Sugared up for Fat Tuesday: Sucre

Fat Tuesday will soon be here.  Are you a Mardi Gras fan?  Texquiem is.

I think it started when I was a child, and my mother once brought me souvenirs from New Orleans.  Never an "all-I-got-was-a-lousy-T-shirt" traveler, Mom instead brought home an iconic jazz poster and a beaded, beribboned mask for Mardi Gras.

Texquiem is not a fan of the crowds, mind you.  I'm more a fan of the legacy.  The tradition.  I admit, too, it's appealing to shed the staid and reserve of your usual you.  One last hurrah before Ash Wednesday, its reverence, its fasting, and the Lenten season to follow.  (But no, I'm not flashing you the goods for a strand of cheap beads.)

For my finicky children, Mardi Gras is all about two things:  the cake and the baby.

King Cake to be precise.

On Ice for New Year's

The Galleria was open on New Year's Day.  I (guiltily) admit to being there.  I don't even have the excuse of returning ill-fitting Christmas presents.  Simply, I was in town and the lure of 60%-off sales was too great.

Maybe the Galleria is always open on New Year's.  I mean, if it's not open, where do all of the visiting  tourists spend their time and money?  Usually, though, I am out-of-town at New Year's (preferably somewhere snowy), generally where the locals cuss under their breath about all those damn Texans in town.  So, I'm not griping about the out-of-town shoppers.  Merely observing that I had to wait to snap this quick shot of the Galleria's Christmas tree on the ice rink, then try to explain to those waiting that I intended to take a picture without them or anyone else in it.  Plus, I wasn't nearly as dressed up as they were, so maybe they thought I was just a peasant, or something.

The Galleria Ice Rink has always fascinated me.  As a child, newly moved to Houston, I thought the rink and Marvin Zindler were surely among the Eight Wonders of the World.  Having moved here from po-dunk, I had big eyes trying to take in the three-story gallery and an ice rink beneath.  Ice, when it's hotter than Hades outside?  And a three-story mall?  In my then-limited experience, we'd had to drive over an hour to reach the nearest mall of any size--itself one-story except for the few anchor stores topping out at two.

Merry Christmas, Houston

Six pairs of massive arches, mirror finish.  Each set 700 feet apart, like a promenade down Post Oak.  In 1995, this became more than just the Galleria--as if that wasn't enough.  It became "Uptown Houston."  New, matching street lights and traffic signals.  Giant, circular "gateway rings" hovering at the bigger intersections, suspended 55 feet in the air.  

Modern.  Brash.  And adorned for Christmas. Stainless steel, frankincense and myrrh.

Looking down Post Oak, with Neiman Marcus and Transco in the background.

Merry Christmas, Houston.

River Oaks Christmas Lights: There Goes the Neighborhood

Neighborhoods with Christmas decorations have long attracted traffic jams, whether suburb, small town, or big city.  As a child, we'd jump in the car with my grandmother and drive all around town to look at the Christmas lights.  We'd even cruise the country roads, just to see who decked the halls.  Some neighborhoods revel in Christmas decor--with themes and all.  When I was off at university, my parents' neighborhood passed out a giant wooden sign for each home owner to decorate as a Christmas card.  And no, my mom wouldn't let my dad spray paint "Bah humbug" across it, graffitti-style (though the snarky amongst us begged her please).  Heck, I seem to recall the Chronicle publishing articles suggesting good light-viewing neighborhoods.  (And here's this year's Houston Press Top Five.)  I'm just not surprised to see the stream of SUVs and cars, bumper-to-bumper, ooo-ing and aahhh-ing over the Christmas lights in River Oaks.  I do love the lights, especially those wrapped roots-to-tips up impossibly tall and gnarled oaks.  Here's my favorite:

Yes, I know it's not an artful picture, but I felt successful just snapping one, not-very-blurry picture that excludes on-coming traffic.  But still.  You have to draw the line somewhere.  Families on bikes.  Tour buses.  Horse-drawn carriages.  I think I'm okay with those . . . creative, gets cars off the road.  But where I draw the line?

I'll Save You, Donne Di Domani!

My dear, dear Donne Di Domani sauce. . . I know and I'm ever so humbly sorry. But it's all okay now.  You're safe.

I thought you were protected.  After all, had I not crowed here, on the pages of Texqueim, of my triumph in finally meeting you, in person?  Of my plans to savor you with only the S-worthy?  I swear, I proclaimed my love of you near and far, even calling long distance to my mother, herself a veteran of so many years of the Nutcracker Market with nary a single sighting of you.

Donne Di Domani at the Nutcracker Market

The Nutcracker Market is the Houston Ballet's annual fete a fundraiser.  Four days, 700 volunteers, 300+vendors, and 85,000 104,000 motivated shoppers.  It raises $2.5 million each year for the ballet and $13 $17.7+ mil for those hyper-busy vendors.  It's been a Houston tradition since 1980.

The star of the market is undeniably the Donne di Domani marinara.  How many bottled spaghetti sauces are dubbed a wildly frisky gem by a well-known food critic?  This is near-mystical spaghetti sauce, folks.  Mystical and a mystery--at least to me, that is.  The sauce sells out pronto!  Ladies RUN to the booth as soon as the doors open, and a long line forms quickly.  It sells out on the first day, sometimes by noon.  In fourteen years, I've never once even seen the sauce.  That is, until today.  

Legend, yes, but mystery no more: