Posts Tagged With: Jefferson Davis

Jamaican Jerk Seasoning

Jamaican Appetizer

JERK SEASONING

INGREDIENTS

2 teaspoons allspice
½ tablespoon cayenne pepper
½ tablespoon chives
¼ teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
4 teaspoons garlic powder
½ teaspoon nutmeg
1 tablespoon onion powder
1 teaspoon paprika
1 teaspoon parsley
¾ teaspoon pepper
½ tablespoon salt
½ tablespoon sugar or brown sugar
2 teaspoons thyme

Makes about 3 ounces. Takes 5 minutes.

PREPARATION

Add all ingredients to mixing bowl. Mix with whisk. Store in a tightly closed jar.

TIDBITS

1) Jar is an anagram for raj. And not much else, even in 1860. The Pony Express started in 1860, ceasing operations in 1861 because of high costs.

2) In 1859, Mara Angs of Ranam Gas, California, came up with the perfect recipe for root beer. Everybody loved it. One drink of Mara’s delectable beverage and everybody became happy. Californians felt their cares slip away. However, the worthy Miss Angs never did send her recipe to America’s leaders. She couldn’t afford the Pony Express’ postage. Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis never sipped root beer, never became mellow, and so never reached a comprise. The Unpleasantness of 1861-1865 ensued.

3) On July 7, 1869, Ana Gram, proprietor of A Rag Man Bar and Girl sat down after hiring another waitress. Why, her customers would eat anything, even leather shoes, as long as a pretty woman served them. Miss Gram couldn’t hire enough beauties. Everyday, the stage brought 123 waitresses west to Margansa, Kansas. Why not have her new employees bring letters and parcels with them? So, she started AnaGramsTM. An improved postal service would eventually put her out of business, but her contribution to the taming of the West lives on. And a root beerian wave of happiness crashed over the rest of the American land. once she could afford to afford to mail her recipe to President Grant in 1870 . The USA would never fight another Civil War

Chef Paul

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with its 180 wonderful recipes, my newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, and all my other books, are available on amazon.com.

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The Elephants’ Graveyard – Part 2

“Yep, but that won’t do me no good. That ‘phant will just hunt me down and crush every car I drive.”

“Surely, you are blowing a little tiff by that elephant all out of proportion.”

“No, I’m not. An elephant never forgets.”

The cabby remained inconsolable, and so, I waited quietly for AAA to bring the new cab. I then spied the smashed meter, and so, waited contentedly for the new car.

We got into the new car when it arrived, and sped eastward. A few blocks later, we turned into Beauvoir, the last home of Jefferson Davis, only President of the confederacy.

“Is this the Elephants’ Graveyard?”

“No, it isn’t. Well, okay, there’s one elephant buried here.”

We got out of the car and headed toward the guide stationed at the gate.

“I hear you have an actual elephant buried on the grounds.”

“Yes, it’s true,” responded the guide. “His name was Hector, and he’s buried right beside Jefferson Davis under the shade of the oak tree where he used to read.”

“What’s this, an elephant that could read, hard to believe?”

“I’m sorry,” mumbled the blushing guide. “I meant to say where President Davis used to read. But look here, notice how Hector’s grave comes between Jefferson’s grave and that of his wife, Varina.”

“Varina often complained, ‘Jefferson, I do declare you love that beast more than you love me, your own wife.’ Jefferson would respond with the factoid that Varina meant ‘over-the-hill elephant’ in Swahili. Varina then invariably threw a hissy fit which, if she was five foot ten inches tall, instead of her occasional four foot nine, ended with her decking the great man with a solid, right hook. When he regained consciousness, Jefferson would ride Hector over to the home of his great friend Edward Hurlyburly to eat peanuts and drink delicious grape-citrus coolers.”

I listened entranced for hours to many great tales of Mr. Davis and his elephant. “You know, you all won’t find these stories in the history books,” said the guide as I took my leave.

The cabby and I fought our way back through the thick forest and shrubbery of Beauvoir to the cab. I took the lead and held any branches that got in our way.

I suddenly remembered the meter that was no doubt astronomically high.

Thwack! “Ow!”

I turned around and noticed the cabby lying on his back spitting hazelblatt leaves.

“Hey, I know many parts are edible, but let’s get moving. I want to see that Elephants’ Graveyard.”

“Grumble, grumble, Yankee, grumble, ‘phant, grumble.”

Soon, we sped eastward. We turned left at Peters Street and headed toward Keebler Air Force Base. The sight of guards leveling their rifles at us prompted the cabby to stop. The guard knocked at the cabby’s window just as he pushed the button to roll it down.

“Ow, why’d you do that?” complained the cabby as he rubbed his head.

“I’m sorry sir. This is a restricted area. You’re not allowed inside.”

“I don’t want in. I just wanted to show this Yankee those elephant statues.”

The guard then waved to the sergeant on duty who put down his sausage, onion, and hot pepper sandwich to come over. The two airmen talked briefly before the sergeant came over to the car. The sarge, a man of few words, leaned inside the car and talked across the cabby.

“Well sir, those two statues are memorials to Castor and Pollux, two brave elephants, who gave their lives for their country. Back in January 1942, a German U-boat landed a platoon of marines to blow up this base. Security was disorganized back then and the Germans managed to get within just a few yards of the fuel dump when all of a sudden, Castor and Pollux, two wandering elephants charged. They routed the Germans but not before taking hits from a marine, who just happened to be carrying an elephant gun. They saved hundreds of airmen.”

“Gosh, what heroes,” I said.

I revived the wilted cabby and we soon continued eastward on Beach Boulevard. There, just beyond Mameuse Street, on the North side of the street was it, the Elephant’s Graveyard. I would soon understand one of history’s greatest mysteries.

“Son, you’d best stop right there,” said the guard at the entrance. “See, that herd inside. Well, that’s a herd of elephants holding a funeral. It’s not smart to disturb elephants when they’re grief stricken and edgy. You might start a stampede and you just might get stomped and killed. We’ve lost far more than a tolerable amount of tourists that way.”

We argued with the guard but eventually I turned away disappointed. The cabby seemed contented, but then the meter read $350

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The Elephants’ Graveyard – Part 1

“The Elephants’ Graveyard is right there in Biloxi.”

The cabby’s assertion startled me.

“Biloxi, Mississippi? Are you sure about that? It seems hard to believe.”

“It’s true all right. You have my word as a cabby.”

“Come now, I don’t see any elephants here.”

“We’re not in Biloxi, friend. We haven’t left the Airport. We gotta go east to Biloxi to see any elephants. The FAA don’t let no elephants into Gulfport. Dangerous to landing planes, you know.”

The meter ran as he talked and I was anxious to make my meeting, but I couldn’t resist saying,

“But the government is shut down again. Who will keep the elephants out of Gulfport now?”

“Damn!” The cabby slammed on the brakes to stop the cab, which wasn’t hard to do as we weren’t moving. He jumped out of the car. “Ow!” Chastened and little more cautious he opened the door and then got out. He retrieved a massive weapon out of the trunk and made his way back to the cab.

“Here, take this,” he growled as he hurled the gun at me. Minutes later when the ringing in my ears subsided I replied,

“How is it that I never read about it, anywhere?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess the local reporters just got used to ’em, and just never wrote ’em up.”

“But surely, the migration of elephants to Mississippi would have made front-page news?”

“You’re wrong, friend. The elephants came here in 1862, right in the middle of the war. Folks round were just too preoccupied with the fighting to notice them right off. But soon enough, General Lee enrolled them into his army. The ‘phants, as some call them, were in Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. We would have won the battle, but them Yankees let loose thousands of mice. Those mice scared the ‘phants, who turned around and stampeded the Rebel men. That’s how we lost the war.”

“Fascinating, but why did they choose here of all places?”

“For the peanuts.”

“But they don’t grow peanuts in Mississippi, they grow peanuts in Georgia as you well know.”

“Well, those ‘phants didn’t know nothing about that, did they? You’re not as smart as you looked, Mister. I’m fixing to take you there, right now.”

“But, I simply must be at a meeting in Long Beach, to the West!”

He ignored my feeble protests, gunned the engine, and soon we hurtled eastward at speeds up to 20 miles per hour. Soon the fair gulf regaled us with its shimmering beauty.

“Thalassa! Thalassa!”, I shouted to the cabby, “That’s Greek for the ‘The Sea.’ The Sea.”

“Yea, whatever. Look, there’s Peanuts Pavilion. Right next to that is the Planter’s dock and peanut refinery.”

“Ooh, that looks quite interesting. May we stop and investigate?”

“No.” He stomped on the gas pedal as way of protest and soon we were pushing the edge of the envelope at 25. “We’re looking for ‘phants. You gotta problem with that?”

“No,” I meekly replied. Since I was at the cabby’s mercy, I resolved to endure the best I could and would resolutely scan the horizon for the noble beasts whenever I wasn’t following the soaring meter.

Soon we crossed the border into Biloxi and immediately the clouds parted to reveal glorious, golden shafts of sunlight. I could almost swear I could hear angels singing melodious hymns of joy. The cabby belched.

Soon, the traffic in our lane slowed and eventually stopped at Eisenhower Drive, while in the lane to the bookstore, traffic ground to a halt. All the while, the meter merrily climbed. We noticed state troopers inspecting the cars, talking to all, waving some on, and pulling over others. Soon, one made his way to the cabby’s Honda Accord.

“Transporting any illegal elephants with you?”

“No,” the cabby explained at length as he handed over his license.

The trooper examined the license and then carefully pointed his flashlight inside the cab. Eventually, he seemed satisfied by our serene demeanor and waved us on. Whoosh, aided by a tail wind, we again darted eastward, leaving even the most vigorous pedestrians far behind. I turned to watch the Miss-Elephant-Rider-of-the-Mississippi-Gulf-Coast contest taking place on the beach; so did the cabby.

Crash! After shaking off the shattered glass, I looked up to behold a most angry pachyderm. Instinctively, I knew the elephant’s name to be Felix.

“What ho, Felix! How’s it hanging?” I bantered cheerfully to the gray skinned beast breathing in my face. Evidently, this was not proper elephantine etiquette as Felix trumpeted loudly as he crushed the front of the cab with one mighty stamp.

“Damn,” gushed the rattled cabby and then moments later, “I’m ruined.”

“My goodness, it’s not as bad as all that,” I opined. “Aren’t you covered by AAA insurance? I have it and it explicitly states that they will replace any one car crushed by a rampaging elephant.”

“Yep, but that won’t do me no good. That ‘phant will just hunt me down and crush every car I drive.”

“Surely, you are blowing a little tiff by that elephant all out of proportion.”

“No, I’m not. An elephant never forgets.”

The cabby remained inconsolable, and so, I waited quietly for AAA to bring the new cab. I then spied the smashed meter, and so, waited contentedly for the new car.

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