I remember my first brush with Mardi Gras. I was living on the Florida Panhandle in the mid-’80s, and my girlfriend at the time greeted me at the door, a colorful Medusa of plastic beads with a drink in her hand.
“It’s Mardi Gras,” she slurred.
“Huh?”
As a recovering Yankee Catholic, I knew about Ash Wednesday, Mardi Gras’ dour doppleganger where we smear ashes on our heads to remind ourselves that we’re mere mortals, born in sin, composed of dust. But those damned Eastern European Catholics never taught me about the cool part. Fat Tuesday. An orgy of fun before embarking on the ashes and self-deprivation of Lent. Needless to say, I learned fast and Mardi Gras is now one of my favorite holidays, right up there with Dia de los Muertos.
And for some reason, I’m feeling much more of a need to connect with Mardi Gras this year. I started Sunday with a bloody mary, a fire and Cubanismo’s “Mardi Gras Mambo.” It’s been pretty much a blur of Professor Longhair, Jelly Roll Morton