“Up north it’s Mar-ketta. Down here it’s Mar-shetta.”
It’s spelled M-A-R-C-H-E-T-T-A, but everyone, if they’re showing the proper amount of politeness and all, calls her Miss Rosalie.
Miss Rosalie’s house had water above the windows during Hurricane Katrina. She was able to save her treasured Nativities and train sets, but lost a container full of pictures. She was a victim of construction fraud twice over, which then led to the greatest swindle of all; her own nephew siphoning off $30,000 under the guise of repairing her house while she stayed in the north due to overexposure of mildew.
It’s a split shotgun house, and we’re finishing up our side of the house so she can rent it out and start getting some income, something that’ll help pull her out of debt. She’s a wonderful old woman who loves her grandkids. She make this delicious shrimp etoufee yesterday, and I can’t wait for what she’s making tomorrow.
This is my favorites part of the trip. It’s not building anything. I can get stuck sanding, putting up drywall, nailing trim, painting, texturing, sweeping, trash duty, whatev.
My favorite part are the stories.
I love the fact that my first night here, I was able to take some pictures for a couple getting engaged that very minute. The guy, who picked a pretty sweet spot (right in front of St. Louis Cathedral, at the gates to Jackson Square), didn’t have anyone taking pictures. My hopes and prayers are with them as a couple.
I’ve gained a new appreciation for the French Quarter. I like the idea of walking down here, sitting in a coffee shop and writing this little note. I’ve enjoyed walking around and actually feel like I know where I’m going without having to look at a map every street corner. Makes things feel a little smaller, a little more like home.
Miss Rosalie bought a King Cake today with apple filling. This was my first King Cake. For those not privy to the goodness of the cake, it’s a wreath shaped cinnamon roll-strudel-pie-cake-fruit-filled wonder of goodness.
There’s also a small, inch-tall toy baby cooked into every single one. Whosoever pulls out the baby has to buy the next King Cake. I didn’t pull out the baby, so I’m good for now. It was a Radazzo King Cake. Up north, you’d pronounce it “Ra-Dat-So,” but down here, it’s “Ra-Daz-O”. All the Italian pronunciations go out the window.
Just try and get a uniform pronunciation for “Muffaletta.”
However it’s pronounced though, it’s delicious.
However you say it, Miss Rosalie’s got a heart of gold.
However you see it, New Orleans is a place like no other.
