Monday, February 22, 2016.
Home On A Smelly Airplane. But First, Curry!
I have kept myself on New Orleans time during this visit to Los Angeles. That has me awake at five in the morning Pacific time. I figured that I could get some writing done before the first peeps come from the nest of Suzanne, Jackson and Jude. But no such luck. Next time I stay here, I will bring a lamp so I can see what I'm doing at the desk in their guest room, which is otherwise comfortable. The room is rightly a low priority during the thorough renovation of the main parts of the house.
It wouldn't have helped anyway. I forgot the passwords to get into the NOMenu newsletter's online pages. And my ancient laptop is maddeningly slow. Something else I need to buy if I am going to attempt working on the road.
[caption id="attachment_50754" align="alignleft" width="220"]
The three Fitzmorris men, as of February 22, 2016.[/caption]Jude makes a batch of his famous omelettes for the adults in the room. Suzanne takes a photo of the three Fitzmorris men--the first of what I hope willbe many such shots. Then he is off to work. He is managing a project so complex but so full of possibilities that he puts in long, regular days at the computer. The concept is more complex than I can fully understand, let alone write about. What I do know is that it sounds adaptable to the NOMenu, possibly improving the restaurant community and even making a few dollars.
The nanny who has been part of Suzanne's family for a long time shows up in mid-morning. Jackson seems to like her as much as he does his mother.
This leaves Suzanne free to transfer me to the airport, plus enough time for the two of us to have lunch. She knows of a cluster of Indian restaurants along our way to LAX. Indeed, it's in a three-story strip malls whose occupants are all Indian, in a wide variety of businesses.
[caption id="attachment_50755" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Indian-style sesame chicken.[/caption]
The place where we eat touts itself for serving curry and spaghetti and meatballs. I think at first that this is a gimmick, but that's harsh. The platters--all illustrated with photographs--are indeed hybrids of Indian and Italian ideas. What I have is a good example: sesame chicken in big chunks, covered with a brownish-red sauce with the flavors both of tomatoes and pepper-hot curry spices. There's no spaghetti here, but rice fills half of the plate. And I could have had the dish with pasta if I wanted. The platter is better than it looks. So is Suzanne's choice, which looks like chicken gumbo with tofu instead of chicken. A salad comes with the deal, and the price per person is less than $10.
One of the many qualities that Suzanne and Jude have in common is that they're always up against the clock, and barely make it to their appointments on time. Mary Ann also has this trait. I, on the other hand, am a believer in buffers. We are cutting it very close for me to make my flight. Fortunately, my ticket bears the TSA Pre-Check imprimatur, and I sail through security and make the plan with time to spare.
American Airlines' service on this two-hour flight is spartan. On the way out to LAX, I scored a bag of Pringles with a tube of hummus. It's the only food item that looks edible. (The hummus was actually pretty good.) They're even out of ginger ale, which I've found on every other flight and even on every train of my life.
One of the movie selections is aired in celebration of Frank Sinatra's 100th birthday this year. I am in the middle of the second thick volume of a biography of The Chairman of the Board, It tells the detailed story behind "Ocean's Eleven," the ultimate expression of the Rat Pack era, when Sinatra and all his cronies were turning Las Vegas into a new entertainment platform. I'd never seen that movie, so I turn it on. The flight isn't quite long enough for the whole film to unspool. Oh, well. It's not exactly a masterpiece, anyway.
The flight ran a bit late, and many passengers were on the verge of missing their flights. The attendants ask those who don't have close connections to remain seated while those against the clock escape. But that is really impossible, and nobody is off the plane any sooner than if the deplaning had been ordinary.
I am one of the people with a close connection. And the gate I need is in another part of DFW, requiring a shuttle ride. I make it with a few minutes to spare, but with the jitters.
It seems to me that all flights in and out of New Orleans involve old, worn-out, even shabby airplanes. That is certainly true today. We're on an MD-80, a plane from another era. My seat is second from the rear. Outside the window is the front opening of the starboard jet engine. A retired airline pilot friend says that this was a great design, except on the day when the engine blew up, shooting shrapnel through the fuselage wall and killing the people sitting where I am today. I wish he hadn't told me that.
I manage somehow to push that out of my mind, and my attention moves to the much less than fresh smell of the plane. "Stench" is a more appropriate word. On my way out at the end of the uneventful flight, I mention to the staff and the captain that it's been a long time since my last flight on one of these airplanes. "Lucky you!" says an attendant. "They won't be around much longer," says the captain.
Mary Ann is there to pick me up. We talk about the wonderful grandson Jackson all the way home.
Today is my mother's (and Jackson's great-grandmother's) 104th birthday.
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Tuesday, February 23, 2016.
A Scary Storm.
My intention was to head into town today after my extended weekend in Los Angeles. But the weather--forecast to be dominated by powerful storms, several inches of rain, and a near-certainty of tornadoes--keeps me from going. The Causeway shuts down, anyway. By the time this environmental violence ends at around midnight, numerous people have been killed by the tornadoes, most of which touch down along a line that begins in the sugar plantations along Mississippi the river and ends in the southeast corner of Mississippi the state.
I was on the air while much of this was going on. I didn't shift into emergency mode, but I couldn't carry on our standard food theme, either. I was watching the storms' tracks on the radar, particularly several with Tornadic Vortex Signatures. At least one passed within a mile from the Cool Water Ranch. I was choking up while watching this. Mary Ann, who thinks I am a ninny for getting so worked up, laughs when I tell her we maybe ought to go to our well-reinforced central closet for a few minutes.
At the end of it all, we see no trees down or other damage. The standing water is pretty deep, but not enough to cut us off from the main road.
And then I start hearing about the many building wipeouts in Laplace and Convent and Mississippi, and the numerous deaths. This is probably the worst weather since Katrina.
The three Fitzmorris men, as of February 22, 2016.[/caption]Jude makes a batch of his famous omelettes for the adults in the room. Suzanne takes a photo of the three Fitzmorris men--the first of what I hope willbe many such shots. Then he is off to work. He is managing a project so complex but so full of possibilities that he puts in long, regular days at the computer. The concept is more complex than I can fully understand, let alone write about. What I do know is that it sounds adaptable to the NOMenu, possibly improving the restaurant community and even making a few dollars.
The nanny who has been part of Suzanne's family for a long time shows up in mid-morning. Jackson seems to like her as much as he does his mother.
This leaves Suzanne free to transfer me to the airport, plus enough time for the two of us to have lunch. She knows of a cluster of Indian restaurants along our way to LAX. Indeed, it's in a three-story strip malls whose occupants are all Indian, in a wide variety of businesses.
[caption id="attachment_50755" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Indian-style sesame chicken.[/caption]
The place where we eat touts itself for serving curry and spaghetti and meatballs. I think at first that this is a gimmick, but that's harsh. The platters--all illustrated with photographs--are indeed hybrids of Indian and Italian ideas. What I have is a good example: sesame chicken in big chunks, covered with a brownish-red sauce with the flavors both of tomatoes and pepper-hot curry spices. There's no spaghetti here, but rice fills half of the plate. And I could have had the dish with pasta if I wanted. The platter is better than it looks. So is Suzanne's choice, which looks like chicken gumbo with tofu instead of chicken. A salad comes with the deal, and the price per person is less than $10.
One of the many qualities that Suzanne and Jude have in common is that they're always up against the clock, and barely make it to their appointments on time. Mary Ann also has this trait. I, on the other hand, am a believer in buffers. We are cutting it very close for me to make my flight. Fortunately, my ticket bears the TSA Pre-Check imprimatur, and I sail through security and make the plan with time to spare.
American Airlines' service on this two-hour flight is spartan. On the way out to LAX, I scored a bag of Pringles with a tube of hummus. It's the only food item that looks edible. (The hummus was actually pretty good.) They're even out of ginger ale, which I've found on every other flight and even on every train of my life.
One of the movie selections is aired in celebration of Frank Sinatra's 100th birthday this year. I am in the middle of the second thick volume of a biography of The Chairman of the Board, It tells the detailed story behind "Ocean's Eleven," the ultimate expression of the Rat Pack era, when Sinatra and all his cronies were turning Las Vegas into a new entertainment platform. I'd never seen that movie, so I turn it on. The flight isn't quite long enough for the whole film to unspool. Oh, well. It's not exactly a masterpiece, anyway.
The flight ran a bit late, and many passengers were on the verge of missing their flights. The attendants ask those who don't have close connections to remain seated while those against the clock escape. But that is really impossible, and nobody is off the plane any sooner than if the deplaning had been ordinary.
I am one of the people with a close connection. And the gate I need is in another part of DFW, requiring a shuttle ride. I make it with a few minutes to spare, but with the jitters.
It seems to me that all flights in and out of New Orleans involve old, worn-out, even shabby airplanes. That is certainly true today. We're on an MD-80, a plane from another era. My seat is second from the rear. Outside the window is the front opening of the starboard jet engine. A retired airline pilot friend says that this was a great design, except on the day when the engine blew up, shooting shrapnel through the fuselage wall and killing the people sitting where I am today. I wish he hadn't told me that.
I manage somehow to push that out of my mind, and my attention moves to the much less than fresh smell of the plane. "Stench" is a more appropriate word. On my way out at the end of the uneventful flight, I mention to the staff and the captain that it's been a long time since my last flight on one of these airplanes. "Lucky you!" says an attendant. "They won't be around much longer," says the captain.
Mary Ann is there to pick me up. We talk about the wonderful grandson Jackson all the way home.
Today is my mother's (and Jackson's great-grandmother's) 104th birthday.
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