Treutels of Carnival

Saturday morning. I now have coffee.

Despite all of the dispensation of wisdom regarding Valentines Day in earlier posts, I am not qualified to participate. But you know the old saying, those who can, do, those who can't, teach.

So it was good to go to a gathering last night that was not Valentines. I had been to Huntsville yesterday afternoon, so I was a bit late getting to Bill and Rita's house. Unlike Valentines Day, I am ignorant about Carnival and Mardi gras and related traditions.

After checking the internet this morning, I realize that there are extensive traditions with some ancient and some fairly recent roots. It is far more complicated than I thought. Kings and krewes and balls. Youl'll have to look it up yourself. It can get complicated.

This was no ball at the Treutels, at least not in the tradional New Orleans sense of the word. There were beads hanging around, but you didn't have to do anything to get them. There were no costumes, or Kings, although the Treutels are quite a krewe just by themselves.

Rita made gumbo. With oysters. She learned how to make it from her mother in law, who learned to make it from her mother in law. That is not a mardi gras tradition, but it is cool. The gumbo may be the best I ever had. I brought some home.

A tradition at the Treutel's, not necessarily mardi gras, is the breaking out of the hot sauce. I have been present for both the chili and gumbo versions. Actually there is no difference. Bill possess several varieties of extremely hot sauce, but one is particularly caustic. It requires asbestos shelf liner just to keep it from burning a whole in the cabinet. He has had the same bottle for years. One drop provides enough heat for a city the size of Terlingua. In every crowd there is a newcomer who ignores the honest disclosure that the sauce will remove varnish from old furniture. I'm not proud of it, but it's always funny. I hope they never run out of that stuff.

One of the mardi gras traditions that we did observe was the King cake. The King cake tradition is an amalgamation of ancient and modern themes. It is similar to coffee cake baked in a ring shape, covered with icing and purple, green and gold sprinkles. (Rita was out of purple, so this particular cake was blue, green and gold . . .so I'm told.) Somewhere in the cake is hidden a little plastic baby, which in some circles represents the baby Jesus. Mardi gras is a spiritual holiday after all.

The cake is sliced into pieces. The person who bites into the Baby Jesus is named the King of the party, and has the obligation of hosting the party next year. I think that is in the Bible somewhere.

Mike was being his helpful self, and began to cut the cake into pieces. There was the horrifying scraping sound of metal against plastic. Something was said about circumcision. Mike agreed to host next year's party. It was the least he could do, I would think.

I thought I would get all serious at this point about how much damage we can do searching for Jesus with a knife in our hands.

But, this night was about friends laughing. And gumbo. And raw oysters already shucked.

A good way to forget about a hard week. And Valentines.

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