The New Orleans Times-Picayune has ceased daily publication.
It’s a sad commentary on the current state of affairs.
I know. Every major city considers its daily newspaper
unique, a treasure. Rightly so. But New Orleans is a special case. Seriously. There
was a time when I would have pooh-poohed the concept. No longer.
The Southern Woman That I Married (TSWTIM) is a New Orleans
native, born in the Touro Infirmary. Although she was raised in Texas, her
family maintained a foothold in NOLA and
she was a frequent visitor throughout her youth. My first visit with her was over 40 years ago. Subsequent
visits have taught me a great deal about why NOLA holds a special place in the
hearts of its residents as well as people around the United States and
throughout the world.
Believe it or not, this brings us back to the
Times-Picayune. If food is a quintessential ingredient in the life of the city,
the Picayune has been an active participant in that food scene for decades
through its publication of recipes and restaurant reviews as well as the
essential Picayune’s Creole Cook Book –
the original edition, not the abridged version that’s touted on Amazon. It’s a valuable resource for TSWTIM,
the more so because it was given to her by Uncle John, a New Orleans native and
something of a God-like figure in the family, with an inscription that touts
TSWTIM as the best cook in the family.
Perhaps another reason that NOLA is such a special place is
its timelessness in the face of a changing world. The Mississippi River, though
constantly changing and challenging, is an ever-present force. If the dives in
the French Quarter have gotten seedier, the rough-edged coffee and powdery beignets at The Morning Call remain the
perfect early morning antidote for a night of revelry, even if it has moved from
Decatur Street in the Quarter to trendier digs in Jefferson Parish. And now,
though the Times-Picayune still exists, it has been forced to change as well,
from a daily publication to, basically, a weekend rag.
Who am I to criticize? I’ve purchased a Kindle, changing my
daily reading habits forever, taking the food out of the mouth of the dour
woman behind the counter at my local used book store. But just as the Kindle isn’t
a book, doesn’t feel like a book or sound like a book when I turn the pages, so
breakfast several times a week won’t be the same in New Orleans without the feel
and sound of the Times-Picayune playing accompaniment. I figure that in the not
too distant future, I’ll wake up in the morning, put on my wifi, voice activated
goggles with the heads-up display, and stare blankly at my morning ‘paper’
while I’m slurping my morning coffee.
Adapt or die.
They promised me flying cars. Where are the flying cars?
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