Thursday, November 21, 2013. Spaghetti And Meatballs In Convent.
The dinner last night at Santa Fe did little harm to my wit, and I was able to get up early enough to pull together a newsletter and a radio show. That done, I packed the Hartmann suitcase I bought in 1978. A girlfriend told me then that her impression of me rose greatly when I showed up for a trip with this suitcase. "Hartmann is the best," she said. I had no idea. To this day, a suitcase is a suitcase to my eyes. The Hartmann is now retired, save for one regular assignment. It has come with me on all twenty-eight of my retreats at Manresa. I keep it packed with a lot of items I don't use the rest of the year, but wouldn't be able to find were they not all safely in the Hartmann. [caption id="attachment_39873" align="alignleft" width="399"]
The main house at Manresa, originally built as a college in the 1840s.[/caption]
The retreat that begins tonight is a milestone. My son Jude has been on retreats several times during his years in Jesuit schools. But this is his first as an adult. And now we are two generations involved in this rich experience. I was very proud to introduce Jude to guys whose sons also come to Manresa. My friend Jim Thomas was here with his son, not for the first time. Jim's father Bill has retreated here over fifty times, and his grandfather attended, too. Four generations of the same good habit!
I led the grace before meatballs and spaghetti, which were much improved over past years. I may be to blame. I told them more than once that the thick, old-style spaghetti they used for decades wasn't as good as thinner spaghetti. Same stuff. Same cost. But more surface area for the sauce to grip, and better flavor release. The red sauce was spicy and good, too.
And then I separated from my son. Retreats at Manresa are silent and taken alone. One of my first rituals is walking on the first night to the levee, about a quarter-mile away. It was an overcast, dark evening. There are no lights on the avenue of live oaks. It's a little scary. But what, really, could happen? Nothing ever had in the past. But this time. . . as I was on my way back from the levee, someone went past me in the other direction. I couldn't see details, so my mind filled in the rest: it was an Indian with long hair. It scared the crap out of me. I would not learn until Sunday who it had been. But I'm glad it was one of us, anyway.
Friday, November 22, 2013. Rain In The Cane. Great Catfish And Gumbo.
I awakened to a very gloomy day whose clouds all but guaranteed rain. I began feeling a damp mist on my mile-long walk to the most distant point on the Manresa property. It is indeed a point, the survey having been done by the French settlers in the 1700s, drawing lines away from the curving river.
During a lunch of excellent fried catfish and potato salad, the rain let loose. My five-mile Friday afternoon trek down the levee had never been rained out, but that looked inevitable today. It had become much colder when lunch ended, to make the weather completely inclement.
I settled into my room with a book about how to make my marriage better. Written for men, it had the great title "If Only He Knew.") But after about an hour the rain stopped, the clouds began to part, and I hit the road. I wouldn't make it all the way to the magnificent vista of sugar cane fields in the time that I had. But the tradition is alive.
At supper, the seafood gumbo was spicy and good. Jude, who has been a fan of gumbo for a long time, put down a big bowl of it. I haven't seen him much except at the table, and even then we can't talk. I hoped he was finding the Manresa magic.
Today is the fiftieth anniversary of the assassination of John F. Kennedy. It almost always falls during our retreat. One of the Jesuit priests–Father Hacker Fagot, who wrote a cookbook, among other things–never failed to note the JFK demise in his sermons. But he's gone now, too.
Saturday, November 23, 2013. The Best Red Beans. A Step Up For The Pork Loin.
It was very cold overnight, and rain threatened again. Nevertheless, I took my second-longest walk, up the river's levee to the old St. Michael's church. It is famous for its Lourdes grotto and altar made of bagasse–a byproduct of sugar cane agriculture. [caption id="attachment_19369" align="alignleft" width="238"]
Walking upstream on the Mississippi River levee.[/caption]
It was cold and windy. I got sprayed by the lightest rain on the way back. But it wasn't enough to keep me from indulging in an exercise I find valuable. I go back five years and try to recall what I was like back then. Then ten, fifteen, twenty and all the way to the ground floor of my memory. I never cease to be amazed by how much I got done personally in some of those five-year stretches. Or how little I progressed in others.
One uniting characteristic of all those mental snapshots is that red beans and rice were in all of them. As they were today. I think Manresa makes the best red beans I eat all year.
Dinner today was even better. The pork loin on Saturday evening never impressed me much before. But those ladies have reworked the recipe brilliantly, and not only is the meat tender and full of flavor, but the reduced jus was like what I hope to find in the better restaurants.
All this good food was surprising only because of two big changes in the kitchen. A lady who had cooked and served there for longer than I have been attending retired last year. Meanwhile, they're performing a heavy renovation to the building with the kitchen and dining hall.
But if there were any reduction in the deliciousness of the eats, it got by me. In fact, I thought this was the best food we've ever been blessed with. And I mean that literally.
