Tuesday natter
Perfect day visiting Walt and family at their house. Out for fried oysters at dinner, stopped at a cajun market for boudin on the way, heavenly aromas. Out again for supper, Walt, Betty, Donna, Brendan, Linda and me
to Don's seafood restaurant's Monday night half-price special of a dozen huge, delicious chargrilled oysters, not baked but grilled such that the shells were blackened but oysters not shriveled away, Louisiana's best, OMG too good to use lemon butter or hot sauce.
local draft beer named "(something) Parish" not crafty but cold and good in a frozen mug. Back in our room just at kickoff. Go Tigers, Roll Tide. What if Clemson should upset Alabama? Naanh - - - never happen period comma exclamation point comma full stop Okay but What If question mark Jiminy Christmas exclamation point
Today, boudin for breakfast and strong black coffee, “robust” the hotel calls it, offering choice of decaf, regular, robust. First time ever having decent coffee in a motel, must be a Louisiana thing, I’m coming back.
Interesting place this, different to all I've known in life. Somehow doesn’t seem quite as cajun as around Grand Coteau, where I went for a Jesuit retreat, I think it was summer 2012. Recalling my last night there, Linda and I went to Prejean's cajun restaurant, table next to the stage where a zydeco band was going full blast, fiddle, squeeze box and all, my first, went home with a taste for.
Name Lesson 201. May I call you Carroll? See, it's like this! For reasons of a tale twice-told and more, ich heiße Tom. Blood relatives, and friends who knew me before age six, call me Bubba. Some, Uncle Bubba, but nobody calls me Mister Bubba, and let anyone who calls me Father Bubba be anathema! Friends and schoolmates who met me from age six through age seventeen call me Carroll: my father was Thomas Carroll Weller, and I was Thomas Carroll Weller, Jr. I was not Carroll, but from age six through seventeen I was called Carroll. Johnny Cash and I know what it's like to be a boy named Sue. It was laid on me because at Pensacola High School in the late 1920s, my father hated my mother's first sweetheart, a boy named Tom (in fact, after my mother died, in a box of old photographs in her closet, I found a photo of two cute teenagers, a girl whom I recognized as my mother, and a tall boy; on the back was written "Louise 16 and Tom 17", which photo, I guarandamtee, my father never knew was in the house all those years), and so, whilst I was given the name Thomas, I was denied, forbidden use of my name!! Until my emancipation on my eighteenth birthday (my first day of computerized classroom roster at University of Florida) when the professor called "Thomas Weller, Tom Weller?" "Here, sir" and henceforth ich heiße Tom. Who didn't know me before September 14, 1953 yet calls me Carroll doesn't get a cracker in church on Sunday!!!
DThos+ somewhere in Stoppage Time
to Don's seafood restaurant's Monday night half-price special of a dozen huge, delicious chargrilled oysters, not baked but grilled such that the shells were blackened but oysters not shriveled away, Louisiana's best, OMG too good to use lemon butter or hot sauce.
local draft beer named "(something) Parish" not crafty but cold and good in a frozen mug. Back in our room just at kickoff. Go Tigers, Roll Tide. What if Clemson should upset Alabama? Naanh - - - never happen period comma exclamation point comma full stop Okay but What If question mark Jiminy Christmas exclamation point
Today, boudin for breakfast and strong black coffee, “robust” the hotel calls it, offering choice of decaf, regular, robust. First time ever having decent coffee in a motel, must be a Louisiana thing, I’m coming back.
Interesting place this, different to all I've known in life. Somehow doesn’t seem quite as cajun as around Grand Coteau, where I went for a Jesuit retreat, I think it was summer 2012. Recalling my last night there, Linda and I went to Prejean's cajun restaurant, table next to the stage where a zydeco band was going full blast, fiddle, squeeze box and all, my first, went home with a taste for.
Name Lesson 201. May I call you Carroll? See, it's like this! For reasons of a tale twice-told and more, ich heiße Tom. Blood relatives, and friends who knew me before age six, call me Bubba. Some, Uncle Bubba, but nobody calls me Mister Bubba, and let anyone who calls me Father Bubba be anathema! Friends and schoolmates who met me from age six through age seventeen call me Carroll: my father was Thomas Carroll Weller, and I was Thomas Carroll Weller, Jr. I was not Carroll, but from age six through seventeen I was called Carroll. Johnny Cash and I know what it's like to be a boy named Sue. It was laid on me because at Pensacola High School in the late 1920s, my father hated my mother's first sweetheart, a boy named Tom (in fact, after my mother died, in a box of old photographs in her closet, I found a photo of two cute teenagers, a girl whom I recognized as my mother, and a tall boy; on the back was written "Louise 16 and Tom 17", which photo, I guarandamtee, my father never knew was in the house all those years), and so, whilst I was given the name Thomas, I was denied, forbidden use of my name!! Until my emancipation on my eighteenth birthday (my first day of computerized classroom roster at University of Florida) when the professor called "Thomas Weller, Tom Weller?" "Here, sir" and henceforth ich heiße Tom. Who didn't know me before September 14, 1953 yet calls me Carroll doesn't get a cracker in church on Sunday!!!
DThos+ somewhere in Stoppage Time