Three Parades and an Eggplant

It’s Saturday night; it’s stormy; and I’m staring at an eggplant with great anticipation. In a few hours, the eggplant will transform into either Spaghettini with Tomatoes and Eggplant (Linda’s Kitchen, page 90) or Farfalle with Garlic-Roasted Eggplant in Creamy Spinach Sauce (Claire’s Classic American Vegetarian Cooking, pages 132-133). Claire and Linda are two of my favorite vegetarian chefs (Linda being Linda McCartney, Paul’s late wife), and the eggplant is my all-time favorite vegetable. An eggplant is a commitment. You can’t casually slap in on a sandwich or throw it in a soup. There’s work to be done -- chopping, breading, peeling, salting, roasting. The eggplant demands effort and time. Two cycles through Otis Redding’s Greatest Hits, at least. But eventually you finish, and the eggplant accessorizes your pasta like Gucci earrings, and you can tell your grandmother, “I cooked with an eggplant.” Eggplant rocks.

The above paragraph is meant to convince you of two things: 1) you need to buy an eggplant; 2) I’m getting old. You can bet the early-20s crowd doesn’t acclaim eggplants on Saturday night. An eggplant can’t be infused with vodka or thrown in with ramen. When I was 21, I regarded eggplant with detached admiration, as one might smile at an elderly neighbor’s Faberge collection. Commendable, even noteworthy. But not for me. Not now.

Well, to be fair, I was due to attend another Mardi Gras parade tonight, but Endymion got rained out. I’ll be back on St. Charles Avenue tomorrow afternoon, beaded and eggplantless. Thursday evening I joined a few classmates on the uptown leg of St. Charles, where Babylon rolled at 5:30, followed by Chaos and Muses.

In my pre-NOLA youth, I wasn’t aware that Mardi Gras parades had distinct themes. I figured the theme was “Mardi Gras” (or “Alcohol”). Babylon’s crew dressed as medieval knights, while Chaos went macabre with tongue-in-cheek underworld scenes (float titles: “Corpse of Engineers,” “Department of Homeland Insecurity,” etc.). Muses is traditionally all-female, and the crew tossed high-heeled shoes, along with commemorative dolls and, of course, beads.

You want beads? I have a good three lbs., in purple, silver, white, red, gold, green, and magenta. I got them the honest way: by reaching out my hand. It’s not that I consider myself too old to flash, nor too demure. Perhaps too sober. And uptown St. Charles isn’t that kind of parade spot. On Bourbon, you elbow around the reeling fake IDers. Uptown St. Charles places everyone in the shadow of five- and six-year-olds. My classmates and I huddled in front of giant wooden platforms containing hordes of children. “Stay away from the kids,” an undergrad advised me. “You’ll never get any beads.” Ah, but just you wait, kiddies: your eggplant years are creeping up.

I have to admit, I forgot the significance of the single empty float. Maybe I wandered too far into a state of childish excitement. Like most of the crowd, I alternated shouting three phrases: “Beads! Beads!” (to the float brigades); “Work it!” (to the baton twirlers); and “Yeaaaaaah, ______” (to whatever happened to be passing -- drum major, police car, jazz band, horse). When the empty float passed at the end of Muses, I yelled, “Yeahhhhhh, empty float!” The people around (and above) me -- grandmothers, fratties, toddlers, classmates -- chorused “Yeahhhhhhh, float!” Then, we all returned to “Beads! Beads!”

Were I older and wiser, I’d comment on how Mardi Gras ‘06 represents New Orleans ‘06. Smaller, darker, but with great potential for joy. Even reading that line, though, I can tell I’m being heavy-handed. I know more about eggplant than about Mardi Gras. And way more about Mardi Gras than life. Which isn’t saying much, in total. I don’t think anyone at Muses on Thursday really forgot Katrina. Any given street in NOLA, including St. Charles, is only a few blocks from spray-painted evac. notices and aging FEMA trailers. Come Wednesday, everyone will go back to clearing debris, or walking around debris, and observing Winn-Dixie’s new 8 p.m. curfew. But until then, I hope the city gets a few more “Yeahhhhhh, float!” moments. Some things should be ageless and timeless. Just not ratatouille.