Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler!

 

About a month ago I had the great fortune to ‘go get my NOLA on’ (as one co-worker put it!) NOLA of course stands for New Orleans, Louisianna. It’s a place that has always had a magical quality for me. I don’t know whether it’s the French-Cajun influence, the music or the history but I have always wanted to see the place for myself.

I should firstly clarify something. The way you pronounce New Orleans says a lot about where you are from. If you are a local/Southerner you say New Orleans, rather than New Orleans (as most foreigners do). If you are really local then the gap between ‘New’ and ‘Orleans’ practically disappears resulting in the lovely ‘roll around your mouth a bit’ sounding N’Orleans.

I was so lucky to get free accommodation in NOLA, courtesy of a friend of a friend, in the beautiful Garden District. Having been in Jackson for a few months I have started to miss the buzz that London, and even Cambridge, offers. The Garden District soothed that nostalgia. Magazine Street (yes Corkonians, I immediately thought of our own Magazine Road too!) is just one long road of boutiques, antique stores (salivating, I was!), bars, restaurants and yoga studios. Add in some sunshine and a few cocktails and I was right at home.

I should also mention Southern girls have impeccable taste. The little flat we were staying in was part of an old house, and the furniture was all antique. There was not a scrap of Ikea to be found! The reason, this very sensible girl did not fill her home with whatever crap she could scrounge or buy cheaply from Tesco. Rather she waited, seeking out individual pieces of lovely furniture, putting up with an airbed for 6-months and bit-by-bit making her little flat a beautiful home. Now that is something I need to learn to do. I think it’s called patience, I have never had any!

The French Quarter is obviously the big tourist draw in New Orleans and I really loved it, all except one street actually, and that street is Bourbon Street, perhaps the most famous street in the French Quarter. Why did I not like it, you ask? 24-hour drunken revelry with all its accompanying sights and sounds was my issue with Bourbon Street. It was tacky, touristy, dirty and smelly. It was not the NOLA I had imagined, it was essentially a lot of drunk rowdy people falling about the place!

See now I feel bad, I am sure a lot of fun can be had on Bourbon Street, we did in fact go back that night and people-watched while strolling through the heaving mass of humanity, but overall it’s just not my thing.

I loved the other streets, the little bars and cafes, sipping on a Bloody Mary while listening to jazz violin, sitting out on an upstairs veranda while trying fried alligator for the first time (a bit like chewy chicken!), having coffee and beignets on the banks of the Mississippi, wandering Jackson Square and looking (and purchasing!) little pieces of art. That is my New Orleans and I can’t wait to go back!

Despite my above diatribe on Bourbon Street, New Orleans really was a beautiful place. In a way it was just what one imagines it to be: a bit French, big bands, balconies, street art and a very real sense of laissez les bon temps rouler. 

To be honest, my descriptions won’t really do it justice, you will just have to get on a plane and find out for yourselves!

If it wasn’t bad enough that I skipped out on Friday work, I then took the following Wednesday and Thursday off to go up North and visit Oxford and Clarksdale.

It is interesting that despite the poverty and predominantly farm-based economy in northern Mississippi, it is a very culturally significant region. Oxford is the seat of Ole Miss, one of the most prestigious universities in Mississippi and it is the birthplace of writers such as William Faulkner, John Grisham and Tennessee Williams. From the flat, sparse and aesthetically lackluster surroundings these writers found inspiration for wonderful stories and some great pieces of literature. Oxford itself is named for its more famous counterpart and it appears that even in its founding, the original settlers held hopes that it might become a prominent source of learning and intellectual debate. And so from this remote and parched landscape sprung a little town full of literary heritage and intellectual aspiration.

I should mention that university rivalries are taken very seriously here. I have heard people say, in all seriousness: ‘Well he is a Mississippi Stater so what do you expect’. Where you go to school apparently says a lot about your personality and inherent characteristics. I wonder what people say about UCC-ers?!

Oxford is a pretty little town with an old fashioned square, some very expensive boutiques and a wonderful bookstore called Square Books. It is famous throughout the state and has an entire section dedicated to Faulkner. I love a good bookstore, I feel you can get lost in them. All those different tales just waiting to be read, all those book covers hinting at intrigue and love and adventure, well it just captivates me completely. I somehow managed not to buy a single book, but did indulge in coffee and a cookie, surrounded by floor to ceiling bookshelves! 

The Faulkner theme continued on a visit to his family home. Rowan Oak sits out by the Ole Miss campus and is sheltered from prying eyes by tall pine and cedar trees. It was very peaceful, with mature trees and wide lawns, the sun dappling through the leaves. It was so easy to imagine summer evenings sitting out with iced tea or a cocktail, ladies in light dresses, men in summer linen with the sound of Glenn Miller or some jazz echoing from the house.  Perfection!

An hour and a half down the road from Oxford is a town called Clarksdale. Culturally speaking it is considered to be the birthplace of the blues. Clarksdale has seen some difficult times in the past few years. Morgan Freeman had a restaurant that couldn’t make it financially and he played God. If he can’t do it, who can?! His blues club is still open though and that was the highlight of our visit. Ground Zero Blues Club is on the corner of Blues Alley and offers nightly blues in its uniquely decorated venue. 

The club was exactly what I expected – a little grungy, very dark with a slightly decrepit feel. 

For me, it was a little like the Brog (a Cork pub) meets the Hard Rock café: walls and tables covered in writing, guitars hanging everywhere, a hodge-podge of furniture, posters, pool tables and some portraits of Mr Freeman to boot. It definitely had an ambience!

Overall it became clear that northern Mississippi had a lot more to offer than its barren landscape and visible poverty would at first glance suggest. Beneath the rugged exterior lies music and literary heritage that the State can be proud of.

Would you like 'fried' with that?

The South is famous for its food, especially (or perhaps only!) for its fried food. They do like to fry. And they do it the old fashioned way, as I mentioned in an earlier posting, no fancy deep fat fryers for them, just a big pot and a lot of oil!

There are a few things you have to try when you come to the South and I thought it might be nice to take you on a culinary journey of Mississippi’s go-to dishes.

Catfish, grits, red beans and rice, gumbo and po’ boys. Those are some of the quintessential meals here in MS, or at least the ones I’ve had so far!

Catfish is a staple of Mississippi. You can get it anywhere and it is always fried, always. Oddly, or at least it seems that way to me, the catfish capital is not down south by the coast but rather up north in a little town called Belzoni. It is farmed there and shipped everywhere. I had the good fortune to be passing through Belzoni on my way back from Parchman and was taken for lunch at a local restaurant, I now know to be called the Varisty.

I should tell you something about small town local restaurants. In a way they are more like retirement-community cafeterias than restaurants. And anyway, restaurant is the wrong term to use. However diner and cafe are also wrong so I guess I'll stick with restaurant! There is usually a lino floor and very basic tables and decoration. In some places it feels more like you are in a very large shed than somewhere that prepares food! All the old(er) men of the community sit at a big table and discuss, I assume, the matters close to their hearts- god, guns and the state of the confederacy! When you walk in, as a non-local, everybody turns to look at you but that does not mean they are not welcoming. Nope, it’s proper southern hospitality all the way.

                                                    Pic of the Varisty (taken from google street view)

At the Varsity I ordered a plate of fried catfish. It came with sides of hush puppies, onion rings, fries and coleslaw. Hush puppies are a bit like croquettes made of corn bread (as far as I could tell). The onion rings were the best I have ever had, and I don’t normally even like onions. The catfish was a bit too greasy and lacked somewhat in spice and seasoning (I’ve had better, I can say this!). What was most noticeable about this meal was the amount of food. It was immense. Take a look:

                                                                You can't even see the fish!

What you might or might not be able to see from this pic, apart from the fish, is the divided plastic plate. This is a basic requirement of any small town day-time restaurant. It is a bit like those healthy plates that show how much should be dedicated to veg, protein and carbs, only in MS,  the divisions are for fried food, fries, and other side (in order of largest to smallest portion respectively!). Of course here, there was the added onion rings and hush puppies piled on top so I’m not sure what function the dividers fulfilled! Man, I was so full after this meal, I barely made it through a third of it and afterwards I had to drive the remaining 2-hours back to Jackson.

My better sampling of catfish came in the form of a po’ boy. Originally from Louisianna, this sandwich consists of fried fish (meat varieties are available) served in a baguette with dressings. It is all about the bread here, and my bread was very tasty. It has to be super fresh, crisp and fluffy. I had my first po’ boy in a little town called Canton which is where A Time to Kill was filmed (but more on that later!). To get your tastebuds watering here is a pic of my lovely lunch:

In the pub one night I innocently asked what grits were. I’m still not sure of the answer but I have since had home cooked cheesy grits and a restaurant offering of shrimp n’ grits. Having tried them twice, I have to say I don’t understand the attraction. It seems to be something along the lines of savoury porridge but less defined in texture, think Ready Brek. Perhaps it’s something you have to grow up with, all I can say is I don’t grit it! (haha, the pun, haha, sorry!)

                    (doesn't it just look like shrimp sitting on a bed of porridge, just weird!) (again taken from google)

Before I bore you to death, or make you really hungry, with my culinary escapades, I will tell you about a creole dish called red beans and rice. I will just say yummy, and go google and make at home (oh and serve with lots of garlic bread!). I’ve had it twice now and I definitely plan to try my own version when I get home. Red beans and rice is a simple slow-cooked main meal made up of the good things in life – kidney beans and sausage (andouille where possible). It is served over a bed of fluffy white rice, with lots of bread and it is definitely a comfort food. It’s like a hug for your tummy. I was too busy eating, so here is a pic I borrowed from Wikipedia!

 

So ladies and gentlemen, I will leave it there (mostly because I am now very hungry!). I hope you enjoyed this tale of culinary exploration and that it perhaps inspires you to try out a few new dishes at home.

Unit 32

Death Row: two words that can send shivers down the spine. We have all seen movies like The Green Mile or Dead Man Walking and the sense that accompanies Death Row is that of deprivation, inhumanity and loss.

When u agree to do an internship with Amicus (sometimes known as a death row internship), you know there is a real possibility that you will visit inmates on death row, it’s just part of the job.

I had my first visit to death row, aka Unit 32 at MS State Penitentiary, a few weeks ago. The State Penitentiary is located in Parchman. It’s about a 3 hour drive north from Jackson which means an early start.  The drive to Parchman is essentially a straight line and I was happy to be driving as it is not the most exciting scenery. Mississippi is a very rural state which means that much of the landscape is flat farmland. In winter this results in a lot of brown – scrubland, dead grass, and barren trees. What saved the drive for me was the bright sunshine and blue sky. 

I think part of me had been expecting Parchman to be an impenetrable fortress, a bastion of death, an evil blockhouse thrust from the depths of hell itself (just to be dramatic!). However, quite the reverse turned out to be true. No guardhouses, or high impenetrable walls, just a big gate staffed by guards. Inside the gate was a sign for ‘children playing’ and a series of white clapboard houses, that presumably are homes to prison guards’ families. Not quite what I was expecting! The facility itself seemed to comprise of a number of ‘units’ and ancillary buildings spread out over what I can only imagine to have been many hectares. We drove past various units, down a number of roads of flat scrubland until we arrived at Unit 32.

Another security check, akin to airport security, and we were directed, through some outdoor caged corridors to the visitation area. As a visitor, you don’t really get far into the unit. On your way in though you can see the exercise cages. Cage is an apt term to use, as even in exercise they are kept like animals. The cages are no bigger than cells and leave no room for any form of exercise. What they offer, I suppose, is fresh air and the opportunity to look up at the sky.

As part of my LLM I visited a number of prisons, Mountjoy being one of them. For those of you unfamiliar with ‘The Joy’, Mountjoy is a relic from the Victorian age. Based on the design of London’s Pentonville prison, not much has changed at Mountjoy in the intervening years and inmates are still subject to ‘slopping out’ and overcrowding.  I found Mountjoy to be dark, dank, miserable and generally scary - exactly what one imagines prisons to have been like in the Victorian age (just not in the noughties).

 Parchman, in comparison, seemed practically hospitable. As I said, it was a bright sunny day, and perhaps it affected my impression of the place, but the most striking thought I had was that it was like an old hospital. White walls and linoleum floors; it was just very clinical. To be fair, I am sure that on a grey day, it would be a different story. I am also sure that behind the scenes things are not quite so bright and visitor-friendly. Inmates spoke of leaking cells, limited access to showers and unkind guards, of isolation, loneliness and fear.

Once inside the unit the visitation area is directly in front of you:  A glass paneled box, inside of which are the ubiquitous glass-divided visitation booths. Inmates are brought to the visitation room in shackles. The shackles remain on for the duration of the visit; hands are bound at the wrists to a chain round the waist and feet are chained to the floor. The cuffs at the wrists cut into the skin and leave red marks.

Visits are so important for the moral of inmates. They spend 23 hours of the day in their cells with an hour allowed for exercise in the cages. Many of the inmates don’t get many visitors and so attorney visits are a real opportunity to get out of the cells and talk to people.

Over the course of about 2 hours I spoke to a number of our clients. It was not easy. Those who know me know that small talk is not my forte and what these men needed most was someone to just talk. Talk about normal things, the world outside, music, TV and their families. Some were easy to talk to, others weren’t. I was surprised by how upbeat and positive some of the inmates were. I was surprised, in some ways, by how normal the conversations were. We could have been friends in different lives. It was challenging though, especially when talking to inmates who were having a bad time of it. Trying to engage with them and take their minds off things was difficult and by the time we left I felt completely drained.

Leaving unit 32 I felt many things. I was glad that had I come and met these people, glad that I had decided to do the internship. I was exhausted by the experience and I also felt overwhelmed by the obstacles we faced in getting even one of them off death row. 

Obviously I oppose the death penalty and my work here is to help get people off death row. This does not mean that I believe people on death row are innocent of crimes or that I want to see murderers running free about the place. I simply disagree with the form of the punishment. Even if I didn’t oppose the death penalty in principle, I would still disagree with it as it is currently practiced. It is supposed to be for ‘the worst of the worst’, those crimes so heinous no other punishment will do. However the inmates I have met and the cases I have read about have shown me that all too often the death penalty is used in spurious circumstances and applied to cases which, for lack of a better term, were that of ‘ordinary murder’.

Prison in one thing, death is another. The two should not be bedfellows and I stand by my opposition to the death penalty. None of the inmates I met were the ‘worst of the worst’. So many factors come together to result in an imposition of death – lazy criminal investigations, poor forensics, politics, racism and poverty, among others. I have seen them all in the cases I am involved in. What I have not seen is a verdict so secure, or a man so monstrous that the death penalty should be imposed.

A little bit of Americana

On a day-to-day basis my life in Jackson is not that different to my life back home in the UK. I get up and I go to work. In the evenings I watch tv, read a book or hang out with friends. We live in such a connected world now that there are limited differences between cultures. Popular music and tv, the internet and 24 hour news cycles mean that there is less of the ‘new’ here than there might have been had I journeyed across  50 years ago. It also means that when there is a chance to experience something particularly American or Southern, you jump at the chance. 

For me, so far, that has been Superbowl Sunday and the Rodeo.

American football is not something I know anything about, but I had heard of the Superbowl and perhaps more importantly the half-time show. 

Here is what I can tell you about my Superbowl experience -  

Superbowl Sunday requires a gathering with lots of food (fried where possible!) and beer. Those are the essentials. 

There was plenty of food. Chips and dip, cookies and plenty of fried food were on offer. No use was made of any fancy deep fat fryer, and I learned that a big pot, a lot of oil, and a complete lack of concern for kitchen safety is all that is necessary to make fried chicken and cheese straws. A lack of concern for safety can be replaced with a lot of alcohol, but I found that only works on the chef and actually increases levels of concern in others!

The food was good, especially the dip. I love artichoke and spinach dip and this was no let down.

Of the football itself, I cannot say much except that it lasts forever (I think the game itself lasted for 3 hours). The pace is also slower than rugby and the game seems very disjointed – play for a minute or two and then stop for five, and so on. 

Beer, of the Bud Light variety, was also a mainstay of the event and it was in good supply! When I first arrived I thought it was too much beer for one game of football, but that was before I realized that how long a game lasts. A few hours in, I had changed my mind!

All in all, it was a good night. The football, it turned out, was of little import (I still know nothing about the sport) and just played away in the background. It seems to me that the biggest draws of the Superbowl are the adverts and the half-time entertainment. Sponsoring companies spend a fortune on celebrity commercials and they are treated almost like the newest blockbuster release. 

For half-time I need say no more than – Beyonce!

FYI, it was the San Francisco 49ers v the Baltimore Ravens, and the Ravens won.

…onto The Rodeo

I can’t think of anything more American than the cowboy. Be in John Wayne and his Dirty Harry blues, childhood games of ‘Cowboys and Indians’ or a gutsy rendition of ‘Oklahoma’, the cowboy is a familiar entity to us all that speaks of adventure, freedom and the open trail.

(By the way, ‘Dirty Harry Blues’ is a song by Jeff Daniels.Worth a listen.)

Alas cowboys do not walk the streets of Jackson and although ‘y’all’ is part of common parlance, it is rarely prefaced with a ‘howdi’. As such when I heard that the rodeo was coming to town, I knew it was time to put on some plaid, pull on some boots and get my cowgirl on :)

Along with cowboys, America is famous, perhaps unfairly, for rednecks and hillbillies. Well, they were out in force at the rodeo along with some ‘honest-to-god’ Christians and good old fashioned republicans. It really was ‘America the Great’ territory -  no liberal, baby-killing nonsense allowed!

The rodeo itself is a competitive sport based on the working practices of cattle herding and, in essence, is a test of those skills working cowboys and cowgirls would need to have on a ranch. The rodeo has events such as roping, steer wrestling, bronco riding, bull riding and barrel racing. We saw them all!

My favourite was the bucking broncos, for 2 reasons - (i) I love horses, they make me happy! (2) it was the  most exciting event. I had thought the bull riding would be the most memorable but none of the cowboys were able to stay on long-enough for it to really get going. They barely got out of the chutes. 

Bronc riding (and bull riding) is all about staying on for as long as possible and you really get into it. A cowboy has to stay on for 8 seconds for it to be counted. Watching, you really are willing the cowboy to stay on just a second longer and it can be quite ‘heart in mouth’ stuff. One cowboy got trampled by his horse when he fell off and he was taken off on a stretcher.

Watching the roping and steer wrestling is also really fun, although I sort of ended up rooting for the steer, especially this one –

Mostly though, I couldn’t get over the ‘real life cowboys’ aspect of it all. They looked like proper cowboys, right out of the movies! I never imagined I’d see real cowboys doing real cowboy stuff, I guess I didn’t think they really existed anymore :)

I will leave you with this (Can you name the musical?)…

“I'd like to say a word for the cowboy, the road he treads is difficult and stony.
He rides for days on end with just a pony for a friend.

I sure am feelin' sorry for the pony!”

MS 39202

Coming to the US, and in particular the South, felt a bit like jumping out of a plane without a parachute. Talk about not being prepared – I only got my visa the day before I left to go to Cork for Christmas. I had been so nervous that it wouldn’t come through on time, I didn’t really let myself think about the 3 months I would spend here. After a frantic few days packing (thank you Mr Bedford, your skills were much appreciated!) and an emotional farewell at the airport (not so much thanks for that one, Steve) I was suddenly on my way South. Reese Witherspoon said in a movie once ‘People need a passport to come down here’ and I certainly felt like I was voyaging into lands unknown.

Perhaps it was the gun-toting, bible-quoting stereotype that had me a bit concerned but I wasn’t quite sure what to expect of Mississippi. As one of the other interns joked: Welcome to the deep south.  Bring your bibles, mind your Ps and Qs and please ensure that your truck is gassed up and your shotgun is loaded.

 

However having been here a couple of weeks now, I can happily say there is more to Mississippi that trucks, bibles and guns!

Jackson is the capital of Mississippi and although downtown has a somewhat beige and unpopulated feel to it (it is merely the business district and quiet even on a work day), the rest of Jackson is not without its charms. Belhaven, where I live, is a quiet old-residential area. Picture clapboard houses, porches and rocking chairs. Belhaven College is across the road from my house. The campus has a lake and seating areas and the pathways around the college provide for a useful jogging route (for when I’m feeling virtuous!). When the sun shines it is a lovely place to take a book, sit on a swing seat under the shade of a tree and while away an hour or so (I have actually not yet done that, but every time I pass by I think of it, maybe this weekend!)

Fondren is an area above Belhaven, and to me, most closes resembles ‘town’. Consisting of a 2 block radius, Fondren plays host to a few coffee shops, restaurants, antique and vintage stores as well as Brents Drugs (a 50s diner, as seen in The Help). I particularly like ‘Babalu’, a bar/restaurant with its own unique Southern take on tapas and the best margaritas I have had in ages! 

So far my Mississippi adventure has meant good food and friendly people, but more on that later…