Fruits of the Sea: Feast or Famine

Craig and I stood with my brother around the island in my mother’s kitchen during the holidays eating fresh raw oysters out of a plastic gallon bucket from the local seafood market. A few glass bowls sat scattered across the speckled laminate full of cocktail sauce. No one needed to stretch beyond a casual arm’s length to dip the soft, slippery bivalves into the Tabasco-spiced concoction. Mom, parked in front of the stove a few feet away from us, poured the liquor from another gallon bucket of oysters into her gumbo pot as she labored over her oyster soup. The rich aroma of butter and green onions softened as the oyster water filled the pot and steam rose like a scented halo from its depths.

“This is so wrong,” Craig admonished with a smile after eating four or five oysters in quick succession. “I’ve watched them shuck oysters at Dragos (a favorite New Orleans oyster bar) and it is no easy feat.”

Kyle agreed, spearing another oyster from the bucket and sucking it into his mouth. The oysters, plump with flavor and as fresh as I’ve ever tasted defeated us after some time and we left more than we thought we would floating in the bottom of the container. Satisfied, we still looked forward to the evening when we would taste oysters anew, more firm and meaty from their bath in the creamy soup. I left the kitchen with a glass of water to check on Rem and returned to find more family members huddled around the island. Dad and Andrew joined Kyle and Craig with Lauren and Miren darting in and out. The soup, simmering on its own, enabled Mom to swiftly whip up other house favorites. A bowl of crab dip and a tray of crackers soon replaced the oyster paraphernalia that vanished from the island.

“I know you’ll want to eat some seafood while you’re in town,” Mom remarked later, brushing off the various seafood-filled dishes she’d already served us. “Dad and I will take you to our new neighborhood place tomorrow.” Louisianians know that there is a difference between the seafood that one eats in homes and the seafood consumed at restaurants, even if the dishes look and taste remarkably similar. At the Speckled T, Craig ate his fill of fried catfish and shrimp that should not be confused with the poor boys we grabbed at Bogey’s on a subsequent busy day because, in Louisiana, fried seafood on a plate is different from fried seafood on French bread dressed with lettuce and mayonnaise. When in Rome…

A lovely, cool day spent under a clear blue sky at the zoo with my brother Kraig’s family and Mom and Dad progressed into a New Year’s Eve dinner at a long standing Asian restaurant on the North Shore. Trey Yuen, self described as a beautiful oriental palace, boasts high end stock catalog Chinese decor. The seafood, however, is all local and compliments the Asian preparation and sauces in a most delectable way. Large, Louisiana shrimp enhanced the rich broth of the wonton soup I shared with Rem. Craig and I ordered the Tung Cho plate: a stack of crawfish, shrimp and fish doused in a dark brown, spicy, sweet sauce.

We miss the availability of fresh fish and seafood in our mountain town and try to condense our consumption within the span of our visits back home. Occasionally, a friend of ours brings fresh shrimp from the North Carolina coast after long week-end trips. These offerings are savored and rationed. I make a rich shrimp stock to freeze and then we divide up the tails into potential etouffees, strudels and gumbos that we freeze with hope that they will last until our friend’s next visit.

Our other option for fresh fish or seafood lies in the quick, mountain trout that swim our streams and rivers. Unfortunately, two things work against us in this option. Although Craig enjoys fly fishing, the current pace of our life leaves Craig no time for his hobby. Secondly, when he does fish, Craig prefers the streams that require him to release the fish back into the water. We settle for heavily seasoned farmed salmon and wild tuna from foreign seas and hope, between bites, that Mom and Dad will bring the ice chest of boiled crawfish that usually accompanies them on spring visits or the pounds of Louisiana crabmeat and crawfish tails that Mom will stack in our freezer to satiate our palates until our next seafood binge in Louisiana.

A Walk in the Marsh

On our recent holiday trip to Louisiana my parents took Craig and me and the children to a wildlife refuge near their home. Mom, Miren and Lise tried to hike the same trail last summer but gave up after braving a relentless sun, humidity that, with sweat, left them drenched and a multitude of bugs. They had, in their short stroll, encountered an abundance of marsh life and we began our December afternoon walk with hopefulness. Miren and Lise did not recognize the marsh as the same one they had visited. The grasses that once sought to overtake the boardwalk turned with a winter’s crispness tiredly away from the raised wooden trail. The marsh itself seemed to stretch in the brisk dry air and everything rested motionless except for the wind that chilled us as we stood exposed with the few tall pines that daringly crept into the wet grasses.

The water shone slick like glass without a single ripple to signal life beyond the surface. We spotted a gathering of waterfowl among broken branches of moss laden trees near deeper water. Dad, a seasoned bird watcher, pulled his binoculars from his jacket pocket and helped the girls get a closer look. The birds seemed to enjoy the day’s tranquility as they quietly joined us in surveying the wide expanse of marshes along the edges of Lake Ponchartrain. We spied a Great Blue Heron in the distance and then another one close up. Both stood tall, confident and sleek with the pomposity of an easy, well-rewarded existence in the abundant wildlife refuge.
Filled with comparisons to his own back yard, Dad’s observances enlightened us to the multitude of wildlife that enjoy the seeds he puts out as well as the fruit from the trees in the modest acreage of his own refuge. Mom suggested that he conduct tours there and Lise and Miren agreed with serious discussion of including their own sightings of turtles and rabbits along with snakes and birds into Dad’s backyard tour.

Rem, although only days from spending hours playing in deep Asheville snow, did not like the Louisiana cold and hurried us along the trail toward warmer, protected places. The promise of fresh seafood for dinner prompted the rest of us to quicken our pace and head back to the car.

A Beautiful Sight, We're Happy Tonight...

The back deck

Rem readies for warfare

Walking as the snow falls

The park by the pool

Santa lives here. Well, sometimes. With a nod to the season, Rem now includes Santa and the Grinch among the various personalities that he espouses in a given day. Rem will wake from a dead sleep, sit up in bed (usually between Craig and me) and belt out a resounding “Ho Ho Ho”. This typically wakes us from our dead sleep and we half-heartedly bid Santa a good morning.

“I smell something,” the Rem-Santa grins. I sniff, hoping to ease into the day without having to start with major diaper duty. “It’s cookies! Santa eats cookies,” Santa says with hope. And adds another “ho ho ho” for good measure. Relieved, I get out of bed and suggest that we get the girls up for school without acknowledging the request for early morning treats.

“The elves,” Santa corrects, leading the way down the stairs, his blond hair sticking up in places.

“Wake up sleepy head elves,” Santa shouts from between the twin beds before rushing into his own room to find the snow boots and jean jacket that will announce to everyone his identity.

“Feel my fluff,” Santa encourages at the breakfast table. Unwilling elves wave their hands near Santa’s face.

“Nice beard,” one of them musters. Rem nods proudly.

Later, I wander into the living room to find Rem throwing toys under the tree. “What are you doing?” I ask in a raised voice.

“You better watch out," Rem replies rushing out of the room and back in with a basket full of Duplo blocks.

“Don’t!” I warn but to no avail. The myriad of colorful plastic rains on top of the trucks and cardboard houses, the stethoscope and hammer. “Start picking this up right now, young man.”

“Ho ho ho,” Rem answers nonchalantly. “I’m Santa.” He skirts around me and returns with a stack of books. He tosses them onto the pile. Most of them hit ornaments and they spin and wave disorderedly. Rem laughs. He looks up at me.

“I’m Santa,” he says again. “And Santa puts toys under the tree.”

“Not like this,” I begin. “This is a mess. Rem, Santa, whoever you are this has to get cleaned up.”
“Ask the elves,” Santa suggests. “I don’t pick up toys.”

Rem doesn’t like the idea of Santa using the chimney. He wants Santa knocking on the door. He’d like the reindeer to land on the porch, not on the roof. And the jolly fat man must come in through the door. We are often encouraged to reinforce the use of the door.

“As I drew in my head and was turning around,” I read, “Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Rem interrupts. “He came in the door. Read it right next time.”

When he sings Santa Claus is Coming to Town, (and he can sing the entire song), he sings “Santa Claus is coming in the door”. Just in case we didn’t get it.

We visited the Grove Park Inn last week to enviously admire the gingerbread masterpieces and wonder how we can fail so miserably with our graham cracker houses. Rem wasn’t impressed with the candy that no one could eat and preferred running down the wide hallways at the hotel until he spied the sleigh at the far end of the festive lobby. He could hardly contain himself as he sprinted to the sleigh, climbed aboard and grasped the reigns.

I rushed into action and sent the girls onto the sleigh for a Christmas picture. I snapped a few but Rem, busy guiding the reindeer and “ho ho ho-ing” at every passerby prevented any really nice shots. He insisted we call him Santa as we encouraged him to look my way, Miren and Lise doing their best to draw his attention away from the reindeer. People started gathering, waiting patiently for their own photo ops but Santa dug in his heels.

“Let’s go look at some more gingerbread houses,” Miren suggested, taking Rem’s arm to guide him.

“No.” He shook her off.

Lise stepped in. “Do you see all of the people waiting for their turn? They want to get on the sleigh, too.”

“This is my sleigh,” he retorted condescendingly. “They can’t get on my sleigh.”
I had to pull Santa off, kicking and screaming.

He enjoys having us sit on his lap and tell him what we want for Christmas. He reminds us that he’ll have to check his list but otherwise he is a kind Santa and pats our shoulders encouragingly. But when we broach the subject of going to see Santa he merely shrugs and answers, “Ha ha ha – I am Santa, silly.”

The Grinch is easy. All of the work goes into coaxing a sister or parent into playing the part of Cindy Lou Who or Max. Once accomplished, Rem leads his unwilling fellow thespian through various scenes from the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Rem’s finger drumming is unmatched and his study of Dr. Seuss’s illustrations render a convincing villain even if his costars’ cooing like a dove resonates with aggravated pre-teen impatience as the little Who, who is not more than two finds the merry-go-round staging frustrating after playing a scene for the fifth consecutive time. The season arrives, doesn’t it? Whatever is playing out in life, it comes. And thank God for that.

Acquiring the Tree

I’ve grown to love the indigenous Frasier firs that find their way into our home every December and dot the landscape of Western North Carolina throughout the rest of the year. Small family farms along rural roads boast rows of carefully tended trees in modest patches on steep slopes while large farms, their uniformly bold greens in various stages of growth, sweep up and over the hilly landscape. The children point out the sprinkling of “Christmas” trees on hikes in high elevations that bear the scars of hard winds and frigid temperatures pausing to imagine them adorned with lights.

We usually drive deep into Madison County on the weekend after Thanksgiving to a small, picturesque farm nestled beside a rushing stream at the bottom of the steep slope of a mountain. Amazed each time that we successfully retraced our annual tracks (always after a missed turn or two) we find the place as magical as it loomed in our memory throughout the year. Rob and Mary, donning heavy jackets and work gloves, emerge from the tiny log cabin and warmly greet us by name. The exuberant dogs that followed them from the house circle the cars ready to play. The caravan unloads: my parents are often with us and my brothers and their families sometimes follow behind. My brother, Kyle, and his family eagerly drive the four hours from Atlanta to drive two more hours to this farm – the place is that special. The children disappear into the familiar landscape, some to the rushing creek or to the small, wooden bridge that sits above it. Lise searches for a stick and begins playing with the dogs. Peanut, her favorite, receives more affection than the others when the retrieved sticks fall at her feet.

After catching up on the year and SEC football, the adults begin the gentle climb to the scattered trees along the slopes. Rob and Mary share an interest in fly fishing with Craig and we usually pause on the bridge to scout for trout and listen to detailed accounts of recent trips that often trigger memories of Craig’s similar experiences. One year Dad discovered that Rob lived in the same small town in Alabama that my parents lived when first married. We continually interrupted their tales of Enterprise -past to ask for the tall pvc pipe used to measure the trees or for assistance in felling the tree. Mary once pulled out her wreath making equipment and patiently guided the interested children and my sister-in-law, Julie, through the process. She showed the children where, on the property, they could find the holly and cedar that she weaves into the fir boughs for the wreaths.

Rob remembers that Craig and I like our Christmas trees tall and skinny and guides us to the more unkempt trees that are our favorites. The children eventually follow and the little ones get lost in the lower needled branches or in the dormant bramble of berry bushes often surprising and being surprised by rabbits. We leave birds’ nests, cheerfully discovered, in the tree and decorate around them, saving them on the mantle after Christmas as a reminder of our happy jaunt weeks after the tree is picked up by the recyclers.

This storybook place never disappoints. Once, we ignored our better judgment and risked icy roads to get to the farm during a heavy snowfall. Rob, waiting for us, helped the girls out of the car and onto a real sled with rudders (not the plastic kind that we use) and pulled them up slopes in pristine, untouched snow and ran alongside them with the dogs as they rushed down, the girls wide-eyed and laughing tiny puffs of smoke. Mary’s snow boots created a path toward the Christmas trees that Craig and I followed, awed by the depth of the mountains revealed by the snow’s presence as the bare trees on the distant rise created a 3 D affect with the contrasting white background. We lingered in the winter wonderland fantasy until, as the temperature began to drop, we remembered the roads and tied the naturally flocked tree onto the car and packed red-cheeked girls into the back seat. They waved long after the farm disappeared behind us.

The years revealed the future disappointment that would eventually befall on us. We began choosing trees that in previous years were overlooked. Rob cut for us the tops of trees too tall for anyone to want as the patch of trees that he and Mary carefully tended for years evolved into rows of stumps. We took hopeful glances at the opposite slope where the new saplings grew and asked again about the maturation rate of Frasier firs. Rob explained to Craig on the phone this year that they had nothing left of the old stand of trees and the new ones still needed to grow for a couple of years. Craig’s revelation left us feeling gloomy but not surprised.
None of my family even flirted with the idea of finding a new farm. We knew that other places would be anticlimactic and forever press a scarlet B (for betrayers) onto our breasts. Even my visiting brother’s family, after requesting a trip to the farm and receiving the devastating news, suggested a gas station parking lot as an appropriate alternative. We settled on the farmer’s market. The choice allowed us to patronize another local farm without the possibility of enjoying ourselves or not in its mountain setting.

And although our experience with the Yancey county farmer and his son proved easy and lovely, in typical Chenevert fashion, the bar sits high on its pedestal. It wasn’t until the tree stood in its corner of the living room, bright with lights and offering from its aromatic limbs the many ornaments we handcrafted over the years, did we fill with Christmas spirit and satisfaction. By the time Rem finished hanging and re-hanging ornaments and Miren and Lise carefully placed their favorites on the tree, Craig, as always, declared with conviction the tree our best tree ever. And with full hearts we all agreed.

Let the Holidays Begin: Part I

The holiday season approaches in all of its enchanting glory and disenchanting realities. The pre-holiday grocery trip can be either or both but is required for any holiday preparation. Even early in the week before Thanksgiving, Ingles bustles with activity and crowds. Christmas candies, stacks of boxed fruitcakes and jars of marshmallow cream greet shoppers along with painful renditions of Christmas carols. The buggy, with Rem driving the attached car and repeatedly suggesting that I buy bananas, fills quickly before I even leave the produce section.

We wind our way up and down aisles and I stop in the middle of aisle five to help an older gentleman in a black, buttoned wool coat who reminds me of my father locate the spice section. We follow the alphabetically ordered spices to the ground cloves when a phone rings in his coat pocket. He hesitates because his hands are currently filled with the cloves, a handwritten list on lined notebook paper, and the small hand-held basket with a lemon, bag of celery, and a box of brown sugar. I take the basket from him so that he can answer the phone. “She always forgets to put something on the list,” he smiles in appreciation and takes the phone from his pocket. “You are lucky I’m not in the check-out line,” he gently chides into the phone. “What have you forgot?”

Rem and I leave the gentleman and make our way down the aisle. I study the basket to see what items Rem tossed among our Thanksgiving necessities. I only notice two boxes of unwanted baking soda. Last week I purchased frozen baked potato halves with bacon and cheese. I didn’t find them until I unloaded the groceries at home. No takers for the potatoes, although I have offered and even tried to pack them in Craig’s lunch, so they sit in my freezer. Rem’s purchased large bags of shredded cheese and cartons of yogurt. He swipes these items from the bottom shelves of the dairy section - items that sit at eye level to the car that he insists on riding in for all grocery trips. I never see how they actually get into the basket but Rem often takes short breaks and cackles as he runs around the cart and then jumps into the car again.

Some shoppers angrily make their way down the aisles, older women wearing deep set frowns, filling buggies with items needed for a Thanksgiving feast, disgruntled by the crowds and the traffic jam at the canned cranberry sauce. Others seem oblivious to the upcoming holiday and purchase the usual assortment of meats and vegetables or beer and Eggos.

I especially enjoy the shoppers who arrive in clusters of multi-generational groups or committed couples infused with holiday spirit eager to help each other. Visiting mothers seem befuddled by the grocery store’s layout, shopping with daughters and grandchildren who happily meander back and forth through the store with the promise of delectable homemade pies. Kids keep moms from forgetting key ingredients like mini marshmallows while young moms ponder quantities necessary to feed twelve or more people. Couples divvy up dishes on the spot and go in separate directions to gather needed ingredients. Men push baskets purposefully and lift heavy, bagged turkeys for wives anxious to return home to welcome college kids or far flung family members.

I eaves drop on one group that keeps appearing in the same aisle as I do as we make our way through the store. One of the women, already sporting a Christmas sweater (amply filling the tree that grows from her waist to just below her chin, the real bells that adorn the tree tinkling when she walks) pushes her elderly mother in a wheel chair. The other daughter walks just ahead of them pushing the grocery basket. “Now, Mom, what do we need for your stuffing?” she asks. The older woman’s hands shake as she counts off sausage, walnuts and cornmeal. All three seem to be enjoying this stage of their holiday together. The daughters retrieve the items and they move to the next dish. The mother laughs about Aunt Joyce’s gravy and the tinkling daughter remembers another of Aunt Joyce’s mishaps. I finish before they do and find long lines at the three open registers, providing ice-breakers to those of us waiting next to each other as we all wonder aloud why the front of the store is lined with thirteen registers. (if not to use for the holidays, then when?)

I enjoy cooking for Thanksgiving and have every year that we have been in Asheville. Most years bring family members our way and for many years our elderly neighbors joined us. This year our English friends will share our table. Generally, I prepare the same meal whether we have friends and family or just us sitting around the table. Fresh, tasty oysters for stuffing, are difficult to come by unless some form of my family from Louisiana joins us but we can get by with a Carolina shrimp stuffing in a pinch. My dinners resonate with traditional dishes from my family. Sometimes I stuff mirlitons. I always bake pecan pie. This also means that my recipes serve no less than fifteen (and sometimes more). Craig marvels at the huge quantities needed for so few people. No worries. I expect my extravagant efforts at Thanksgiving to last at least a week. When we have a particularly large gathering I am stunned that by Saturday we have run out of leftovers. I want to hoard the delicious dishes and just keep reheating turkey and opening cans of cranberry sauce. No luck. My brother asks for a second piece of pie (the one I marked for Sunday night after the kids went to bed). The mirlitons really do taste like Grandmama’s and vanish quickly. Even Lise’s sweet potato balls (now tradition, I am told) disappear like candy. Perhaps because with hidden mini marshmallows in the centers of them, they taste like candy.

Now that the shopping’s done, I can roll up my sleeves, open a bottle of wine, gather my little sous chefs and get to work.

A Dog Day Morning

Rem tends to take the spotlight away from all of the other players in his life and today proved no exception. Tam fell into Rem’s imagination abyss and found herself playing second fiddle not only to Rem but to Rem’s stuffed dog, Rocky, too. Rocky acquired his name and Rem’s interest only this morning and reinforced Rem’s reign over the Chenevert household when Rocky sported a brown leather leash that, only moments before, were holding up Craig’s pants as he readied himself for work.

Tam, on the other hand, wore a worn purple leash that had spent the night on the porch soaking up the dampness from the rain. Although dangerously close to arriving late for her veterinarian appointment, Tam waited patiently at the back door while Rem decided that one of Lise’s old belts would suit Rocky better than Craig’s and carefully made the switch.

The four of us, Rocky and Rem, Tam and I, made our way to the vet’s office. The receptionist greeted us and it seemed that she knelt down to put Tam at ease but it soon became clear that Rocky needed more attention as he suddenly fell into her lap. Tam quivered through her examination and could not get off the table soon enough. She jumped the four feet to the floor as soon as the doctor stepped away. Not so with Rocky. He nearly flung himself onto the table and with Rem’s encouraging “good boy” and “good dog, Rocky”, sat through a thorough examination and rabies shot without a flinch. While Rem and Rocky accepted the praises of the doctor and all who came pouring in to watch the spectacle, Tam nervously shed about half of her fur onto me.

Imagine Tam’s humiliation as she whimpered through the usual trauma of having her nails clipped only to be interrupted at Rem’s insistence that Rocky (who at all outward appearances has no nails at all) take a turn. Not only did the two women fawn over the stuffed mutt as they pretended to clip his nails but they also rewarded him with real dog treats. Rem seemed thrilled.

Completely spent from her annual physical, Tam hovered at the door while Rocky swung this way and that in the lobby where Rem, at the other end of the leash introduced him to everyone. Apparently, Rocky is two and he likes to play in the park. The brown fuzzy dog, unrecognizable as any breed much less one as dignified as a Brittany, and his equally impudent owner sucked every ounce of attention, compassion and admiration from that office, leaving Tam with nothing. But, as always, Tam maintained her composure and, head held high, we returned home. She immediately rushed toward her crate. Perhaps she wished to sulk unnoticed. But who should come soaring over her head to land in the crate first? Rocky, of course. And Rem left the two of them to work it out together as he ran away, laughing.

Half a Lifetime Ago

The campus resonates with activity, oddly alive for a Saturday, especially now that the football season is over. Students’ thoughts focus on upcoming exams and final papers. Study groups meet on the benches in the quad and in the grass of the parade grounds to enjoy the last warm, dry days of November. Sweaters and sweatshirts wait in heaps on the ground or on laps, the only hints of the cooler mornings and evenings of late fall.

A young sophomore spends an afternoon under bright fluorescent lights on the floor of the university bookstore, confidently skimming the pages of fine print and diagrams from a psychology textbook she was unable to afford at the beginning of the semester and quickly jots notes into a worn, spiral bound notebook. She’d rather be at the typewriter working on her Heart is a Lonely Hunter paper or her paper on religious images in 19th century poetry. And she really should finish her last short story of her creative writing class but these she saves until the end, fine morsels of pleasure to punctuate the semester and savor until the next semester begins.

Architecture students, in their final year of studio, work and play on the first floor of Atkinson Hall at the opposite end of the quad from the library. An odd assortment of music wafts from the open casement windows that includes the Cranberries and Billy Joel and the students take turns singing along and tossing a ball over drafting tables as the others bend over drawings of buildings that will never be built. Colored renderings are stacked with elevations and section drawings ready to be presented to a skeptical panel of professors during the week of final exams. All energy and ease, one of the students takes leave of his friends and finds his way down the hall to the door. He walks quickly through the sculpture garden, beyond the dairy store and the classroom building to the stadium parking lot and his car.

The young woman smelled the strong sweet smell of her Milton professor’s pipe before seeing him standing in the shadows of the arched entrance of Allen Hall. He greets her through clenched teeth and then takes the pipe from his mouth to encourage her to finish reading the Milton prose because they will end discussions of Paradise Lost on Monday. She leans toward him to filter his quiet voice from the ambient noise around them and notices that she towers over him, this iconic image of professors of old, and wonders if the rumors that this is his last semester are true. They part ways and her thoughts return to the upcoming date that evening.

He arrives to her quiet apartment (her roommates both in New Orleans for the weekend) in a festive green and red plaid button down shirt and a pair of khakis. All chivalry and charm he puts her at ease before they are seated at a small table in DiGiulio Brothers, a cozy Italian restaurant down Perkins Road under an interstate overpass. He leads her to the table with his hand pressed against the small of her back and she feels his electricity through the black sweater and lace camisole long after his hand is released.

All smiles, they feed tidbits of themselves to each other over manicotti and wine. Guarded fantasies of a future beyond university life follow brief histories of their own young lives. One describes childhood haunts, places where this or that happened while the other embellishes childhood escapades. Overwhelming tales about growing up with five siblings intermingle with stories about life with one brother. A celebrated architect and acclaimed writer seem more like possibilities than whimsy. The escalated pleas of the woman behind them begging the man she is with to leave his wife result in the only lull in the young couple’s conversation. They linger at the table even when the food and the entertaining couple are gone. And linger on into a lifetime.

This November celebrates my life in halves. Half of a lifetime ago the two of us sat together for the first time in that crowded cafe. And now Craig has been a part of my life for as many years that I so quickly summed up on that first date.