Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. part three.

When I am a hundred and eight, I will look back on these years and sighing in a rather Chekhovian manner recall with sad fondness, "Yes, Oh, yes, I remember the beginning of the 21st Century," and will pontificate and reminisce freely over anecdotes and champagne.

I feel secure in the knowledge that when we are dead, or you at least as I plan on living forever- others will read about that strange foreign time and place and those strange, awfully lovely people who lived it.

Makers of Art and Candy, writers of novels and printers of porn, piercers of body parts and pressers of chemises de toile fines, dressers of drag and drudges of dress, those schooled in the art of classical music and those schooled in the art of sublime pleasures of tomfoolery.

Some members of future generations will be jealous -as I have been- and some will create new utopias. (If "utopia" is for everyone, "atopia" is, by definition, "not-for-all" Oui?)

Some will seethe and rot.

Both instances amuse me immensely!

As my dear M. Moose and I awoke at 7 am Mardi Gras morning- that is "Fat Tuesday" to those of you not in the know, we realized our over sleeping had hindered our arrival at Mansion Montegut for the annual pre- St. Anne parade breakfast- Ah, Merde ! The subsequent dashing around had limited our time in the usual careful preparation of our toilette and costuming for the parade, so we opted for matching velvet liturgical robes, heavily embroidered from le 19ème Siècle, naturellement, and off we taxied to the gathering of the coven of 2000 or so of our dearest friends- some we had not met yet- and imbibe in a few bottles of bubbly before merrily taking to the streets to parade from the Bywater to Canal street.

We arrived and the scene was something akin to Cecil B Demille meets Dante's Inferno- there were so may variations on a theme it would turn a young girls head - backwards. The breakfast had been ravaged by a group of surly neighborhood types, i.e. skinheads, bikers and the men and women that have that certain hybrid Goth-meets-Country-meets-Punk look I call "Wicca-Billy"- It was all quite charming actually - though I am sure the brioche and mini muffins knew then how the Sabine women felt- hmmm...
The marauders did leave behind few hideous bottles of Chablis- a vintage where the grapes failed miserably that year and they substituted Summer Squash instead. No matter, having our signature foresight, we brought a few bottles of Dom Perrignon '98 - shitty year for men, great for grapes- we of course prevailed, tanking up and hitting the streets of Mardi Gras madness.
As we progressed down into the Vieux Carre, we met some of neighbours that came to join in on the fun- The Lady Jane was a "Ganja Geisha" In an elaborate costume and wig that needed its own zip code, Monsieur Davide rocked the Samurai look in a bald wig, with his huge Katana swinging about to and fro as it is want to do.
We saw the regal Madame Peu de Joie Petrol, dressed as "The Mardi Gras Gorgon- Unchained" -A tribute to David Icke I assumed - ABSOLUTELY Amazing- she only wore body paint with a head dress of real snakes, and as our nude Medusa progressed up Bourbon street more than a few men felt their neither regions turn to stone as she passed- stunning!
The Comtesse D___ , slithered up about half way - dressed as the wife of Sweeney Todd- you know, whatshername- smashing costume- right down to the pie made with real human ingredients, her former husband no doubt.
The party continued for miles and hours, with your dear Cornishon waking up hours later with a size 14 pou de soie pump in one hand and a German passport in the other- c'est la guerre I suppose!

For our own dear Gorgon sisters,
Medusa Punch!
_________________________________________________________________

Scale ingredients to servings
24 oz Vinho Verde white wine
8 oz peach schnapps
8 oz cranberry juice
1 splash sweet and sour mix

Fill a container (size of an iced-tea pitcher) almost halfway with ice. Fill to slightly above ice with Vinho Verde. Add one part peach schnapps, and a splash of sour mix. Fill the remaining space (should be a little less than a quarter of the pitcher) with cranberry juice. Seal and shake vigorously. Serve in glasses.