Grasping pails of frozen nectar on the Gulf Coast

Emily D. Torrey 

Before New Orleans, spring came to me in pieces. Spring in a northern climate is almost nonexistent, winter becomes wet, never really drying out, and then suddenly, it is summer. Growing up on the southern coast of Maine, I was long robbed of the power of spring. When I moved to Ohio for college I found solace in April when I could finally sit on the shore of the Kokosing River and eat my melting buckeye ice cream cones. Springtime in my twenties was spent in Brooklyn, inhaling the sheer “THANK GOD” of iced coffees, proliferating cherry blossoms in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, and long walks from Jay Street Metrotech to Bedford Stuyvesant during the few days of the year when the A train is colder than the warm night air up above on Fulton Street.

These pieces of spring always made me yearn for a more honest feeling of renewal that I had never truly felt as the seasons of the North East churned on. In Maine, Summer is the cherished season of food and sun and unleashed joy. Fuchsia beach roses dot my memories amongst swaths of out-of-staters who have come to vacationland for shorelines and shitty lobster rolls. Lobster rolls in Maine are the default of perfection, but those hailing from this particular coastline know how to spot the ones that drown the trademark delicate sweetness of the lobster’s flesh in mayo and throw lettuce in between the meat and the bun, adding insult to injury. 

But Maine’s summer is cruel in its shortness. There were only about thirty days of the summer when I could run into the ocean to escape the “hot” beach, and there the lies of summer are told with each frigid wave crashing on my body. Maine is on the North Atlantic. And soon the air would once again match the water, numbing me to the bone.

In August, 2020, I picked up all of my Brooklyn pieces -- my dog Fred, the memory of every great bagel with schmear I’ve ever had, and moved to New Orleans.

Every time I land somewhere new the anchor is always food. I have predominantly seen the magical world of New Orleans through food. But spring, and the food it bears, was the piece I was waiting for since my one and only friend, my dearest Sav and East Louisiana native, sang missives of its healing power. “New Orleans spring is ooohh! You just have to see it. You have to taste it.” Sav’s southern twang is light and charming, just like her wide green eyes, and her heaving laugh. Spring came to New Orleans in late February, offering my yearning heart vibrant and delicious gifts. Impossibly pink bougainvillea spilled through fences in excess; magnolia trees broke open their soft blush pink buds and turned the uneven sidewalks into fragrant cushioned pathways. The grass grew wild and full of tiny wildflowers in yellows and purples. And the jasmine trees, so tall and wide, revealed bunches upon bunches of delicate tiny flowers in fragrant swelling plumes of white. Citrus trees blossomed on almost every residential street, turning walks with Fred into sweet fruity treasure hunts for kumquats, lemons, limes, figs, avocados, and bananas. 

New Orleans spring also brought my taste buds back to life. The spring weather begets everyone out of their small houses, searching for food in the aftermath of frost. My neighbor Kenny, now eats his lunch (cheeseburger and fries) every afternoon on his porch dressed in a white button down and slacks with a napkin tucked to his neck, atop a plastic table with a white tablecloth just so he can “eat with the neighborhood.” Real food here is shared outdoors. As Kenny knows with his daily napkin bib, it is messy to eat, and involves dirtying both of your hands.

Springtime in New Orleans is crawfish season, usually served from a thin plastic bag and eaten ONLY outside because the smell of the shells and juice within the animals is too thick and heavy to dissipate indoors. Break the small red body and just suck out whatever is in the head. Sweetness and umami mixes with the sharp spice and salt of Tony Chachere's Creole Seasoning. Rouses’, a Louisiana grocery store chain, sells good crawfish boils. Almost as good as the steaming bags you can pick up from roadside vendors on Bayou St. John  who sit in their truck beds on the side of the almost stagnant water, holding plastic shovels to their breasts by their igloo coolers teeming with the hot red crustaceans and half ears of corn. If they sell out it will be some extremely random and disparate time from the day before, “just missed us we’re done for today” at 6:11 pm or at 11:59 am “baby girl! Would you believe it, heeeeeouuuu, noon!? Come back and see me tomorrow baby girl!” But at what time? Who knows? 

The Bayou St. John denizens know this crawfish bounty will keep on giving all season long if they try hard enough and if they keep their patience. There are no plans or expectations written in stone here, and everyone shares their treasures with neighbors and strangers alike. For instance, gumbo is never to be eaten at a restaurant, it is only served from a brimming brown pot on moms’ stove, or grandmothers, or from the kitchen window of a friend who decides to serve it to everyone recovering from Lundi Gras and preparing for Mardi Gras. 

When Carnival season hits in early January, I should have not been surprised when various neighbors left generous slices of the coveted Dong Phuong cream cheese king cake on my stoop and laughed heartily when I bit down on the purple, gold, and green sugared icing to taste a small plastic baby and then have to buy them the next cake. 

And what of dessert in the springtime? Plum Street Snoballs offers mountains of fluffy shaved ice served in small, medium, large, or bucket sized containers and smothered in one of their fifty syrup flavors of your choosing. While it feels sacrilegious to choose a favorite, one cannot go wrong with a flavor called nectar. The sugar flavor is light with notes of floral, and as sweet as the person handing it to me from the literal hole in the wall that is almost sixty years old. I committed to Plum Street, over the much lauded Sno Blitz Snowball Stand, when the man behind my first snowball paused, once he handed it to me and asked if my puppy wanted some ice too. 

New Orleans delivered to me the most ripe and pungent piece of spring. The bigness, the boldness; so loud and unapologetic in color, in taste, smell, and sight has resonated deeply. It feels like rebirth. Like the reckless abandon of childhood that is filled with love and with so much life. In so many ways, New Orleans has picked up my pieces, putting them together into what finally feels like the right order.


EMILY D TORREY IS A FIRST TIME CONTRIBUTOR TO DIGEST MAG. SHE IS CURRENTLY A RISING SECOND YEAR LAW STUDENT AT LOYOLA UNIVERSITY OF NEW ORLEANS. THESE DAYS SHE IS MOST GRATEFUL FOR THE CHICORY IN HER COLD BREW AND BREAKFAST BURRITOS FROM HI-VOLT CAFE.