Culture, Cuisine and Killer Hurricanes

With New Orleans again in the bull’s eye of an approaching hurricane, it is important to remember what a national treasure the city is. Although founded by the French, many other nationalities have combined to shape the Big Easy’s diverse culture. I’m not going out on a limb when I say that no other geographical setting has influenced the cuisine of the Nation, and the world as has New Orleans.

Cuisine isn’t the only remarkable aspect of New Orleans. No other location in our nation has experienced such a diverse combination of cultures as has the Crescent City and this has resulted in an extraordinary mixture of language, art, music, literature, and architecture.

Truly the jewel of the Gulf Coast, New Orleans is in a broad region that is critically important to the rest of the nation because of proximity to this country’s largest single source of oil and gas, along with its tourism, shipping and it refining.

Almost three years ago to the day Hurricane Katrina critically injured New Orleans. Many parts of the City remain much as they were days after that horrible storm. It is sad that few of the problems exposed by Katrina and Rita – primarily a sadly deficient levee system – remain uncorrected in the face of yet another killer hurricane.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Curing the Cat

My good friend Dave Beatty of Livingston, Louisiana sent me this story, and the picture of his cat. No, he doesn’t have a degree in veterinary medicine but he apparently knows how to cure a sick kitty.

Curing the Cat

My cat has allowed me to live with him for the past thirteen years, his whole life. He’s always been a little eccentric but lately he has taken to lying in the dirt tray I put out for the birds to dust themselves.

About a week ago, he got sick and didn’t eat for three days. He looked so puny that I really thought he was about to die. Despite his eccentricity, I really love the cat so to avoid further trauma following his death, I pre-dug a hole for his final resting place in what has become my pet grave yard (several pets from me and my sister reside there).

Maybe he was watching me on his walks around my property (sorry his property), or saw the hole I had dug. Something must have made him think because from the day I dug the hole, he got progressively better.

Now he is eating again and running around like a kitten, well almost. Just in case, I haven’t yet covered up the hole and I turn a few spades of dirt every day when I think he is watching.

He’s not only made a miraculous recovery, he’s also been a pretty good cat lately - except I just can’t keep him out of the bird’s dirt tray.

Fiction South

Knights, Ghosts and Magic Skies

Three random pics: Eric and armor, ghost dock on Caddo Lake, magic Edmond, Oklahoma sky.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Eric and Tim go Camping

Ida is a village of less than three-hundred people that is located in Louisiana a few miles south of Miller County, Arkansas. It is about seven kilometers from an attraction known to locals as the Ida Hills. The Hills are a destination for campers and picnickers because of the scenic and distant vista from their steep bluffs. The bluffs rise more than one-hundred-forty feet above the ancient peneplaned course of the Red River.

Years ago my friend Tim and I camped out one night at the top of one of the bluffs. The area is heavily forested, the hills no exception. Tim’s large German shepherd, whose name escapes me, but I’ll call him Shep, accompanied us. Before it grew dark we could see all the way to the Red River and hear the horns of semis as they crossed the high bridge over the river.

Interminable forest in the valley below us nestled a small wooden church rumored to host voodoo ceremonies on occasion. There were also rumors of a crazed logger that wandered the hills, murdering anyone he encountered. We knew it was only a contrived story told around campfires, but it still caused us some apprehension when we finally turned off the lantern and darkness draped the spooky forest around us.

“No one will surprise us with ol’ Shep here protecting us,” Tim said. “Shepherds have the best hearing and sense of smell of any dog.”

The presence of Shep did give me lots of comfort as night sounds quickly engulfed us and I petted his big head before closing my eyes. I awoke sometime later, disturbed by movement in the vegetation surrounding us. I wasn’t the only one that heard it.

“What’s that?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know but it’s coming toward us.”

Shep apparently didn’t hear what Tim and I were hearing, or smell it. He remained asleep, breathing blissfully in the throes of some doggy dream. It didn’t matter because something was making lots of racket as it bulled its way through the underbrush towards us.

Oh shit! I thought. It’s the deranged logger and it must be a ghost or something or else the dog would hear it too. The only weapons either of us remotely had were our geologic pick hammers. We wielded them, shaking with fright – at least I was - and waiting for whatever was moving toward us to show itself in the tiny clearing where we had pitched camp. Finally it did.

The ugly marsupial head of an opossum suddenly appeared and the beast lumbered right up to us before Tim switched on his flashlight and shined it into the fiery red of his beady eyes. The startled creature took a step backward, then turned and hurried away through the pine forest.

Tim and I were relieved that we hadn’t had to defend ourselves against a ghost logger or voodoo deity. Shep never woke up. So much for the honed senses of German shepherds. Needless to say neither of us got much sleep the remainder of the night after realizing that we were protecting the dog rather than the other way around.

Fiction South

Houston Days and Houston Nights

My friend Mickey and I attended the North American Prospect Expo at the George R. Brown Convention Center in downtown Houston. We had an exhibition booth, number 2828 that we got when we arrived. It was the last booth rented and with little space left to situate and extra one, the NAPE people placed it in the lounge area. That’s okay because attendees were asking us how we managed to obtain such a great location.

“We had to pay double for it,” Mickey and I would quip.

It was a great booth, right next to the cocktail party held for the attendees after five every day.

Mickey and I know a drilling and completion engineer that we called the first night to go to dinner with us. Hurricane Gustav is in the Caribbean and Scott, a Texas Aggie, was told to stay in Houston as his drilling platform was busy buttoning everything down in anticipation of the impending storm and evacuating everyone back to shore. We ate at the Houston Club. I had steak and enchiladas and I have to say that they were the best enchiladas I have ever eaten. The steak wasn’t bad either. I’m trying to get the recipe. Any help out there?

I have two aunts, Marquerite and Dot that live in Houston and Katy. I regretted not having the time to visit either of them but there is nothing as hectic as a NAPE prospect fair – literally 2828 companies exhibiting prospects from Iceland to Iowa, and everything in between.

The newest buzz phase this year is shale gas and I overheard and attendee saying, “I figured out right away that if you don’t have a shale deal then you don’t have sh--!” It reminded me of Bubba in the movie Forrest Gump. There were Barnett, Haynesville, Bossier, Woodford, Bakken and Marcellus Shale deals available. One of any flavor you might choose.

I met many new and interesting people, including several writers, and renewed some old acquaintances. Mickey and I remained sober, for the most part, and had a great but extremely tiring time. I’m glad to be home!

Eric'sWeb

True Lit

There are hundreds of wonderful western novels out there. Here is my list in descending order of the 10 best Western novels of all time. If you haven’t read at least a few of these, you are really missing out. They are more than just wonderful western novels, they are True Lit.

10. VIRGINIAN by Owen Wister
9. BIG SKY by Alfred Betram Guthrie, Jr.
8. JUBAL SACKETT by Louis L’Amour
7. LONESOME DOVE by Larry McMurtry
6. RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE by Zane Grey
5. TREASURE OF SIERRA MADRE by B. Traven
4. TRUE GRIT by Charles Portis
3. OX-BOW INCIDENT by Walter Van Tilburg Clark
2. LITTLE BIG MAN by Thomas Berger
1. THE MAN WHO KILLED THE DEER by Frank Waters

Fiction South

Gazpacho Shots - a recipe

Even growing up in Louisiana I never knew what the “dog days of summer” really meant. Last week temperatures in Oklahoma exceeded all time records – 110 degrees in some parts of the state. The heat and humidity were deadly, several people in Oklahoma succumbing to the weather. Watching my dogs burrow in the loose dirt beneath the shade of a large oak tree, and then lie almost comatose until long after dark has taught me the meaning of the phrase.

When Anne was alive we often spent time in the summer on Cape Cod with my cousin Angela and her then husband Bob. Bob and Angela had just returned from Spain one summer when we were with them at their vacation home on John’s Pond. The weather was hot, even for the Cape, and Angela whipped up a batch of gazpacho.

The cold soup became an instant favorite of mine, although I am rarely lucky enough to find it here in Oklahoma. While wiping perspiration from my brow during the recent spate of hot weather, I remembered the cool treat and began surfing the web for a recipe. I found this one on a site called the Passionate Cook. They recommended adding a splash of vodka. I would like to see that recommendation and add another splash!

Serve these at your next summer party and I guarantee you’ll have everyone begging for more.

Gazpacho Shots

1 stalk celery
1 red pepper (ca. 300 g)
1 yellow pepper (ca. 300 g)
500 g cucumber (peeled)
6 spring onions
2 cloves garlic (crushed)
150 g tomatoes
2 tbsp thick tomato sauce
2 tbsp olive oil
2 tbsp white balsamic vinegar
generous dash of Tabasco (to taste)
chopped chives (to decorate, optional)

Work all vegetables in a food processor until very finely chopped. Put in a blender with the liquid ingredients and process until completely smooth. Add water or a very light soup stock until reaching the required consistency. Try decorating the shots with chives, or serve with a slice of cucumber as a stirrer.

Yields 18 shots

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Khrushchev, Fall-Out Shelters and Magnolia Trees

One of my memories of growing up in Louisiana during the fifties is of the giant magnolia tree in the neighbor’s front yard, across the street. The days were always sunny, nights damp and cloying. You couldn’t take a deep breath without experiencing the heady perfume wafting from the tree’s fragrant blossoms. And they were so delicate. If you touched one, even with the back of your hand, they would shrivel and turn black.

The Magnolia develops seed pods that somewhat resemble hand grenades and the gang and I used them as such when we played war – something we did almost every day. There was only one really large magnolia tree but someone had planted many others along the extent of Vivian’s Spruce Street. They stood like silent sentinels, always present and somehow reassuring in an otherwise disturbing era dominated by fallout shelters, H-bombs and Khrushchev’s Cold War antics.

I know little to this day about the horticulture of magnolia trees. I only know that southerners are blessed with a climate that allows the continued growth of these gentle beauties. The Cold War has thawed but the magnolia trees across the street from my parent’s house are still there. For me they embody peace and strength, and the world is a grander place because of them. This makes me happy.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Winter Pics

Here are three pics taken last winter: Lake Hefner honkers, the Oklahoma sky and my new pup Scooter.

Mavis' Mayhaw Jelly

If you are lucky enough to find a mayhaw bush loaded with luscious red berries, pick a batch of the very nicest ones. Take them home and wash them up. About six cups of water are needed to cover two quarts of mayhaws.

Put them in a large pot, add the water, bring to a boil and cook for thirty minutes, or so. Press the berries in a colander using a big wooden spoon, and then strain the juice through damp cheesecloth. Now you are ready to make the jelly.

5 cups of the mayhaw juice you just extracted
7 cups sugar, preferably cane
1 box of pectin, powered

Mix the juice in a large saucepan with the pectin until it is completely dissolved then place on the fire. When the juice reaches a rolling boil, add the sugar, return to a boil and continue boiling for five minutes.

Remove from heat and skim the foam with a metal spoon. Skim again after placing juice in clean, sterilized jars. Seal jars and place in boiling water for fifteen minutes. When you finish, you will have eight or so jars of the best jelly you ever tasted.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Mayhaws and Other Wild Louisiana Things

Growing up in northwest Louisiana, I recall trekking to Jeems Bayou in search of wild mayhaws so my mother could make mayhaw jelly. Although I didn’t know it at the time, this is the fruit of a variety of Hawthorne bush that grows profusely throughout the south, especially in swampy environments. Jeems Bayou, near Caddo Lake is a perfect spot for the elusive mayhaw.

Mayhaw jelly is thought by many to be the finest jelly in the world. I can’t argue with that sentiment. If you can find a jar, buy it and try it. You won’t be disappointed.

Mayhaws grow ripe in May and June, a time of abundant vegetation and wildlife, including snakes, in the area around Jeems Bayou. Once, far from the car and deep in the heavily vegetated area where mayhaws abound, my mother crossed paths with a snake – probably a harmless grass snake. It didn’t matter. It may as well have been a boa constrictor. My mother screamed bloody murder and didn’t stop running until she reached our brown and tan 1950 Ford.

My brother and I found the scene pretty funny but we didn’t laugh when we learned that we had also missed out on mayhaw jelly for the rest of the summer.

Fiction South

Old Guthrie Pictures

Buildings in Guthrie, Oklahoma.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Ragin' Cajun and Flaming Britches

Old friends Ray and Kathy dropped by my office today and took me to lunch. They live on a scenic old farm just outside the Edmond city limits. It was the first time I’d seen them since the book signing for my murder mystery Big Easy and their visit brought back many memories.

When Anne was alive, Kathy was one of her best friends. The four of us went out at least once a week. Ray, an accountant, was in the oil business before he got better sense and we did lots of deals together through the years. We also took many trips together, perhaps the most memorable a weekend in Dallas.

After work one Friday, we took Southwest Airlines into Love Field, rented a car and drove to Fort Worth where we met Mike and Sara, friends of Ray and Kathy’s. They took us to dinner at a Mexican restaurant that occupied an old house in a former housing development that had gone commercial. I can’t remember the name of the place but the food was good.

The Ragin Cajun Doug Kershaw was giving a concert at the Fairmont Hotel and the six of us left Fort Worth and returned to Dallas. Those of you unfamiliar with Kershaw’s musical performances are missing out on a national treasure. He has a limited touring schedule these days but if he appears anywhere near you, I urge you to get a ticket. You won’t be disappointed.

The Fairmont venue was small (probably less than two hundred fans) and intimate. Anne and Kathy winked and flirted with Kershaw though the first performance that lasted about an hour and a half. After the show, we introduced ourselves and got some autographs, and some hugs. It wasn’t unusual that I was also from Louisiana since after all we were in an adjacent state

“Stay through the second show. I never have anyone to drink with after a performance.” he invited.

It didn’t take much to convince us to stay, although Mike and Sara had a babysitter and had to get home. The four of us stayed, drinking in the bar between shows and continuing to drink during the performance and intermission. We waited in the hotel bar for an hour, drinking and beginning to think Kershaw had stood us up. He didn’t.

Doug Kershaw is as friendly as he is talented. We had talked for an hour or so when he invited us up to his room to hear “Some raw tapes.”

Kershaw’s tapes were for his next album. The main song was titled It’s All Your Fault – and the song rocked, not just because we were all half-looped. We had him replay it at least half a dozen times. Kathy and Anne were exhausted and rested on Kershaw’s bed, listening as he made a phone call to his friend Glen Campbell.

Finally, we departed to let him get a little rest. We meant to stay at the Fairmont but soon learned there were no rooms available. At about three in the morning, we coasted into the Anatole Hotel where we thankfully found two available rooms.

I felt like hell the next morning, my stomach churning, head banging, ears ringing and the inside of my mouth feeling as if it had endured an acid wash. Ray and Kathy had just knocked on the door and Anne was letting them in when I reached in my pants pocket and got a big surprise.

I had a pack of souvenir matches from the Fairmont, complete with Doug Kershaw’s autograph. I hadn’t bothered closing the flap and all the matches ignited when I put my hand into the pocket.

An entire pack of matches can cause quite a flame. I began yelling, jumping and swatting at my leg, finally coming totally out of the burning britches as Anne, Ray and Kathy watched, aghast. Sulfur smoke filled the room, along with their laughter as I stood in my shorts, trying to massage the pain away from my burned thigh.

Breakfast and the rest of the day were fairly uneventful. After visiting one of Ray’s friends that owned the Texas Schoolbook Depository (no, I didn’t see the actual window from where Oswald shot Kennedy, but we did get a personal tour of other parts of the building), we flew home with no further incidents.

Back home in Oklahoma City, Anne and I were ready to hit the bed for a little well-deserved sleep when we got a call from Ray.

“I have four tickets to the Bahamas and rooms when we get there, all comp, but we have to leave in four hours. Are you game?”

We were, but that’s another story. Actually it’s about five other stories. As Doug Kershaw would say, “Stay tuned.”

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Altered Perceptions

I’ve been working on some shallow gas wells in Noble County, Oklahoma lately. The area is wide open, with few farm houses and trees, and an absolutely huge sky that lends itself to numerous pictures. The sky is beautiful but even more interesting when you add some effects with your favorite photo editing software.

Being the software junkie that I am, I have a half-dozen or so photo editing programs. Tonight I was fiddling with an Oklahoma sky picture using Roxio Photo Suite because I like its filter set. What I created is a psychedelic version of an oil well tank battery back dropped by an anomalously red sky. The result is, well, psychedelic.

As I gazed at the picture I could almost imagine that the created picture was real and not contrived. The lens of a camera, after all, is similar to the human eye, the digital image it creates like a well-formed thought. It made me wonder if what I see is always the same as what the person beside me sees.

Just like the picture of the sky that I just modified with Photo Suite, my mind is capable of modifying everything I taste, see and hear. How do we know when it is telling the truth, and does it really matter anyway?

Mavis' Fried Okra

Cajun and Creole cuisine is known and loved throughout the world but native Louisianans have a dirty little secret – they love fried foods. From fried oysters to fried turkey, there is little they haven’t tried to fry. One of my favorite dishes that my Mother prepared almost every Sunday was fried okra.

Roll the okra in flour then dip in a mixture of egg and buttermilk. Batter the okra with corn meal and then fry in hot oil until brown all over. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot.

My Mother had a large cast iron skillet she used to fry things in. While my Grandmothers fried with lard (pig fat) my mother began using vegetable oil once it was widely available. Personally, I prefer the vegetable oil. Try it and enjoy.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

fictionsouth

Eric Wilder's short story site.

Misty Edmond Morning

Here is a pic of a misty morning in Edmond, Oklahoma, and a picture of Kate and Smashy at the Turner Falls monument in the Arbuckle Mountains on the way to Dallas.

Fiction South

Literary Pets

Princess, my solid black pug is my newest pet and I have a hard time writing sometimes because she constantly demands her rightful place in my lap. Since she is the first pup or kitten that I have had in a while, I had almost forgotten the same insistence all my other pets once exhibited.

Kitties Chani and Hamlet were with me, one of them almost always on my lap, during the months it took for me to write Ghost of a Chance. Likewise Lucky, too big to be a lap dog even though he wanted to be, slept at my feet as I worked on A Gathering of Diamonds, Murder Etouffee and Big Easy, Tabitha or Rouge trading off for time in my lap.

King Tut, Mad Max and my other cats also did their tour of lap duty and I wonder now if I would have ever finished the books without them. As I think back I realize I was never far from a trusted friend as I wrote.

How many other writers have literary pets? I wonder. I’ll have to worry about the answer to that question later because right now my thighs are growing numb and Princess needs a treat.

Louisiana Mystery Writer