I have done my share of traveling and plan to do much more, but the thought of living anywhere but here is anathema to me. When I was exiled after Katrina, a friend suggested that none of us knew where we would be living in two years I knew exactly where I would be: In my purple cottage in Uptown New Orleans surrounded by like-minded, relatively impractical people who are food and music obsessed and who, for the most part, drink too much, talk too loud, and always seem to have extra to share.

We (Jyl & Susan) are currently in Shreveport for the Louisiana Travel Promotion Association's (LTPA) annual Summit meeting. Yesterday Susan and I were invited to lunch at The Shreveport Club, a private space established by members of the Shreveport business community in 1945. Elegant and gracious, the club features beautifully  appointed dining rooms and expertly executed regional cuisine.

I first met Poppy Tooker over 22 years ago. It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve and she descended upon the French Quarter home of Robin Mcalear—a friend who became my mother in law, then became my former mother in law, then became my friend again—bearing bottles and jars of homemade holiday cheer. As though Poppy's alabaster skin, scarlet lips, and raven hair (which was twisted into a glamorous chignon) were not enough to stop traffic, Poppy had donned a crimson velvet holiday gown with a full sweeping skirt and a fitted, subtly revealing bodice. This was back in the early 90s when femininity was out and most women dressed like men. I've no doubt that Santa appeared at Poppy's Uptown home later that evening and presented her with whatever the Hell she wanted. She was a force.

In Poppy I quickly discovered a kindred spirit with passions for cooking, writing, and Louisiana heritage. I was about to graduate from college while working as a Times-Picayune newsroom grunt and trying to figure out what to do with my life. Meanwhile, Poppy seemed to be living The Dream. She just seemed to follow her passions and effortlessly morph them into the life she wanted to live - while getting paid to do it. Her personal motto is "Eat It To Save It!," and she has been instrumental in reviving endangered local foods such as Creole cream cheese and rice calas.

It  never made any sense to me that conference and convention attendees to New Orleans' Ernest N. Morial Convention Center  - all of these captive potential ambassadors for the country's most distinctive food culture  - were being fed junk like flabby turkey sandwiches on gummy white bread, generic pasta Alfredo, baked chicken and rice pilaf, pre-processed hamburgers, pasta and meat sauce. Ugh. What the Hell? These poor people were ushered into the very representative center of the most exciting, hospitable, food-obsessed place most of them will ever visit and we were feeding them the kind of crap they could pull off of a nursing home cafeteria line anywhere from Seattle to Pensacola.

To say  that Susan and I recently went to a "tasting" for a "new menu" at the convention center with low expectations would be a dramatic understatement. The phrases "pack a picnic" and "stomach pump" may have been used as we parked the car.

When I saw Donald Link lingering around the food court I figured he was grabbing a cup of bad coffee on his way to address some group of conventioneers. When he told me he had created the new menu for the convention center I figured his contribution would be limited to something like a designer hot dog with a wicked price tag. You know, one of those deals where a celebrity puts their name on something but doesn't really do anything.

Sorry for assuming this, Donald. I was so wrong.

After two and a half weeks in Michigan my daughter, Cecilia, arrived home on Monday evening and announced a craving for "real food" so we repaired to Cochon Butcher for 

lunch on Tuesday. We shared a little smoked duck and gruyere pizzetta and Cecilia tore into a hot Cubanosandwich that was fantastically gooey and crisp all at once. I am a junkie for house-made potato chips as well as all manner of condiments so the act of munching a basket of chips drizzled with Butcher's Sweet Potato Habañero Sauce nearly threw me into orbit. I have a cast-iron stomach and a high tolerance for blazing hot flavors and nearby tourists stared with what may have been awe while Cecilia just seemed embarrassed or grossed out. Her being a week shy of 15, I can count on her to have one of these two reactions to pretty much everything I do so I am used to it.

A culture's condiments offer easily accessible, concentrated explorations into whatever flavors are predominant in that culture's cuisine (food culture). The Indian people accent their foods with chutney; the Vietnamese with, among other things, nuoc cham, chili garlic, and Sriracha. The French seem to dress everything in either garlic-y aioli or Dijon mustard, while Midwesterners drown their sandwiches and mix their tuna fish with viscous, stinky (sorry) Aunt Nellie's Old Style Sauce.