Susan and I were thrilled when David Gallent agreed to join Kitchen & Culture. We felt that we had really scored. David is an amazing award-winning photographer with food styling skills to boot. We knew David's very unique perspective was exactly what we needed to flush out the vision we share for Louisiana Kitchen.  Everyone adores David.  He's really laid back, smart, and funny. It was hard to imagine him ever really getting riled up.

We were right. We were wrong.

We were right about the photographer and stylist angle: The magazine is going to be visually stunning, thanks to David and Scott Ott, our highly skilled and talented award-winning Creative Director. We were wrong in thinking we were just getting a staff Photographer/Stylist.  He is SO much more. Here's an excerpt from a conversation we had just this morning:

Yesterday was my honey's birthday and the celebration continues tonight with a gathering of the Usual Suspects at our casa. I worked my keister off until 11 last night dragging dirt around as I overhauled our back yard, rocking out  to Led Zeppelin, replanting what winter killed off,  and working arduously to evict Sanford and his Son from the premises. Neither Sanford nor his Son seemed to want to leave and I kept running into them in various places throughout the yard after I thought they had already left, necessitating repeated evictions anew. I am pretty sure it was The Dogs who invited Sanford and Son to roost back there in the first place.

The following is courtesy of the Louisiana Bicentennial Commission (click to visit)

Louisiana Statehood History

On April 30, 1812, the United States admitted Louisiana as the 18th state into the Union. Louisiana was the first state to have a majority Catholic French- and Spanish-speaking population, reflecting its origins as a colonyunder France from 1699-1763 and Spain from 1763-1803. Following the Louisiana Purchase in 1803, Louisiana's road to statehood was not all smooth. Federal law required citizens of a newly admitted territory to apply to congress for statehood, and the admission of the Orleans Territory as the 18th state followed years of lobbying efforts by prominent citizens—both American and Creole (French-speaking Catholics). Men such as French-born congressman Julien Poydras and American attorney Edward Livingston sought the greater political rights that statehood bestowed and convinced Territorial Governor William C.C. Claiborne that the Orleans Territory qualified for statehood. Finally in 1811, Democratic President James Madison signed the bill allowing the people of Louisiana to form a state constitution. Following the state constitutional convention in New Orleans where 43 American and Creole leaders convened, on April 14, 1812, President Madison signed the bill approving statehood. The bill designated April 30, 1812, as the day of formal admission.

Why fake it? Why bother?  They usually figure it out, anyway: Fat free half-and-half, pseudo "butter," tofu or seitan crumbles, soy pasta. And on and on - and other things, too.

But.

Mardi Gras was just that: One big, fat ass Tuesday that lasted a week. I snarfed  down enough varieties of king cake to call it a contest, drowned myself in all manner of gumbos, conducted a study of assorted jambalayas, ate enough fried chicken to start clucking, and drank enough wine to earn the name Bacchus (or whoever his female counterpart is/was). By Mardi Gras Day I was so sick of it all and so grossed out I spent the day happily working. I also turned to the one fake-out I heartily embrace when my jeans fit too tight or I simply feel poisoned: Fake (or faux) Pho.

I have done my share of traveling and plan to do much more, but the thought of living anywhere but here is anathema to me. When I was exiled after Katrina, a friend suggested that none of us knew where we would be living in two years I knew exactly where I would be: In my purple cottage in Uptown New Orleans surrounded by like-minded, relatively impractical people who are food and music obsessed and who, for the most part, drink too much, talk too loud, and always seem to have extra to share.

We (Jyl & Susan) are currently in Shreveport for the Louisiana Travel Promotion Association's (LTPA) annual Summit meeting. Yesterday Susan and I were invited to lunch at The Shreveport Club, a private space established by members of the Shreveport business community in 1945. Elegant and gracious, the club features beautifully  appointed dining rooms and expertly executed regional cuisine.

I first met Poppy Tooker over 22 years ago. It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve and she descended upon the French Quarter home of Robin Mcalear—a friend who became my mother in law, then became my former mother in law, then became my friend again—bearing bottles and jars of homemade holiday cheer. As though Poppy's alabaster skin, scarlet lips, and raven hair (which was twisted into a glamorous chignon) were not enough to stop traffic, Poppy had donned a crimson velvet holiday gown with a full sweeping skirt and a fitted, subtly revealing bodice. This was back in the early 90s when femininity was out and most women dressed like men. I've no doubt that Santa appeared at Poppy's Uptown home later that evening and presented her with whatever the Hell she wanted. She was a force.

In Poppy I quickly discovered a kindred spirit with passions for cooking, writing, and Louisiana heritage. I was about to graduate from college while working as a Times-Picayune newsroom grunt and trying to figure out what to do with my life. Meanwhile, Poppy seemed to be living The Dream. She just seemed to follow her passions and effortlessly morph them into the life she wanted to live - while getting paid to do it. Her personal motto is "Eat It To Save It!," and she has been instrumental in reviving endangered local foods such as Creole cream cheese and rice calas.

It  never made any sense to me that conference and convention attendees to New Orleans' Ernest N. Morial Convention Center  - all of these captive potential ambassadors for the country's most distinctive food culture  - were being fed junk like flabby turkey sandwiches on gummy white bread, generic pasta Alfredo, baked chicken and rice pilaf, pre-processed hamburgers, pasta and meat sauce. Ugh. What the Hell? These poor people were ushered into the very representative center of the most exciting, hospitable, food-obsessed place most of them will ever visit and we were feeding them the kind of crap they could pull off of a nursing home cafeteria line anywhere from Seattle to Pensacola.

To say  that Susan and I recently went to a "tasting" for a "new menu" at the convention center with low expectations would be a dramatic understatement. The phrases "pack a picnic" and "stomach pump" may have been used as we parked the car.

When I saw Donald Link lingering around the food court I figured he was grabbing a cup of bad coffee on his way to address some group of conventioneers. When he told me he had created the new menu for the convention center I figured his contribution would be limited to something like a designer hot dog with a wicked price tag. You know, one of those deals where a celebrity puts their name on something but doesn't really do anything.

Sorry for assuming this, Donald. I was so wrong.