The Mardi Gras dinner to end all Mardi Gras dinners

It was three years in coming and three full days in the making, but last night's Mardi Gras dinner went off without much of a hitch. Kevin and I are members of a gourmet potluck group that gets together once a month at a different member's home for a themed dinner. Up until now, we've always bowed out of hosting because I was either too pregnant or had a new baby at home. But even though I am seven pregnant right now and have a rambunctious toddler, I figured it was now or never if we were ever going to host. And once a Mardi Gras-themed evening came up in rotation, I leapt at the chance to host it--Creole food being one of the few cuisines I don't find at all intimidating. So here's a brief recap of all the things that went into making a Mardi Gras dinner in northern Canada--and yes, I realize Mardis Gras isn't actually for another three weeks, but as hard as this was for me at seven-months pregnant, I knew it would be impossible at eight.

The Decorations: Rather than go with all the green-purple-and-gold kitsch that was available at the party supply store, I made use of what I had lying around the house: peacock feathers from our wedding reception, stained-glass masks from the Christmas decorations box, some Venetian masks from--where else--Venice, and a voodoo doll from ... well, everyone has one of those lying around, don't they? I did have to buy some Mardi Gras beads because my collection got recycled into one of my mother's costumes recently. But other than that, the only purchases were some purple orchids for the mantle and about $40 worth of votive candles from Ikea. The candles were essential, since we ate in what is actually our living room--it being the only room in the house large enough to accommodate 15 people at one table. They also helped distract form the fact that were were eating in the living room and that our living room could really use a fresh coat of paint.

The Place Settings: In keeping with the Southern Gothic flair of the evening, I pulled out the good china and the sterling flatware. In truth, I had no choice, seeing as how I don't have enough of the everyday stuff to seat 15. And if you're going to all the trouble to pull out the china and polish the silver, you might as well use all the good linens, too. Although, I may regret that decision once I have to wash and iron 20 yards of linen. In the end, though, I think it was worth it. It is certainly the Southern way of doing things. I have never once been to a dinner or cocktail party in the South where the contents of a lady's hope chest were not put to use. Besides, what's the point of moving all this stuff from home to home if it's going to sit in boxes, unused? Furthermore, it distracted from the fact that my house is incredibly tiny, and, again, could really use a fresh coat of paint.

The Playlist: No Mardi Gras evening would be complete without a well-crafted playlist. Mine wasn't as well-crafted as I would have like, but it got the job done. On rotation were Kermit Ruffins and Louis Armstrong, Buckwheat Zydeco and the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, as well as the awesome soundtrack from Season One of the HBO show Treme. I haven't actually seen Treme yet, but if the soundtrack is any indication, this show is awesome.

And last but not least, The Menu: Had the menu been left up to me, I probably would have just made Jambalaya and flown in a King's Cake from Randazzo's, but my friend Peggi is actually in charge of the group and, as a major foodie, she helped step thing up a notch. Now, these are not the New Orlean's dishes that I grew up on, but they are more or less authentically Creole, and they were all delicious. As hosts, Kevin and I were on the hook for the entrees--fried catfish with pecan butter and shrimp etouffée, and we will certainly be making these again. I even created my own recipe for shrimp etouffée this time, and I thought it rather better than either of the recipes I normally follow.

Cocktails
Mardi Gras Mojitos and Mint Juleps (served in my silver julep cups, thank you very much!)

Appetizers
Bacon Wrapped Cajun Jalapenos
Black-Eyed Pea Salsa with Chips
Sauteed Fresh Mushroom Bruschetta
Merle's Spinach Balls

1st Course
Crab Cakes with Roumalade Sauce

Soup Course
Gumbo with Southern Biscuits

Main Course
Fried Catfish with Toasted Pecan Butter Sauce
Shrimp Etouffée
Jalapeno Cheese Grits
Red Beans & Rice
Mama's Candied Yams & Apples

Salad
Galatoire's Grapefruit Salad with Mustard Vinaigrette

Desserts
Chocolate Doberge Cake
King Cake (Peggi even made the King Cake from scratch, God bless her!)

And believe it or not, no one had a heart attack before the meal was over. In fact, a few people even asked for seconds, although it was approaching midnight and we'd been dining for five hours. So, I guess you could call the night a success. I'm not sure that Kevin and I will be hosting one of these dinners again any time soon. The only way we were able to pull it off this time was because I stayed up late every night this week prepping and because we sent Remy to the kennel and Colin to the babysitter's for the night. Now, I love a fancy dinner party as much as the next Southern girl, but these days I'm loving my incorrigible little boy even more. Check out Colin "helping" me earlier this week with my Mardi Gras beads. Is there anything cuter than that?

Munich: Where it's Oktober every month of the year

After our excursion into the wilds of the Englischer Garten – and a much-needed nap – Kevin and I went back out in search of a traditional beer hall to round out our trip. Since we only had one night in München, and since it’s unlikely we’ll have the chance to return, I wanted to go somewhere that would simulate the feel of Oktoberfest, even though it’s the middle of June. So we settled on the Hofbräuhaus, the spot our travel book described as “on the itinerary of just about every visitor to the city, but which is, nonetheless, perfectly genuine.” Hrm.

The Hofbräuhaus, in the heart of the city, can seat up to 4,500 guests at a time and starts serving beer and live music at nine in the morning. It was built in 1897, but it’s been the spot of a beer hall since 1589. It also has the dubious distinction of being the location of the famous “Beer Hall Putsch,” Hitler’s unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the Weimar government in 1923. In the middle of a crowded political convention, Hitler jumped onto the stage, fired a few shots into the ceiling, and boldly declared “The National Revolution has broken out. The hall is surrounded.” The hall was not surround, and no one joined Hitler’s call for revolution, that time. Shortly after, he was arrested and spent a year in prison writing Mein Kampf and planning a new, improved revolution. The rest, as they say, ist Geschichte.



When we showed up at the Bräuhaus, at 10 o’clock on a warm June night, things were only slightly less exciting. Dirndl-draped waitresses were floating by with large trays of Maßkrugs balanced precariously over their heads. A 10-piece brass band was leading a crowd of drunken revelers in an energetic polka. The hall pulsed with the energy of thousands of happy, inebriated people. “Ah!” I thought, “Now here’s some traditional Bavarian culture.” But the room was so packed that Kevin and I could hardly find a seat. Finally, I asked a young, sandy-haired guy, in German, if it were possible to share his table. He answered, in very polite German, that he and his father, with whom he was having dinner, would be glad if we’d join them. His father smiled his assent in the middle of a bite of bratwurst. “Awesome,” I thought, “This is just the sort of beer hall neighborliness I heard about. Perhaps we’ll strike up a good conversation.”

Only, I still don’t feel confident enough in my German to converse with native speakers, and of course Kevin doesn’t speak any German at all. And beyond their initial friendliness, the tow-headed youth and his father didn’t seem to be big conversationalists either. They didn’t even speak to each other. So the four of us sat there, in silence, sipping our 10-euro beers and listening to the Oompah band.

And then the anonymous polka medley slipped into a tune more familiar. Kevin started to hum along with it, and I found myself supplying the words, “… take me home… to the place where I be-long …” “It’s John Denver!” said Kevin, in that booming voice he reserves for commenting on the absurd, “The German polka band is playing John Denver!” And we weren’t the only ones who noticed. The father and son also started singing along, huge grins spread across their faces. Once the band reached the chorus the second time, the entire hall erupted: “West Virginia, mountain momma, take me home. Country Roads.” Tanned, tipsy young men hoped up from the surrounding tables and began twirling random women across the dance floor. There are few things so strange, or so wonderful, as hearing a familiar song in foreign place – and having thousands of people share the moment with you.

This little lyric outburst also provided us with the perfect entrée to our quiet neighbors, who turned out to be from Oklahoma. The son, Jordan, is a classics major on exchange in Berlin, and is father, Greg, is a Lexus salesman and was in the middle of his first trip to Europe. Apparently Jordan had remained silent for the same reason I had: his German was competent, but not great; however, in the din of a crowded beer hall, we’d been fooled by one another’s accent. Anyway, once we discovered a common language, we discovered many topics of common interest: Bavarian beer, German castles and museums, American and European cultural differences, and of course, a thorough knowledge of American rock lyrics.

And so the night wore on in conversation and camaraderie. The band filled their set with other classics of a certain era (“Sweet Caroline” was also a big hit), and the tanned young men – now clearly identified as American undergrads by the collegiate names block-printed across their T-Shirts and baseball caps – danced until close. It wasn’t exactly “genuine” Bavarian culture, but I suspect it came close to capturing the genuine feel of Oktoberfest – or as close as an American can come to experiencing it on an average Saturday night in June, in the company of other Americans.

"Spring is bursting out all over!"

After a winter of cold, miserable rain, Spring has officially come to this corner of the world. Two solid weeks of warm weather have coaxed the tulips and cherry blossoms into bloom and convinced the citizens of Würzburg to shed their puffy winter jackets for good – and with them, their brusque, business-like manner. Germans are supposedly the hardest-working people in all of Europe, but you wouldn’t know it to look around here. By 2 p.m., the Altstadt is packed with visitors to the recently opened farmers’ market. And there’s not a single patio seat to be had in any bar or restaurant, where the locals linger for hours over a cup of coffee or a gelato.

On the streets, the energy is palpable, and after such a quiet, dreary winter, it makes me want to dance about and burst into song, like the characters in some Broadway musical. My current fav is “Spring is Bursting Out All Over” from Rogers and Hammerstein’s “Carousel,” although I sound like a strangled cat when trying to hit the high note on the “ooh-o-ver.” And watching the townspeople cross the old stone bridge over the River Main on their way to work every morning, just as they’ve done for hundreds of years, always makes me want to break into the opening number from Disney’s "Beauty and the Beast" (“There goes the baker with his tray like always, the same old bread and rolls to sell…”).

I’m trying to soak up as much of the beautiful weather as possible, since the next couple of years will probably be the coldest years of my life. Kevin has accepted a faculty position at the University of Alberta, and in January, we’ll take up residence in Edmonton, where Winter stretches into May and temperatures routinely drop below zero degrees – Fahrenheit! I’m sanguine about it. I figure if I’ve survived Boston’s wind and Würzburg’s rain, then cold is just one more element that can be conquered. And after all, weather is only ever temporary, and sometimes a long wait makes the Spring seem all the more beautiful.

Sunny day ...

A few minutes after my train pulled away from the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof today, I looked out of my window to see a young man standing alone in the middle of an empty field. His car was parked a few meters away, and the driver’s side door was left open, as if he’d exited in a rush.

As the train drew nearer, I could see that he was playing the violin -- passionately.

I assumed that he had been compelled to practice on the outskirts of town because of his apartment's strict Hausordnung (house rules), which forbid the playing of musical instruments indoors, along with just about anything else you might ever want to do. Perhaps this empty field is his practice room, I thought, where he comes everyday to play, uninterrupted, for hours and hours.

However, it's just as likely that he has a perfectly good practice room at his disposal, but that today, while driving down the Autobahn, he was so overcome by the beauty of this particular sunny day (a rarity in Germany in winter), that he felt compelled to pull over and play a hymn of praise to the sun gods.

After a solid week without sunlight, this one radiant afternoon was certainly the answer to my prayers.