So we're in Nola and we're having a big huge time. Here are a few snippets and observations. (Does anyone ever read this thing?)
On My MIL's Decision Not To Join Us: So the Twinkle family caravaned down here with a van containing my FIL and two other couples, all of whom are actually really fun and cool. When we all met up at my inlaws' house to roll out at 5 a.m. Friday morning, the atmosphere was festive. MIL was already up, in her schoolmarm glasses, clutching a cup of coffee. That's right. She was up for the day. Shocked at the fun her friends were having (especially given the time), I asked her why she wasn't going. She has "too much to do for Passover," long suffering martyr that she is. This is the same woman who will accept no offers of help with the preparation and set-up. Her martyrdom is just exhausting. She would have been a buzz kill anyway, but it's still annoying. I know she does a lot, but if it were I, I'd find a way to do both. (I also wouldn't have been awake at all for the 5 a.m. send-off). I say if you're not going to let anyone help you, you have no right to complain about being overwhelmed.
On Cajun Cooking: Mr. Twinkle has long since accepted my habit of eating whatever non-kosher foods I damn well please. I don't even do it that much, because a lot of times I really prefer vegetarian options, but this is New Orleans. His dad's presence throws a bit of a wrench in things, because I do like his dad and I feel like he accepts me as a member of the family, and I don't want to disappoint him. So last night we met a family friend in the Garden District and she took us to Frankie and Johnny's, an authentic and fairly non-touristy restaurant. And you should have seen the members of our party (who, as I said, are super-fun) scarfing down the shrimp, crawfish, oysters, sausage, and boudin balls. Jews all of them. Mr. Twinkle and his dad almost broke my heart when they ordered their sad little grilled chicken sandwiches, but I found myself in a bind because I feel that my FIL is an ally and plus I really like him. I don't want to disappoint him by sucking a crawfish head in front of him and then flinging some of the discarded shell onto his shirt. I was in a kosher pickle.
In the end I went with the red beans and rice--a classic New Orleans staple, and when the waitress asked me if I wanted a little smoked sausage on there, I said, "Sure, as long as you don't tell that guy," gesturing to my FIL. One of the friends laughed and slipped me some of her boudin, and I thought what I said made it clear that I wanted her to tone it down or hide the sausage in the sauce or something. I guess I should have remembered that New Orleans is not a city known for its discretion, because when my entree came out it was topped with the Dirk Diggler of smoked sausage. It was obscene. So now I guess my FIL knows I'm a heathen. I should have just gotten the crawfish, but that sausage was doggone good.
On Contemporary Judiaca: Y'all probably don't pay a whole lot of attention to contemporary Judiaca, but let me tell you this: if you've seen one piece of it, you've seen it all. It's all the same and 99% of it is tacky as hell. So when Mr. Twinkle saw the Dashka Roth Contemporary Judiaca Gallery in the French Quarter, I knew exactly what it was going to be: geometric shards of purple and blue glass with silver squiggles, and I wrote that description without having even walked inside the Dashka Roth Gallery, or having yet Googled her site. That's about the extent of contemporary Judiaca. (Antique Judaica is actually pretty).
Now, I don't know about you girls, but when my mother wanted me to teach me about good taste, there were two ultimate and seemingly opposite destinations: New Orleans and Williamsburg, Virginia. Mr. Twinkle and I have discussed how these aren't cultural Meccas for Jewish families, and I think the lack of exposure leads to monstrosities such as this one. We actually have interesting philosophical conversations about the origins of Jewish taste, or lack thereof. (Mr. Twinkle recognizes it and likes to ponder it, too. I am not being mean behind his back or saying anything I haven't said to him a hundred times). I just find it really interesting that an entire ethnic group of people embraces this as their own defining style, and that style is so plain ugly. Earlier Judaica is pretty, as I said--lots of ornate silver carvings. Why isn't that their style? I never get tired of talking about it...hope y'all aren't too bored.
Anyway, just because he knows it's tacky doesn't mean Mr. Twinks could ever resist going into a Judaica store. And when he came out he readily admitted that the Judaica was exactly like the rest of the Judaica everywhere. But we also discussed how if his family were to come upon that gallery, they would spend hours in there choosing the perfect bits of Judaica to take home, wasting precious time that could be better spent cultivating good taste on Royal Street or even just absorbing the Nola atmosphere. And they would buy it just because it's Judaica, not because they like it. I think that's a huge cultural difference, too. There is a sense of obligation to buy some Judaica and stick it on the shelf with all the other Judaica, just as there is a sense of obligation about everything else. With my family and others without a real ethnic identity, we buy what we like because we like it, not because we have to because our ethnicity dictates what we should like and buy.
At least I am passing on good taste to my children. They don't even have to like what I like; I want them to like what they like, and know why they like it. To me, that's what matters most in someone's taste, and I don't think Jews have the chance to develop their tastes because the contemporary Judaica artists keep telling them what to like, and they all buy it because guilt is a part of their cultural identity. I'm sorry, but guilt should not determine one's interior design scheme.
Don't be surprised if I ever get a doctorate in the aesthetic tastes of the Jews. I find the subject endlessly fascinating.
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