Wet My Whistle

This just in from YMSMINY … JAF (Your Main Sandwich Man in NY, JAF)

Looking forward to sweating down in Nawlins at the end of next month, and to eating Cochon de Lait Po’ Boys at the Fest. Dinner reservations this year include
K-Paul’s, Brigtsen’s, August, and Cochon.

JAF

Mailbox coincidink…Bon Apetit jumped outta the box today and fell open to…

Not going to Jazz Fest, for the 6th year in a row, or is it 7 now, is killing me. K.I.L.L.I.N.G. M.E. Not going to Cochon is a further slap in the face. Such disrespect. What is this world coming to, I ask you?? Disrespecting the conceptually dead.

When Teddy was two, still stoller-bound, my agenda was his agenda, we took a long weekend to Jazzfest. And to a plethora of restaurants all around town, day and night, each one noisier than the next (I did the itinerary based on decibels). He was a trooper. Uglesich’s, Casemento’s, Cafe du Monde and The Camellia Grill are all deep in his collective unconscious. Closer to the surface in mine, riding the waves gloriously.
At the time Teddy had an odd habit of licking his shirt sleeve. Lick, lick, lick, lick, until a wetspot formed. The sort of peculiar quirk you pray your child will quit before college. The sort of peculiar quirk that ~ poof ~ suddenly is over. And you miss it.

Each day he and I would leave the fest a little earlier than the rest of our clan and take a long, long walk, strollering along greeting anyone we met, him snoozing, me sauntering. Those fest days were ~ HOT ~ and as we trundled through the exit turnstile one afternoon the attendant chortled, “He so thirsty, he lickin’ hisself.” Hah! Heavens he was a cute and quirky baby.