Speaking of Jambalaya . . .

August 15th When most people think of Jambalaya they think of New Orleans, and as I was cutting and chopping, I was hearkened back to my only visit there. I think I was hearkened, it may have been a hangover flashback. I think of all of the places I have been, and I really wish I was more of a foodie then as I am now. New Orleans has some great food, really diverse and indicative of the people that live there. However, I relied on fried cheese, hamburgers and anything else I could have just eatin in G-ville. I would have tried to find a place off the beaten path to find some really good Cajun food as opposed to stopping in the first place that had a beer special. Don't get me wrong, I had a great time, too much of one in fact. I just really wish I could have spent more time looking for really good grub. I really didn't care too much about food, just wanted fuel and wanted it cheap. Anyway, this is a little story of a dumb ass named Brian who decided that the Hurricane cocktail was nothing but a foo foo drink. I capitalize this drink because it really kicked my ass. It certainly pushed my prom tequila binge down a couple notches on my top 10 list of hangovers. In fact, I think New Orleans is #1 and #2. My wife and I, with good friends Scott and Erin Smith, made the trip to New Orleans to watch the Saints play the Indianapolis Colts (this was all pre-Katrina). The first day was eventful in that we wandered around Bourbon Street just taking it in. Bourbon Street is one of those mythological locations where people who come back tell great stories of debauchery, beads, flashing and more alcohol than is absolutely necessary. However, during the day, it looks like any other street. People walking around window shopping, looking for a little lunch, not much really going on. We stopped for lunch somewhere, had some beer, walked around, had some more beer. As soon as the sun goes down, something happens. People come out of the woodwork, neon signs light up, and the din of evil temptation can be heard buzzing in your ear. In a Cajun drawl, a little devil with a trumpet lands on my shoulder and whispers, "Time for another drink Ferg, it's only 3 in the morning." After about 10 or more beers, arguing with that logic was moot. Since the football game was the next day, we went back to the hotel. Now, I'm not sure which night this was, I think it was the first one. But when we got back to the hotel, I decided to test the durability of the bed and found it to be quite flexible. I took a drunken running jump, landed on the bed, then quickly found myself airborne again. I hit the wall and landed on the floor under the bed. Amidst the dust bunnies and hair of guests gone by, I first heard, "Are you alright?" followed by the loudest guffaws and hoots you could hear. I felt like a really average comedian with his zipper down during the entire act. Well, if you can't laugh at yourself . . . The next morning, I had a headache - whether it was from the beer, or my impromptu gymnastics display, I'm not sure. I bounced back big with a greasy breakfast, and was ready to hit the Superdome for some football. A passion you will hear about frequently starting on September 12. My wife is all too thrilled. Anyway the game was good with the exception of the Colts losing, which is Scott and Erin's favorite team. So it was back to Bourbon Street for round two. I thought I licked my first hangover pretty quickly. In fact, I was feeling downright giddy. I thought I could tame New Orleans pretty good, and decided something a little more potent might be in order. My cocktail of choice, the Hurricane. We ate at the House of Blues to get a good base of pasta, or something, and we were off to the first bar that had a neon beverage sign at the door. I believe we all started this quest, but I think my smart wife and pals hit a very important wall. A wall I wish I had hit first with my head. I kept telling myself as I downed this sweet nectar that "there must not be any alcohol in this, I'm not even catching a buzz." Of course my friends heard, "this must can't alhohol cuase I fell okie dokie." I continued to walk like a crab into a karaoke bar where people not as smashed as me were singing such hits as More Than a Feeling and Jumpin Jack Flash. I stood in the back, more content to watch and sway than perform, when all of the sudden with my wife beside me - I puked. No warning, no rumbling of the stomach or instant nausea, just a little donation to the floor of the city that gave me all of the Hurricanes. What was weird was, nobody saw this. Not a single person in the bar noticed I just vomited all over the floor; they were all crowded around the crooner on stage. My wife looked at me and asked me if I was alright, then looked down and saw the puddle of blues, then asked me if I just puked. With a goofy grin on my face, flashing red-tinted teeth, I uttered, "Ayuh." I went to the bathroom, and noticed I had not gotten any of it on me, and just needed a quick face wash - and of course, the strongest Altoid on the planet. The rest of the night was a blur. When I opened my eyes the next morning, I was wondering why someone was hitting me in the head with a tack hammer. The litte Cajun devil on my shoulder was out cold with a trumpet up his ass. This day, I had to fly home, and this is not the way I wanted to feel on an airplane (since I don't want to be on an airplane in the first place). It was awful. Walking hurt, standing hurt, breathing hurt and the only thing I wanted to do was crawl into the darkest place on the planet and sleep. But since we had to be out of our hotel, we were going to sight see before our plane left. My last hour in New Orleans was spent in the bathroom of a burger joint making a deposit to a porcelain deity. Lesson learned, New Orleans kicked my ass and took some names along with a bevy of angry brain cells. I have not touched or even looked at a Hurricane since that weekend. It goes on my mental shelf of beverages I will never drink again along with tequila shots (which I believe is on 85% of the population's shelf). Since I graced you with a puking story, I will not follow this up with a recipe. I still have the Chili with Tomatillo post as well as the Lamb Chops with Yogurt Sauce with Squash and Snap Pea Orzo recipe. A toast . . .