I’m a lapsed Catholic. At one time, I liked all the pomp and circumstance and spiritual magic the “magic” the dogmatic side required to make Mass….well, Mass. I can remember when priests only celebrated Mass in Latin. I also remember not being able to eat meat on Fridays. This pre-Vatican II mandate drove my Methodist mother crazy. Yes, I’m the by product of mixed marriage. She tried her best to abide by meatless Fridays and it drove her crazy. Fish sticks got boring so she tried things like waffles for dinner. To this day, I can’t eat breakfast after 9:30 am.
I’ve always been aware of Fat Tuesday, but for some reason, I forget that the following day is Ash Wednesday. That’s when the leftover palms from Palm Sunday are burned and during special Wednesday services throughout the day, the priest dips his finger into a bowl of ashes ashes and makes the sign of the cross on congregants’ foreheads. I forgot Ash Wednesday this year, too. A man walked by me at The Dollar Store today sporting an ashen forehead and I thought! “Oh shit, I forgot it again.”
Now, some priests are absolute artists with their signage.
Comme ça:
Others….not so much:
This looks like it’s part Star of David/part burnt Gingerbread man. And mind you, Catholics are supposed to keep their ashen crosses on their foreheads all day. Even if it looks like ⇑.
Anyway, I lived in Houston and for over two decades which meant I also spent time in Galveston, about 50 miles southeast of The Big (713). Galveston is a bit like New Orleans. You can see its French and Spanish influences everywhere. Many of the homes are old, but they’ve the stateliness of classic Victorian homes, at least externally. The interiors can be ultra modern.
And like many homes in New Orleans, particularly in the lovely Garden District, all have high foundations. I would suppose that’s to keep the houses above tidal surges from hurricanes. Maybe it’s to better take advantage of the sea breezes. I’m not really sure, but the point I’m trying to make is that Galveston is a lot like NOLA. Both are very Catholic, both host Mardi Gras celebrations, both offer terrific étouffée, gumbo, shrimp, oysters on the half-shell and a la Rockeller and both have had (or still have) mob connections. Both cities are also kind of witchy.
As a broadcaster, I’ve covered several Mardi Gras (which is French for “Fat Tuesday”) falderal in Galveston for a number of years, so I know that’s the day before Lent starts which makes it a day to glutton up and drink and eat everything important to you. Lent kicks in at midnight on Fat Tuesday. For Lent, we pay homage to Jesus’ existential contemplation in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights. This sojourn involved making sacrifices of food, water and wine. So, we make sacrifices of the stuff we like best for the 40 days from the start of Lent to Easter Sunday. Try as I might, I’ve never been able to stick with my with Lenten intentions with any success, but this time, I am. I will. I’ve struck a particular deal with the Big G-Man up above. And I WILL go the next 38 days trying my damndest to stay strong.
I love Coke (fear not my fellow former blow monkeys: that’s coke as in A-Cola). Other than that, I’m not into sweet stuff. I stopped jonsin’ for chocolate, Jolly Rancher anything, Cracker Jack, ice cream, even cookies for about 18 years now. Every once in a while, I’ll partake in something sweet, but’s it’s nothing I crave.
Por ejemplo: put a big piece of chocolate cake and a slice of New York pizza in front of me. I’ll go with the pizza every time. If I were in a mood to eat my feelings, then yes, I’d eat the cake, too. But as a rule, I choose savory over sweet every time.
So, when deciding to go head first into Lent, giving up Cokes was a no brainer, but I felt there had to more substance to my sacrifice, so I elected to add starches to my Lenten list. No bread, no rice, no potatoes. Basically, I’m giving up all things white, including white men, which as decorum mandates, I could’t date anyway, at least not until after Easter.
