G ive Me Okra or Give Me Death
"Stop, stop , stop! You have to pull over Teej. Ouuu, there's a place. Stop now!" I was all but screaming as I bounced up and down in my seat driving through the warehouse district part of Magazine Street after seeing The Crescent City Market. Swerving over to the side of the road and, only pausing to make sure it was legal to park, I bounded out of the car and started a quick walk down to the market. A farmer's market: one of my favorite things in my favorite food place… New Orleans.
I rushed Teej to get out of the car and hurry up as I anxiously anticipated the goods of the market ahead. Homemade pesto strong with fresh basil. Dense rye loaves made by a German man who stood, hands on hips, with his goods. "Classic rye bread," he said in his heavy German accent. I soon found out that this could be the closest to Germany I may get, as the first people to inhabit New Orleans were the German, contrary to popular belief that it was the French-Canadians. 
Moving down I saw homemade pastries, and cooler full of giant "scrimps" sitting next to a huge hanging scale. The sheer size of the little coastal shellfish made me stare in awe. I wished I could buy a few pounds and cook them up that night. The closest to that I could come was taking a picture and moving on before the real heartache could set in. Teej and I rounded the circle of tables, tasting and then buying locally made hot sauce. Teej scrunched her nose, having an acute taste for anything even mildly spicy, as I engulfed a huge sample the man prepared of a chip doused in his sauce.
"Oh that's nice. Not too hot. Hot in a good way, with a little sweet finish!" I said as he bagged up my bottle of pepper goodness. The market was closing up, but we managed to purchase a huge bag of fresh okra, which I ate raw from the plastic bag as we walked back down the street.
Food moments like this made up most of my trip to New Orleans. I could tell of my fabulous and personal birthday dinner at my beloved Galatoires with reserve wines and a banana bread pudding that made me weak in the knees. 
Much better than the flan with the birthday candle that came out right before this banana and caramel laden beauty was whisked to the table. However, the real glory of my trip was the okra. Oh, sweet okra with its soft thick skin incasing gelatinous seeds and a juice known only to okra that thickens like nothing else.
In baskets at farmers' markets. Fresh from the farm. Frozen in bags stashed in bulk amounts in my freezer. Stewed with tomatoes. Swirling around with andouie sausage in big bowls of gumbo. Stir-fried with peppers and onions. I love my okra. Oddly enough, I hated okra growing up and sadly, I hated it in that ignorant childish sort of way where you "don't like it" but have never actually tasted it. I had it all figured out in my head that okra was no friend of mine, and refused the soft and squishy little bits covered in cornmeal batter and fried into crispy brown balls. They were served on the school hot lunch, the country club buffet, and dripped dry on paper towels in my own kitchen with my mother dipping, frying, and munching. Even a local high school in the Mississippi delta has okra as their mascot. I had been offered okra my entire life, yet turned my nose up and cut myself off from this regional produce star. Moving along in my culinary ventures, I discovered okra, and have not turned back since.
No one here in the Hudson Valley understands my passion for okra. I argue with grocers about why the okra is not available or in economy family sized bags I can purchase and consume at my leisure. I get gitty when my local market has a huge crate of okra, stuffing my bags full and always saying to anyone who walks by, "I loveeeee okra. It's so good. Maybe its because I'm southern. Oh, I love okra." They walk by all the while wondering why this woman is so excited about okra, which is slimy and foul. I see the slime as my favorite thickening agent, a binding thing of love. And the only thing foul about okra is the nights I do not have it, or the times I see a steaming pot of gumbo without the familiar green shapes full of white seeds showing in their circular pattern.
The New Orleans okra was my last taste of this summer's fresh okra. I am now back to my bags of frozen pods, which are eaten as soon as I get them. I didn't have the heart to throw away my okra and proudly packed it, still in the plastic sack, in my carry on bag for my flight home. A long cab right, through airport security, a flight to Atlanta and its bustling terminals, a flight to New York, and a ride home. Still secure in the bag on the back seat from White Plains to my apartment refrigerator in Poughkeepsie, NY; I babied my okra in its fleeting moments of freshness. Munching them on the plane, I knew this amount would only last me one more solid dish. I made a silent pact with myself to make this okra proud of what it would become: a steaming pot of my own rendition of shrimp creole complete with chunky tomatoes held together with the okra's sweet goo. Eating the creole, I was taken back to the warm day at the Crescent City Market, and smiled. Visions of me and my mother came to mind and helped me to enjoy my okra with a full and happy heart.
