Spending my high school years in the New Orleans area was the best and worst place scenario for a budding young addict. On one hand, New Orleans offered arguably the most unique and exciting food and music culture surrounded by a cornucopia of outdoor recreational opportunities that I took full advantage of. On the other hand, alcohol was typically associated and often encouraged to enhance every experience including driving, which is evident via the drive-through daiquiri shops. Thus, at an early age I learned to associate activities with alcohol, especially fishing.
Most recreational activities involved my dear friends Andy and Dirk (see red beans post for Dirk’s bio). Andy a fellow northern transplant had a similar love for the outdoors and Louisiana culture, especially the food. Andy had the largest appetite I’ve encountered and often overindulged especially when it came to red beans. So much in fact, that food was an ongoing excuse for Andy beginning late, getting sidetracked, apathy, a sour stomach, a late night adventure, or a sub par soccer practice.
We had a 1/2 day at school so naturally we decided to make a day of it. Dirk just purchased a small boat he threw in the back of his dad’s pick-up. Andy recently harvested a crop of marijuana he grew in the swamp of his parents property, which left me in charge of the alcohol. The supposed drinking age was 19 but the ongoing joke was if you could reach the counter you were old enough to buy booze. Stoned, full of red beans from lunch with a case of beer and a 12-pack of basement sale wine coolers we were off to discover a hidden lake Dirk’s dad, Mert, told him about.
We navigated through what appeared to be a wooded community of double wide trailers. Not atypical of southern Louisiana, but a bit odd for a fishing destination. There was a 10 foot wide trail that appeared to be the spot to stop.
“Are you sure this isn’t someones driveway?” I asked
“This is it” Dirk declared referencing the map on the back of a matchbook his dad had given him.
I was a bit apprehensive of this spot. For one, we had to carry the boat about 1/4 mile to what turned out to be more of a pond than lake. Then we had to doubleback for the other gear and cooler. Meanwhile, I could hear, but not see the local population and their dogs. Normally, I could roll with new encounters, however, Andy’s pot (a seed stock from his brother in Princeton) was unbelievable compared to the Mexican schwag I was accustom to. Thus, paranoia became a factor. After convening with Andy and Dirk, logically, we decided to smoke more weed and slam beers. An hour later…we made it in the boat.
I was attempting to tie a lure to my line when the friendly ruckus began. It started over a fishing pole that evolved into a swimming duel between Dirk and Andy. Within seconds they striped down to their skivvies and were in the water. I navigated the boat to the island where I was told to judge the competition. Right from the start there was foul play. Each was jockeying for position by grabbing, yelling, and removing one anothers underwear. To the outside observer their behavior would be alarming.
“Hey, ya’ll, what the hells is yous doin!? Ya’alls in some kind of trouble?!?!” A woman with a shotgun and two young children yelled from the other side of the pond.
“UHH, no Ma’am!” I hollered from the island. “We’re just fishing and swimming.”
“Wells, first off, ya’lls on private property. And there be GATORS in dat pond, and byes da looks of it you’alls be drunk.” She hollered back kicking the empty beers cans we shotgunned before we shoved.
“No ma’am, just a couple of beers.” I yelled attempting to conceal my peach wine cooler.
“What the FUCK, Dirk! You just hit me in the balls!” Andy screamed laughing in pain, oblivious to the conversation I was having with the woman with the gun.
“Well, likes I said, dars GATORS in that lake so you’alls best be on your way. It don’t look like much fishin’ is goin’ on.”
“Alrighty, we’ll be gone in a jiffy.” I yelled.
Dirk and Andy continued their shenanigans while I gathered the gear on the opposite bank. I convinced them to get out because my grandma was flying in from Chicago and I had to get home for dinner. Andy decided to take another hit and slam a wine cooler for the journey back to the car. He took off with some rods. Dirk and I grabbed the boat and about half way back Andy was standing dead-still in front of a large puddle in the middle of the trail. As we approached he didn’t move. I peered around from the front and waved my hand in front of his face. Nothing. He passed out standing up (to this day I have never seen anything like it). Dirk slapped him on the back which toppled him over face first into the shallow puddle.
Dirk and I assessed the situation. We decided to bring the boat back then return for Andy. Between Andy and the car, however, the woman with the gun and a larger entourage passed us heading towards the pond.
“Shit, Dirk, they are going to find Andy.” I said loading the boat into the truck. We hustled back but the damage was done. “Yurs friend is passed out in the trail in a puddle and he won’t wake up.”
“He’s fine, he just ate some bad red beans, ma’am.” Dirk said. “Red beans my ass, yous’all been doing some kind of drugs and I’m calling the cops.” She said huffing away.
We managed to get Andy on his feet, and back to the truck. I ditched the cooler and empties in the bushes. We were about to make our get away, but Dirk couldn’t find his keys anywhere. Ten minutes into the search the sheriff rolled up. Unable to find Dirk’s keys Andy volunteered to drive his car but the sheriff was onto him. He made us call Andy’s parents to come and pick us up. By the time his folks arrived most of the locals were spectating.
Andy’s dad took me and Dirk home. Andy went home with his mom.
“So, why don’t you guys tell me why Andy was so disoriented.” Andy’s dad inquired
Having a knack for the vernacular I stepped in and spewed on and on about the red beans we had eaten that day… “Well, doctor (Andy’s dad was a Princeton graduate and the head at one of the more significant hospitals in the South), Andy has had this thing with red beans. He has a tendency to overeat and I think it was a bad batch.”
“Red Beans, huh?” He said nodding his head “Yeah, a bad batch, my stomach is a bit sour as well.” Dirk backed me up. The car fell silent for minutes.
“RED BEANS! Let me get this straight. What you guys are trying to tell me is Andy has some kind of red bean curse?!?!? Do I look like an IDIOT. He’s DRUNK!”
Complete silence.
Upon entering the house I saw a note that instructed me to be ready in an hour to go out to dinner with Grandma. Sweet I thought, I’ll take a shower and watch a little TV and try to sober up.
Dad, what happen last night? I thought we were going out to dinner? ” I asked over breakfast. “Well, son, me too. We heard the TV blaring once we got home from picking Grandma up at the airport so we went upstairs to get you. Much to our surprise, however, we found you spread eagle in the middle of the TV room naked. You couldn’t be aroused so I tossed a blanket on you. Obviously, grandma was a bit shocked.
“Yeah, Andy and I had a bad batch of Red Beans for lunch yesterday.” I replied.
Notes From The Culinary Addict:
Yogism from James (my teacher): “The solution can be a simple as a proper breath.”
Recent 12-Step Meeting Quote: “I ran out friends, money and beds so I decided to hitchhike to Eugene. Believe it or not my father stopped to pick me up on I-5.”
-For Dirk’s kick ass Red Bean recipe GO HERE
-We found Dirk’s keys within minutes the next day on the trail.
One of the best moments of the ordeal was Andy trying to convince the COP after waking up in a puddle that he could drive home. His excuse for his slurred words was “Sir, I ate a bad batch of red beans.”
-Dirk’s dad eventually bought a house in the general location of this adventure some years later.
-One thing I never understood about New Orleans is alcohol is a huge part of the culture but heaven forbid if someone pulls out a joint they become an outcast. The cops could care less that a bunch of 17 yr olds were wasted. But if drugs were involved-straight to jail.
-Very quite at work. Lots of deep cleaning
-Kitchen Drama of week:
-Kristin is helping her mom move out of a horribly stressful situation surrounding her addicted father. Meanwhile, Heather is dealing with some uncomfortable relationship issues with the father of her daughter.
-Jim’s mom had a cancer growth removed from her nose. She was supposed to get stiches removed from a clinic in NE Portland but somehow ended up in Beaverton.
-On top of Heather’s issues her car broke down on the way home. When asked about it she said, “My life truly is a country song, but real country not that new shit.”
-Today I caught myself reading Yoga Journal. 20 years ago I was reading High Times.
Search Engine Terms (words that lead someone to this blog for what ever reason): “I got sober in wine country”
Present Pandora Selection: Black Mountain
