cajun accordion player

Gumbo. Pirogue. Chère (pronounced “shah.”) Fais-do-do. These are all words and concepts that I grew up with, the child of parents who were raised in Louisiana, in Cajun country. It wasn’t until I was much older that I came to understand that the average child didn’t eat crawfish or listen to “chanky chank” music when they visited family as part of a cultural experience.

knight in shining armor

I do not consider myself to be a girly girl. I am strong and powerful…at least I thought so until I tried on part of my friend’s armor at Potrero War. As she added layer upon layer to my body, I felt the gravitational pull toward the earth. But then came the pièce de résistance:  the helmet. It must have weighed 30 pounds! My little neck could barely hold it up. I now have a newfound respect for warriors — past and present — who don pounds and pounds of armor just to stay safe.


I love biscuits. Buttermilk. Cat’s Head. Angel. (Though I don’t care for a sweet biscuit. I also refuse to taint a crunchy biscuit with gravy. Sacrilege.) But I took them for granted my first 32 years when I lived in the South. You could get frozen biscuits at Wal-Mart. And at every restaurant. But living in San Diego, biscuits are hard to come by. Naturally, one of the few places I’ve found sells sweet biscuits, since the owner is from South Carolina (biscuit recipes vary wildly from one region of the South to another). I’ve learned to make my own…