitioners of Vodoun Mama uses her talents only for good. In the novel, she comes up against a vicious serial killer that is the embodiment of voodoo deity Baron Samedi.
A turning point in the novel occurs during a ceremony on the banks of Bayou Rigolettes. An influential mambo assumes the persona of Lasyrenn, loa of fishes and Queen of the Sea, to instruct a naked initiate. Homicide detective accompanies Mama Mulate to observe the ceremony, and becomes a possessed and unwitting participant.
I personally think the ceremony scene is one of the hottest, most sexually charged chapters ever to appear in modern mystery fiction. I invite you to read Big Easy and decide for yourself.
Labels:
french quarter mystery,
murder mystery,
new orleans,
voodoo
Monday, September 07, 2009
Oyster Omelet - a recipe
When I first moved to Oklahoma City, there was only one seafood restaurant. Herman’s, the lone venue, served mostly fried catfish and shrimp because there were no shipments of fresh seafood from the coasts at that time. Thank goodness, things have changed!
It is now possible to enjoy fresh seafood at many restaurants in the area. Marilyn and I like Pearl’s for its Cajun and Creole fare. Every Saturday and Sunday, they have a brunch featuring several variations of New Orleans-style breakfasts. While they do not serve this dish at Pearl’s, here is one of my personal breakfast favorites.
Oyster Omelet
2 doz. Oysters
1 tbsp butter
4 shallots
1 clove garlic
2 tbsp minced bell pepper
2 tbsp minced celery
2 bay leaves
4 eggs
2 tbsp chopped parsley
Salt and pepper to taste
Melt butter in saucepan and add minced garlic, bay leaves, pepper and celery. Drain the liquid from the oysters and put them into the butter with the seasoning. Lower heat and cook about three minutes. Beat the eggs, add salt and pepper and turn them into saucepan with oyster mixture. Do not stir. When lightly browned, turn onto hot platter and garnish with chopped parsley.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
It is now possible to enjoy fresh seafood at many restaurants in the area. Marilyn and I like Pearl’s for its Cajun and Creole fare. Every Saturday and Sunday, they have a brunch featuring several variations of New Orleans-style breakfasts. While they do not serve this dish at Pearl’s, here is one of my personal breakfast favorites.
Oyster Omelet
2 doz. Oysters
1 tbsp butter
4 shallots
1 clove garlic
2 tbsp minced bell pepper
2 tbsp minced celery
2 bay leaves
4 eggs
2 tbsp chopped parsley
Salt and pepper to taste
Melt butter in saucepan and add minced garlic, bay leaves, pepper and celery. Drain the liquid from the oysters and put them into the butter with the seasoning. Lower heat and cook about three minutes. Beat the eggs, add salt and pepper and turn them into saucepan with oyster mixture. Do not stir. When lightly browned, turn onto hot platter and garnish with chopped parsley.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Dancing the Wild Bamboula

There is a park in New Orleans not far from Bourbon Street. Officially, it is Beauregard Square, also known at various times during New Orleans’ past as Place Du Cirque or Place des Negres. Most locals still call it Congo Square.
Before the Civil War, wealthy New Orleans slave owners would let their slaves congregate on Sundays at a place that became known as Congo Square. There, they would sing their songs, dance their dances and practice their religion. When the West African Vodoun religion reached Jamaica, it rapidly integrated with Catholicism and many of the prevailing pagan practices of the Caribs, the native population of the Caribbean. This amalgam of beliefs known as voodoo, had offshoots from often called hoodoo.
Not knowing the true meaning of the various ceremonies that took place at Congo Square, many benevolent white slave owners often participated in the drumming, and the dancing of the wild bamboula, a frenzied and sensual dance. The songs created at Congo Square were the musical seeds that sprouted, matured and grew into what we now know as jazz.
There is a cultural center located in a part of Beauregard Square, known as Louis Armstrong Memorial Park after the man that brought jazz to the world. Everyone has heard of Louis Armstrong, but few realize that his musical roots began with the rhythmic beat of West African drums and the dancing of the wild bamboula.
The Louis Armstrong Park is a must-visit. The entrance to the park, a large white arch that proclaims the name Armstrong, lies at the intersection of St. Ann and N. Rampart. The park is also close to Basin Street, made famous by both song and myth. It is also near the St. Louis Cemetery # 1 and the Iberville Project.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
A Knight at the Ball
Mardi Gras season ended much too soon because I have more stories to tell. This one could probably last until next year but I may as well tell it while I am thinking about it. This story happened more than thirty years ago and my memories are not getting any clearer as time goes on.
I was still married to my first wife Gail at the time. Gail and her family were from Chalmette, the town down St. Bernard Highway from New Orleans that was all but devastated by Hurricanes Rita and Katrina. Gail had two brothers and five sisters. Her sister Mertie was married to a wealthy drilling contractor named Bobby.
There are many Krewes, or clubs, that celebrate Mardi Gras. They range in size from very large to very small, and they come and go based on many different socio-economic reasons. They all have one thing in common: a king and a queen that serve for only one Mardi Gras season.
Rex is one of the oldest and largest Krewes and rumor has it that the king only becomes so after donating a million dollars to the organization. I don’t know if this is true, but I did know one of the former kings of Rex and he was a very rich man.
My brother-in-law Bobby was also wealthy, although not nearly wealthy enough to reign over Rex. Lucky for him, there was a Krewe, not quite as famous or large, of which he did become king. Thirty some years ago, Bobby and Mertie were crowned king and queen of the Krewe of Arabi. Bobby lauded the position over everyone in the family and to hear him tell it, he may as well have been King of Saudi Arabia instead of the Krewe of Arabi.
While not as expensive to attain as King of Rex, being King of Arabi did not come without a price. Bobby, according to family rumor, had paid fifty thousand dollars for the privilege of serving as king. His costume cost twelve thousand dollars, his wife Mertie’s twenty five thousand. They had a son and daughter and each of their costumes cost more than five thousand dollars.
Bobby and his immediate family rode on the King’s float during the Arabi parade and threw thousands of dollars worth of beads, doubloons and various premium throws to the adoring masses gathered along the parade route. Bobby also bought thousands of dollars worth of alcoholic beverages served at the Arabi Ball. Being sister and brother-in-law, Gail and I had the privilege of sitting at the King’s table and drinking his whiskey.
While nowhere as regal or elegant as the Rex Ball, the Arabi Ball was still quite an affair. Bobby was drunk as a skunk, dressed in full costume and mask, and waving his kingly scepter like a royal fool. As the night progressed, he began knighting the male members of his entourage. When my turn arrived, I came close to losing an ear in the process.
Bobby did not like me very much, but in deference to Gail’s father, he was civil to me when he was sober. The problem was, his sobriety was an unusual occurrence and the night of the Arabi Ball, he was anything but. He didn’t even acknowledge my presence as I knelt before him, awaiting knighthood.
The large ballroom was dark, music of a live orchestra loud, along with the noise of restless revelers. No one except Bobby and I realized that instead of the normal knighting, he had struck me with the sword hard enough to knock off my mask and put a bloody gash in my scalp.
Okay, I was also drunk having consumed a goodly amount of Bobby’s bourbon. Acting as if nothing outside the ordinary had happened, he simply wheeled around on his throne and continued reveling.
Yes, Bobby was drunk, the large ballroom dark and noisy. My own mind, and my body, was impaired. I really do not know if he struck me in malice or simply let fly a misjudged blow because of his drunken stupor. Quickly forgetting the incident, I cleaned the blood off my head in the bathroom and returned to the raucous party.
That was more than thirty years ago. I am no longer a member of the family, nor, do I believe, is Bobby. There was no permanent damage done from Bobby’s blow - intentional or not. Every knight must face a little adversity, and hey, I am Sir Eric, Knight of Arabi.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
I was still married to my first wife Gail at the time. Gail and her family were from Chalmette, the town down St. Bernard Highway from New Orleans that was all but devastated by Hurricanes Rita and Katrina. Gail had two brothers and five sisters. Her sister Mertie was married to a wealthy drilling contractor named Bobby.
There are many Krewes, or clubs, that celebrate Mardi Gras. They range in size from very large to very small, and they come and go based on many different socio-economic reasons. They all have one thing in common: a king and a queen that serve for only one Mardi Gras season.
Rex is one of the oldest and largest Krewes and rumor has it that the king only becomes so after donating a million dollars to the organization. I don’t know if this is true, but I did know one of the former kings of Rex and he was a very rich man.
My brother-in-law Bobby was also wealthy, although not nearly wealthy enough to reign over Rex. Lucky for him, there was a Krewe, not quite as famous or large, of which he did become king. Thirty some years ago, Bobby and Mertie were crowned king and queen of the Krewe of Arabi. Bobby lauded the position over everyone in the family and to hear him tell it, he may as well have been King of Saudi Arabia instead of the Krewe of Arabi.
While not as expensive to attain as King of Rex, being King of Arabi did not come without a price. Bobby, according to family rumor, had paid fifty thousand dollars for the privilege of serving as king. His costume cost twelve thousand dollars, his wife Mertie’s twenty five thousand. They had a son and daughter and each of their costumes cost more than five thousand dollars.
Bobby and his immediate family rode on the King’s float during the Arabi parade and threw thousands of dollars worth of beads, doubloons and various premium throws to the adoring masses gathered along the parade route. Bobby also bought thousands of dollars worth of alcoholic beverages served at the Arabi Ball. Being sister and brother-in-law, Gail and I had the privilege of sitting at the King’s table and drinking his whiskey.
While nowhere as regal or elegant as the Rex Ball, the Arabi Ball was still quite an affair. Bobby was drunk as a skunk, dressed in full costume and mask, and waving his kingly scepter like a royal fool. As the night progressed, he began knighting the male members of his entourage. When my turn arrived, I came close to losing an ear in the process.
Bobby did not like me very much, but in deference to Gail’s father, he was civil to me when he was sober. The problem was, his sobriety was an unusual occurrence and the night of the Arabi Ball, he was anything but. He didn’t even acknowledge my presence as I knelt before him, awaiting knighthood.
The large ballroom was dark, music of a live orchestra loud, along with the noise of restless revelers. No one except Bobby and I realized that instead of the normal knighting, he had struck me with the sword hard enough to knock off my mask and put a bloody gash in my scalp.
Okay, I was also drunk having consumed a goodly amount of Bobby’s bourbon. Acting as if nothing outside the ordinary had happened, he simply wheeled around on his throne and continued reveling.
Yes, Bobby was drunk, the large ballroom dark and noisy. My own mind, and my body, was impaired. I really do not know if he struck me in malice or simply let fly a misjudged blow because of his drunken stupor. Quickly forgetting the incident, I cleaned the blood off my head in the bathroom and returned to the raucous party.
That was more than thirty years ago. I am no longer a member of the family, nor, do I believe, is Bobby. There was no permanent damage done from Bobby’s blow - intentional or not. Every knight must face a little adversity, and hey, I am Sir Eric, Knight of Arabi.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Labels:
krewe,
mardi gras,
new orleans,
southern stories
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Dancing the Wild Bamboula

There is a park in New Orleans not far from Bourbon Street. Officially, it is Beauregard Square, also known at various times during New Orleans’ past as Place Du Cirque or Place des Negres. Most locals still call it Congo Square.
Before the Civil War, wealthy New Orleans slave owners would let their slaves congregate on Sundays at a place that became known as Congo Square. There, they would sing their songs, dance their dances and practice their religion. When the West African Vodoun religion reached Jamaica, it rapidly integrated with Catholicism and many of the prevailing pagan practices of the Caribs, the native population of the Caribbean. This amalgam of beliefs known as voodoo, had offshoots from often called hoodoo.
Not knowing the true meaning of the various ceremonies that took place at Congo Square, many benevolent white slave owners often participated in the drumming, and the dancing of the wild bamboula, a frenzied and sensual dance. The songs created at Congo Square were the musical seeds that sprouted, matured and grew into what we now know as jazz.
The cultural center located in a part of Beauregard Square isknown as Louis Armstrong Memorial Park after the man that brought jazz to the world. Everyone has heard of Louis Armstrong, but few realize that his musical roots began with the rhythmic beat of West African drums and the dancing of the wild bamboula.
The Louis Armstrong Park is a must-visit. The entrance to the park, a large white arch that proclaims the name Armstrong, lies at the intersection of St. Ann and N. Rampart. The park is also close to Basin Street, made famous by both song and myth. It is also near the St. Louis Cemetery # 1 and the Iberville Project.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Yellow Fever in New Orleans
The devastation of Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana caused by Hurricane Katrina in 2005 ranks as the worst natural disaster in the history of the United States. New Orleans alone suffered more than 1,500 casualties. Bad as it was, the single biggest killer of citizens of New Orleans was not Katrina.
Some called New Orleans, founded in 1718 by John Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville, a “damp grave.” Each spring brought flooding to the city, along with rats, mosquitoes and snakes. The mosquitoes and rats, in turn brought cholera and yellow fever. These two diseases, along with many other tropical fevers, killed far more than 1,500 citizens of New Orleans that died because of Hurricane Katrina.
How many you say? Perhaps as many as 41,000 people died of yellow fever from 1817 to 1905. Many more likely died before 1817, but accurate records only began that particular year.
During the spring rains, as many as one-third of the population of New Orleans would evacuate the city leaving those that remained to face the wrath of the killer known as “Bronze John,” the “Saffron Scourge,” and “Yellowjack.” From 1851 to 1855 along, 7,000 to 12,000 citizens succumbed to the disease, fully 10% of the population.
Families buried bodies in mass graves and the profession of corpse carriers formed to meet the daily need. They would pull their carts down the streets, collecting bodies and announcing, “Bring out your dead,” to the people in their houses.
Yes, the people of New Orleans are a hardy bunch. Hurricane Katrina was devastating, but the City survived – just as they have survived the hostile environment surrounding them for almost three-hundred years.
Fiction South
Some called New Orleans, founded in 1718 by John Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville, a “damp grave.” Each spring brought flooding to the city, along with rats, mosquitoes and snakes. The mosquitoes and rats, in turn brought cholera and yellow fever. These two diseases, along with many other tropical fevers, killed far more than 1,500 citizens of New Orleans that died because of Hurricane Katrina.
How many you say? Perhaps as many as 41,000 people died of yellow fever from 1817 to 1905. Many more likely died before 1817, but accurate records only began that particular year.
During the spring rains, as many as one-third of the population of New Orleans would evacuate the city leaving those that remained to face the wrath of the killer known as “Bronze John,” the “Saffron Scourge,” and “Yellowjack.” From 1851 to 1855 along, 7,000 to 12,000 citizens succumbed to the disease, fully 10% of the population.
Families buried bodies in mass graves and the profession of corpse carriers formed to meet the daily need. They would pull their carts down the streets, collecting bodies and announcing, “Bring out your dead,” to the people in their houses.
Yes, the people of New Orleans are a hardy bunch. Hurricane Katrina was devastating, but the City survived – just as they have survived the hostile environment surrounding them for almost three-hundred years.
Fiction South
Labels:
french quarter mystery,
malaria,
new orleans,
plague
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Strange Encumbrance
I was in my last semester of graduate school at the University of Arkansas and still married to my first wife Gail. Our best friends, Toni and Terrence went with us to Chalmette to celebrate Mardi Gras. Terrence was an animal husbandry major and we spent a day and night in Ferriday, Louisiana where Gail's father was the supervisor of a large cattle ranch. We enjoyed a personal tour of the ranch and some of Ms Lili's gumbo before heading to Chalmette.
Gail had four sisters and two brothers. Each regaled us with drinks, dinners and frivolity, leading up to Mardi Gras Day. That Tuesday morning we awoke early and headed downtown. Drinking on the street was legal and we began imbibing by ten in the morning. We watched every parade we could get to, and along the way, we continued drinking.
We tried to pace ourselves, eating hot dogs and gumbo from various street vendors. All we really succeeded in doing was sobering ourselves for an awkward moment before plunging back into the depths of drunkenness. Somewhere around ten that night, we finally stumbled to the car and headed north to Fayetteville.
When we reached Jackson, Mississippi, we stopped at a Denny's for breakfast. My stomach felt like hell, but still slightly better than my head. We reached Fayetteville at six the next morning, hardly time for a shower before I had to take a final test at eight.
Do not ask me how, but I aced the test, perhaps the best score I ever had in grad school. A few months later, Gail and I moved to Oklahoma City and never saw Toni and Terrence again.
I have never really thought much about that Mardi Gras, my lost friendship and failed marriage. Maybe it is because youth is a strange encumbrance whose weight you never really feel until long after Father Time finally removes it.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Gail had four sisters and two brothers. Each regaled us with drinks, dinners and frivolity, leading up to Mardi Gras Day. That Tuesday morning we awoke early and headed downtown. Drinking on the street was legal and we began imbibing by ten in the morning. We watched every parade we could get to, and along the way, we continued drinking.
We tried to pace ourselves, eating hot dogs and gumbo from various street vendors. All we really succeeded in doing was sobering ourselves for an awkward moment before plunging back into the depths of drunkenness. Somewhere around ten that night, we finally stumbled to the car and headed north to Fayetteville.
When we reached Jackson, Mississippi, we stopped at a Denny's for breakfast. My stomach felt like hell, but still slightly better than my head. We reached Fayetteville at six the next morning, hardly time for a shower before I had to take a final test at eight.
Do not ask me how, but I aced the test, perhaps the best score I ever had in grad school. A few months later, Gail and I moved to Oklahoma City and never saw Toni and Terrence again.
I have never really thought much about that Mardi Gras, my lost friendship and failed marriage. Maybe it is because youth is a strange encumbrance whose weight you never really feel until long after Father Time finally removes it.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Labels:
arkansas,
fayetteville,
french quarter,
mardi gras,
new orleans,
southern stories
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce - a recipe
Marilyn and I collect old New Orleans cook books and this week she found Creole Feast – 15 Master Chefs of New Orleans Reveal Their Secrets. This extraordinary cookbook was published in 1978 and written by Nathaniel Burton and Rudolph Lombard. It features a recipe of one of my favorite desserts, one I always order whenever visiting the Crescent City.
This recipe is by Austin Leslie, master chef and one-time owner of Chez Helene, a wonderful New Orleans restaurant no longer in business. Leslie died in September, 2005 after being trapped in an attic for two days by Hurricane Katrina. He was the first person to be honored by a jazz funeral after Katrina in what was then a largely deserted Big Easy.
Austin Leslie was the inspiration for the short-lived television show Frank’s Place. He was also known as the Godfather of Fried Chicken and if you are like me, an aficionado of that particular dish, you really should read the book, if only for his personal description of the absolute best way to cut up a chicken and fry it
Chicken wasn’t the only thing Austin Leslie knew how to cook, he could also prepare absolutely wonderful deserts. I’ve published other bread pudding recipes and every one is slightly different. If you enjoy bread pudding as much as I, give this one a try because it is a good one.
Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce
1 loaf stale French bread
¼ can evaporated milk
1 pound butter
1 ¼ cups sugar
¼ pound raisins
1 small can crush pineapple
3 eggs, beaten
3 tablespoons vanilla extract
¼ cup brown sugar
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Wet the bread and squeeze the water out of it. Melt the butter and mix with all other ingredients. Pour mixture into a well-greased 4 x 10-inch baking pan. Bake for 2 ½ hours. The pudding will rise in the first hour. After an hour, remove pan from oven and stir the mixture to tighten it. Return to the oven for the second hour of cooking.
Rum Sauce
¼ stick butter, melted
1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
½ cup rum
Place all ingredients in double boiler and cook for 10 minutes. Beat until fluffy. Serves 10
This recipe is by Austin Leslie, master chef and one-time owner of Chez Helene, a wonderful New Orleans restaurant no longer in business. Leslie died in September, 2005 after being trapped in an attic for two days by Hurricane Katrina. He was the first person to be honored by a jazz funeral after Katrina in what was then a largely deserted Big Easy.
Austin Leslie was the inspiration for the short-lived television show Frank’s Place. He was also known as the Godfather of Fried Chicken and if you are like me, an aficionado of that particular dish, you really should read the book, if only for his personal description of the absolute best way to cut up a chicken and fry it
Chicken wasn’t the only thing Austin Leslie knew how to cook, he could also prepare absolutely wonderful deserts. I’ve published other bread pudding recipes and every one is slightly different. If you enjoy bread pudding as much as I, give this one a try because it is a good one.
Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce
1 loaf stale French bread
¼ can evaporated milk
1 pound butter
1 ¼ cups sugar
¼ pound raisins
1 small can crush pineapple
3 eggs, beaten
3 tablespoons vanilla extract
¼ cup brown sugar
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Wet the bread and squeeze the water out of it. Melt the butter and mix with all other ingredients. Pour mixture into a well-greased 4 x 10-inch baking pan. Bake for 2 ½ hours. The pudding will rise in the first hour. After an hour, remove pan from oven and stir the mixture to tighten it. Return to the oven for the second hour of cooking.
Rum Sauce
¼ stick butter, melted
1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
½ cup rum
Place all ingredients in double boiler and cook for 10 minutes. Beat until fluffy. Serves 10
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Lily's Famous Eggplant Dressing
The best Cajun cook I ever knew was my former mother-in-law Lily. Every meal was an experience and always served up in authentic fashion. One of my favorite side dishes was her famous eggplant dressing that she prepared, like all her other culinary creations, sans cookbook.
I watched her make this dish many times and I’m recounting it now from memory, but I think it is pretty close.
2 large purple eggplants, cubed and diced
5 slices of bacon
¾ pound ground pork
1 ½ teaspoons black pepper
Salt to taste
1 large can whole tomatoes
2 ½ cups cooked rice
French bread crumbs
1 ½ cups onion, garlic, sweet pepper, chopped
Cook the eggplants in salted water until soft. Drain, mash and set aside. Sauté bacon in large cast-iron skillet and then add onion, garlic and sweet pepper mixture. Sauté until vegetables are wilted and then add to eggplants.
Cook the ground pork until brown, drain the fat and then stir in the eggplant mixture. Add the can of tomatoes, salt and pepper and bread crumbs. Mix well and then simmer on medium-low heat for about twenty minutes.
Pour the mixture into a casserole dish, add the rice and more bread crumbs and then bake at 350 degrees for thirty minutes. Enjoy.
Fiction South
I watched her make this dish many times and I’m recounting it now from memory, but I think it is pretty close.
2 large purple eggplants, cubed and diced
5 slices of bacon
¾ pound ground pork
1 ½ teaspoons black pepper
Salt to taste
1 large can whole tomatoes
2 ½ cups cooked rice
French bread crumbs
1 ½ cups onion, garlic, sweet pepper, chopped
Cook the eggplants in salted water until soft. Drain, mash and set aside. Sauté bacon in large cast-iron skillet and then add onion, garlic and sweet pepper mixture. Sauté until vegetables are wilted and then add to eggplants.
Cook the ground pork until brown, drain the fat and then stir in the eggplant mixture. Add the can of tomatoes, salt and pepper and bread crumbs. Mix well and then simmer on medium-low heat for about twenty minutes.
Pour the mixture into a casserole dish, add the rice and more bread crumbs and then bake at 350 degrees for thirty minutes. Enjoy.
Fiction South
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Storyville
I realized there was something exciting and quite different about New Orleans the first time that I visited the city. Today, if you go south on Canal Street you will eventually end up at the Mississippi River. The City is in the process of rebuilding, but if you had followed Canal to the River before Hurricane Katrina you would have encountered many tourist attractions such as the Aquarium of the Americas, the World Trade Center and the Canal Street Wharf. Unlike today’s tourist-driven atmosphere you would have found something quite different had you taken the same journey in the 1950's.
I first visited New Orleans during the Eisenhower Era and remember standing on south Canal Street and staring down the hill toward the Mississippi River. New Orleans is a major international seaport and what I saw was a bunch of seedy bars that sailors from many countries frequented when they were in port. The bars were off-limits to American military personnel, and for good reason. They were dangerous, the women you met there "loose," and venereal diseases rampant.
"Those bars are a good place to get killed," my Aunt Carmol, an ex-marine during World War II and no shrinking violet herself, had told my brother and me. "Don’t ever go there."
The Canal Street bars were long gone before I ever had the opportunity to defy Aunt Carmol’s advice. Still, even as a youngster I felt the potential danger and lingering intrigue present around nearly every corner of New Orleans. One less dangerous but very intriguing place that was eventually cleaned up by the U.S. Navy was Storyville, the Big Easy’s early-day fantasy land that did as much to establish the City’s reputation as a latter-day Gomorrah as anything else in its history.
During the early days of New Orleans there was a shortage of females. To alleviate this situation, street prostitutes were released from French prisons on the condition that they migrate to the new colony. In 1744, the number of bordellos and houses of prostitution prompted a French army officer to comment that there were not ten women of blameless character in New Orleans. City-wide prostitution continued until 1897 when a puritanical city official devised a plan to control the problem. The plan resulted in the formation of Storyville.
Locals called Storyville "The District." It existed from 1897 until 1917, the concept of New Orleans’ alderman Sidney Story. Story’s plan wasn’t to legalize prostitution, but to control it by defining the boundaries within which it would not be prosecuted as a crime. The concept worked for nearly two decades and ironically the District became one of the City’s leading tourist attractions.
Despite the belief of many - likely propagated by fictional accounts in literature - Storyville wasn’t located in the French Quarter. It encompassed an area north of the Quarter, just east of Canal Street between N. Rampart and N. Claiborne. Elaborate bordellos, fancy restaurants and dance halls quickly appeared and flourished, along Basin, the street that became a legend because of its association with early jazz.
Jazz flourished in Storyville, although it didn’t originate there. Each bordello was a place for music as well as prostitution and each establishment generally had a piano player to entertain its guests. The bordellos often hired bands to perform, as did the restaurants and clubs that sprang up in the District. Jazz superstars such as Buddy Bolden and Louis Armstrong often performed there. Storyville was near a train station and many visitors to the City also frequented the bordellos and the clubs to listen to jazz. These visitors, as well as sailors of all nationalities, took this new sound back with them to their cities and countries of origin.
In 1917 the Secretary of the Navy was Josephus Daniels and his nickname "Tea Totaling" perfectly described his tolerance for sin. Daniels insisted that New Orleans either shut down Storyville, or else he would close the naval base across the river in Algiers. The base provided too much income to New Orleans for the City fathers to see it close so they shut down Storyville instead.
A wave of Puritanism swept across the United States during the era of World War I and the residents of New Orleans weren’t exempt from this phenomena. Embarrassed by Storyville, city fathers began systematically dismantling the District. In the years following 1917, all the elaborate bordellos were demolished leaving only a metaphorical scar in place of nearly two decades of irreplaceable history. Even the street names were changed, world famous Basin Street becoming North Saratoga.
Toward the end of World War II, city fathers made yet another planning blunder. Soldiers were returning home from war and needed a place to live, so the Iberville Housing Project was built on the site of Storyville. Never spoken about in travel brochures or in tourist information, the low-cost Iberville Housing Project quickly became dangerous and crime-ridden. Close to the French Quarter, the Project was a place to avoid at all costs instead of the tourist attraction that the District had once been.
Even with the dismantling of Storyville, prostitution never left New Orleans. It simply spread out across the city to places like the seedy bars frequented by sailors on south Canal. Unlike south Canal, transformed now into a tourist attraction rather than a city blight, the area around Storyville remains largely unknown and off limits to tourists.
New Orleans’ city fathers made a colossal blunder when they demolished the historical District. They compounded their error when they covered up their mistake by building the infamous Iberville Project. Finally realizing their horrible error in judgment, they did return the name Basin to the famous street that was home of legendary jazz and fabulous bordellos.
New Orleans still exudes a well deserved aura of danger and intrigue and there are still more than enough historical sights to see, even though one of the most famous is forever gone. Few vestiges of Storyville remain, yet like the tang of Tabasco Sauce on the palette, its memory remains long after the last spicy bite of Etouffee has been consumed.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
I first visited New Orleans during the Eisenhower Era and remember standing on south Canal Street and staring down the hill toward the Mississippi River. New Orleans is a major international seaport and what I saw was a bunch of seedy bars that sailors from many countries frequented when they were in port. The bars were off-limits to American military personnel, and for good reason. They were dangerous, the women you met there "loose," and venereal diseases rampant.
"Those bars are a good place to get killed," my Aunt Carmol, an ex-marine during World War II and no shrinking violet herself, had told my brother and me. "Don’t ever go there."
The Canal Street bars were long gone before I ever had the opportunity to defy Aunt Carmol’s advice. Still, even as a youngster I felt the potential danger and lingering intrigue present around nearly every corner of New Orleans. One less dangerous but very intriguing place that was eventually cleaned up by the U.S. Navy was Storyville, the Big Easy’s early-day fantasy land that did as much to establish the City’s reputation as a latter-day Gomorrah as anything else in its history.
During the early days of New Orleans there was a shortage of females. To alleviate this situation, street prostitutes were released from French prisons on the condition that they migrate to the new colony. In 1744, the number of bordellos and houses of prostitution prompted a French army officer to comment that there were not ten women of blameless character in New Orleans. City-wide prostitution continued until 1897 when a puritanical city official devised a plan to control the problem. The plan resulted in the formation of Storyville.
Locals called Storyville "The District." It existed from 1897 until 1917, the concept of New Orleans’ alderman Sidney Story. Story’s plan wasn’t to legalize prostitution, but to control it by defining the boundaries within which it would not be prosecuted as a crime. The concept worked for nearly two decades and ironically the District became one of the City’s leading tourist attractions.
Despite the belief of many - likely propagated by fictional accounts in literature - Storyville wasn’t located in the French Quarter. It encompassed an area north of the Quarter, just east of Canal Street between N. Rampart and N. Claiborne. Elaborate bordellos, fancy restaurants and dance halls quickly appeared and flourished, along Basin, the street that became a legend because of its association with early jazz.
Jazz flourished in Storyville, although it didn’t originate there. Each bordello was a place for music as well as prostitution and each establishment generally had a piano player to entertain its guests. The bordellos often hired bands to perform, as did the restaurants and clubs that sprang up in the District. Jazz superstars such as Buddy Bolden and Louis Armstrong often performed there. Storyville was near a train station and many visitors to the City also frequented the bordellos and the clubs to listen to jazz. These visitors, as well as sailors of all nationalities, took this new sound back with them to their cities and countries of origin.
In 1917 the Secretary of the Navy was Josephus Daniels and his nickname "Tea Totaling" perfectly described his tolerance for sin. Daniels insisted that New Orleans either shut down Storyville, or else he would close the naval base across the river in Algiers. The base provided too much income to New Orleans for the City fathers to see it close so they shut down Storyville instead.
A wave of Puritanism swept across the United States during the era of World War I and the residents of New Orleans weren’t exempt from this phenomena. Embarrassed by Storyville, city fathers began systematically dismantling the District. In the years following 1917, all the elaborate bordellos were demolished leaving only a metaphorical scar in place of nearly two decades of irreplaceable history. Even the street names were changed, world famous Basin Street becoming North Saratoga.
Toward the end of World War II, city fathers made yet another planning blunder. Soldiers were returning home from war and needed a place to live, so the Iberville Housing Project was built on the site of Storyville. Never spoken about in travel brochures or in tourist information, the low-cost Iberville Housing Project quickly became dangerous and crime-ridden. Close to the French Quarter, the Project was a place to avoid at all costs instead of the tourist attraction that the District had once been.
Even with the dismantling of Storyville, prostitution never left New Orleans. It simply spread out across the city to places like the seedy bars frequented by sailors on south Canal. Unlike south Canal, transformed now into a tourist attraction rather than a city blight, the area around Storyville remains largely unknown and off limits to tourists.
New Orleans’ city fathers made a colossal blunder when they demolished the historical District. They compounded their error when they covered up their mistake by building the infamous Iberville Project. Finally realizing their horrible error in judgment, they did return the name Basin to the famous street that was home of legendary jazz and fabulous bordellos.
New Orleans still exudes a well deserved aura of danger and intrigue and there are still more than enough historical sights to see, even though one of the most famous is forever gone. Few vestiges of Storyville remain, yet like the tang of Tabasco Sauce on the palette, its memory remains long after the last spicy bite of Etouffee has been consumed.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Labels:
fema,
iberville project,
new orleans,
storyville mystery
Friday, July 03, 2009
Dirty Rice Dressing - a recipe

Dirty rice is a Cajun specialty. Here is an authentic recipe for Dirty Rice Dressing from the French Acadian Cookbook published by the Louisiana Acadian Handicraft Museum, Inc. in 1955. The recipe was contributed by Dr. W.E. Hunt of Lake Charles, Louisiana.
1 cup rice
1 cup rice
1 clove chopped garlic
1 pound ground meat
1 pound ground meat
Salt, pepper and hot sauce to taste
1 pound ground giblets
1 pound ground giblets
(from fowl or separate giblets)
Pinch of thyme and sweet basil
1 cup chopped onion
1 cup chopped onion
1 bunch green onions and tops chopped
½ cup chopped bell pepper
½ cup chopped bell pepper
1 tablespoon minced parsley
½ cup chopped celery
½ cup chopped celery
Cook rice in double boiler until fluffy, using enough salted water to 1 inch above rice. Allow to cook unstirred until all water is gone. In one skillet sauté ground meat and giblets in ¼ pound butter until brown; in another skillet sauté onions, pepper, celery and seasoning in ¼ pound butter. Add other ingredients. In large pan mix all above ingredients well, using natural gravy from fowl to moisten.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Marie Laveau

Much like kissing the Blarney Stone, marking the grave of famous voodoo practitioner Marie Laveau with an X and leaving an offering of flowers or fruit is said to bring good luck.
Laveau, likely a composite of a mother and one of her fifteen daughters, practiced Voodoo, casting and removing spells, in New Orleans until her (their) death(s) around 1881. Voodoo, or the homegrown version hoodoo, is a composite of many religions, including African Vodoun, Catholicism and Protestant.
Laveau had a large following when she was alive and led frenzied revels on the banks of St. John’s Bayou on the night of St. John’s Eve. St. John’s Eve coincides loosely with the first day of summer and Marie’s voodoo practice derived from ancient pagan rituals held on the same night. St. John the Baptist is revered by practitioners of Vodoun as well as Catholics.
During her lifetime Laveau was well known in New Orleans, around the world and was both revered and feared. No one is positive where Laveau is buried, but many believe it is somewhere in the St. Louis Cemetery #1, perhaps at the tomb most often credited as hers. Tourists and followers continue to visit the grave, leaving offerings and X marks, even in the face of stiff fines if caught.
Some say Marie's supposed tomb is the second-most visited gravesite in the country, behind only Elvis Presley's. From the red exes marked all over the grave, this is likely a true statement.
Laveau, likely a composite of a mother and one of her fifteen daughters, practiced Voodoo, casting and removing spells, in New Orleans until her (their) death(s) around 1881. Voodoo, or the homegrown version hoodoo, is a composite of many religions, including African Vodoun, Catholicism and Protestant.
Laveau had a large following when she was alive and led frenzied revels on the banks of St. John’s Bayou on the night of St. John’s Eve. St. John’s Eve coincides loosely with the first day of summer and Marie’s voodoo practice derived from ancient pagan rituals held on the same night. St. John the Baptist is revered by practitioners of Vodoun as well as Catholics.
During her lifetime Laveau was well known in New Orleans, around the world and was both revered and feared. No one is positive where Laveau is buried, but many believe it is somewhere in the St. Louis Cemetery #1, perhaps at the tomb most often credited as hers. Tourists and followers continue to visit the grave, leaving offerings and X marks, even in the face of stiff fines if caught.
Some say Marie's supposed tomb is the second-most visited gravesite in the country, behind only Elvis Presley's. From the red exes marked all over the grave, this is likely a true statement.
Monday, May 19, 2008
The Same Mistake Twice
The domestic oil industry is populated by many types of people, both male and female, but it is safe to say that none of them could ever remotely be considered saints. During my tenure in the business, I have met many of its denizens but the most colorful of all was a person named Harold (not his real name). Harold, an OJT geophysist that had found a billion (I'm not exaggerating!) barrel oil field in Nigeria for Mobil Oil. He was quite seriously, one of smartest persons I have ever met. Unfortunately, he had a larcenous side.
Anne and I had a company in bankruptcy when Harold showed up on our doorstep, his own oil Company and 1600 acre Texas ranch in foreclosure. He parked his old Mercury (the only vehicle he had left) in our driveway and proceeded to move into our spare bedroom where he stayed for about two months.
During the time that he lived with us, Harold drank every drop of liquor in the house, became engaged to a woman he somehow met in the interim, and talked to our creditor's committee, telling them we were incompetent and needed to be removed as debtors-in-possession. When I heard what he had done, I hung him out the second story window by his heel, threatening to let go.
"I don't really care how you treat people that you don't know, but Anne and I are your friends. You shouldn't treat us like marks."
My actions must have had an effect because Harold never again treated me, or Anne, like a mark. He did talk the owner of an OKC mud company into starting an oil company and hiring him as president. The long-time mud company owner died a pauper after Harold had sucked off every penny he had.
Anyway, I got to thinking about Harold after my story about the Carousel Lounge in Shreveport. Harold, Anne and I had an adventure at the Carousel Lounge in New Orleans, at the Monteleone Hotel - an adventure instigated by Harold. Never drink at a rotating bar, is a rule that I had lived by for years, only to violate it some twenty years later.
http://www.ericwilder.com
Anne and I had a company in bankruptcy when Harold showed up on our doorstep, his own oil Company and 1600 acre Texas ranch in foreclosure. He parked his old Mercury (the only vehicle he had left) in our driveway and proceeded to move into our spare bedroom where he stayed for about two months.
During the time that he lived with us, Harold drank every drop of liquor in the house, became engaged to a woman he somehow met in the interim, and talked to our creditor's committee, telling them we were incompetent and needed to be removed as debtors-in-possession. When I heard what he had done, I hung him out the second story window by his heel, threatening to let go.
"I don't really care how you treat people that you don't know, but Anne and I are your friends. You shouldn't treat us like marks."
My actions must have had an effect because Harold never again treated me, or Anne, like a mark. He did talk the owner of an OKC mud company into starting an oil company and hiring him as president. The long-time mud company owner died a pauper after Harold had sucked off every penny he had.
Anyway, I got to thinking about Harold after my story about the Carousel Lounge in Shreveport. Harold, Anne and I had an adventure at the Carousel Lounge in New Orleans, at the Monteleone Hotel - an adventure instigated by Harold. Never drink at a rotating bar, is a rule that I had lived by for years, only to violate it some twenty years later.
http://www.ericwilder.com
Labels:
eric wilder,
french quarter,
louisiana,
new orleans,
oil promoters,
oklahoma,
stories,
swindlers
Monday, January 07, 2008
Heroes
I'm watching the LSU - Ohio State championship football game. As I watch, I think of two things: the game is in the Superdome of New Orleans. My thoughts return to 2005, the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Geraldo Rivera is reporting from outside the Superdome. The building resembles a giant sarcophagus, the gray people in the background little more than eerie wraiths all but devoid of life.
My second thought goes further back, to the fifties. When I was a boy, my family and I would listen to the LSU games on the radio, enraptured by the running of Billy Cannon. He always somehow found a way to pull victory from the jaws of defeat. Listenting to our scratchy old radio, I always felt that Billy would break a tackle, put his shoulder down and run for a touchdown. I was never disappointed.
Seeing the two grand teams playing tonight in the Superdome, I get the same feeling about the people of New Orleans.
http://www.ericwilder.com
My second thought goes further back, to the fifties. When I was a boy, my family and I would listen to the LSU games on the radio, enraptured by the running of Billy Cannon. He always somehow found a way to pull victory from the jaws of defeat. Listenting to our scratchy old radio, I always felt that Billy would break a tackle, put his shoulder down and run for a touchdown. I was never disappointed.
Seeing the two grand teams playing tonight in the Superdome, I get the same feeling about the people of New Orleans.
http://www.ericwilder.com
Labels:
billy cannon,
lsu,
new orleans,
ohio state,
superdome
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Oranges a la Louisiane
2 navel oranges, peeled
1/4 cup sugar
1/8 cup water
1/8 cup warm water
Mix sugar and 1/8 cup water in a heavy saucepan and heat very slowly until dissolved. Do not stir. Continue to cook to a rich caramel color. The water will evaporate and the color will change quickly after about 30 to 45 minutes. Remove from heat and quickly and carefully (there will be a lot of steam) pour in warm water. Return to heat and bring mixture back to a boil, stirring until caramel is completely dissolved. Cool.
Slice each orange crosswise into 4 to 6 parts and reshape, using toothpicks to fasten the slices back together. Pour caramel syrup on top and chill.For an extra special touch, pare thin strips of orange peel, cook for 5 minutes in boiling water, drain, dry and sprinkle over oranges.
Recipe courtesy of Judy M. Heyman from Louisiana Entertains, a complete menu cookbook.
http://www.ericwilder.com
1/4 cup sugar
1/8 cup water
1/8 cup warm water
Mix sugar and 1/8 cup water in a heavy saucepan and heat very slowly until dissolved. Do not stir. Continue to cook to a rich caramel color. The water will evaporate and the color will change quickly after about 30 to 45 minutes. Remove from heat and quickly and carefully (there will be a lot of steam) pour in warm water. Return to heat and bring mixture back to a boil, stirring until caramel is completely dissolved. Cool.
Slice each orange crosswise into 4 to 6 parts and reshape, using toothpicks to fasten the slices back together. Pour caramel syrup on top and chill.For an extra special touch, pare thin strips of orange peel, cook for 5 minutes in boiling water, drain, dry and sprinkle over oranges.
Recipe courtesy of Judy M. Heyman from Louisiana Entertains, a complete menu cookbook.
http://www.ericwilder.com
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