Destination: MOREAUVILLE, LA
Population: 922
Land Area: 3.03 sq. mi.
Location: 31.035 Latitude, -91.976 Longitude
Elevation: 52 ft.
ADVENTURE IN LIFE: Moreauville is still really a place to rest your nerves.Inception (Two-Disc Edition) [Blu-ray]
With a population under 1,000, you have no choice but to.THE SANE: Truth be told, Moreauville, along with the rest of Avoyelles Parish, are in tune with both rural and urban political strategies.
THE INSANE: It’s a haven for those who run for office or run for cover …
When I told you about April’s boucherie at Tut’s, my cousin’s bar, I described the types of food that was served at the heralded event. I told you about the people who participated.
But evidently, I should have gone into greater detail.
You see, Tut’s has two boucheries, with the other occurring the first Sunday in December. During this visit, I not only got to see how the meat was cut for preparation, I also got to see just what makes this small juke joint on Dufour Lane such a political hotbed.
I arrived at Tut’s around 6:30 a.m., because I didn’t want to miss the eventual demise of two young pigs. It almost broke my heart to hear the ejection of a bullet just to provide nourishment and reason for a celebratory spirit. But to quell my disgust I imagined the pigs as the revolutionarily clever Comrade Napoleon and Squealer, in George Orwell’s classic “Animal Farm.”
My distaste for the killing was also soothed by my cousin and proprietary owner, Eunice Bonton (Tut), when she gave me biscuits and coffee. As I brought the morning refreshments to the men butchering the pig, one of the older men insisted that I take a knife and “… get to work …”
So work, I did. I was employed that morning to do everything from cutting cracklings, to cutting meat for stew, to helping “flip” hog head cheese.
As I watched and mimicked the other volunteers’ incisions into the pork belly, I learned from another man that boucheries were a dying tradition. He told me that I should be proud to know what country folks appreciated and that I should carry this tradition throughout my family. When I informed him that I had neither children nor spouse to immediately forego such a ritual, onlookers almost had to give him Abuterol to control his breathing. Since there was no such apparatus to resolve his respiratory issues, he was given a shot of whiskey and his nerves calmed as he gulped the “tonic” until it became a vapor on his lips.
Note to self: Punish self for not having children and getting married when I wasn’t ready.
Cracklings fried in a big, black kettle in the back as other cuts of meat were injected and an eventual stew emitted an aroma that delightfully made your senses dance. I couldn’t believe it, some of those cracklings were the very ones cut with my hands! Slices of sweet potatoes were also cut and fried to a beautiful golden orange that were almost too pretty to eat, until my stomach told me otherwise.
“You gotta try these,” my cousin John Austin, who is also known as Bookie, ordered. “You ain’t eating if you don’t eat this.” His reference was of some chunks of stew meat coming out of the kettle. He then dipped the meat into a bowl of vinegar, salt and pepper.
“The vinegar dip takes some of the wildness out of the meat,” said one of the cooks.
As I struggled to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth, thanks to the acidity of the vinegar, locals and visitors from afar began to file into the small bar. Small gray trays of hog head cheese, complimented by a tray of saltines, were set up on a table in the middle of the bar. Also on the bar were a tray of cracklings and other treats, including red and white boudin.
It was the middle of the day as I sat inside at the bar to partake in a bottle of homemade plum brandy brought by one of the volunteers. Its container was a bottle of Absolute vodka– about a liter – almost filled to the neck. I sat next to my cousins Monique Harris-Gaspard and Selena Joshua-Wright, who paced themselves with sips of Forty Creek, a brand of premium whisky and vodka, respectively. She, along with Tut, watched me consume the plum brandy with ease-too much ease, to be honest. They then laughed as the plum brandy took over all rationale and intelligence.
As if on cue, everyone noticed the beautiful weather. It was only during the previous days the temperature had practically dropped near freezing and the night before was no tropical paradise either. The temperatures were to climb into the low 70s, said the local weatherman, yet a cold front would approach later that evening. However, I didn’t pay attention to the ensuing meteorological forecast; it was the ensuing political forecast that caught & maintained my focus for hours to come.
As I started the plum brandy, visions of sugar plums danced in my head (honestly) and my eyes twinkled like the North Star. Then, they started flowing in: the movers and shakers of the AVP. The politicians. There was a tax assessor and a chief of police. Then there were a few parish police jurors, past and present. But then, as if it was a mirage and I was a nomad in the Sahara Desert, I saw him.
The man. The legend. Bill Belt.
Now, Belt is the former longtime sheriff of Avoyelles Parish, a champion of sorts, depending on who you ask. In early November 2010, Belt, along with his wife and sister, were acquitted of mail fraud and conspiracy, specifically, charges they were operating and gaining funds from an inmate pay phone system used in AVP jails from 1998 to 2003.
But when Belt walked into Tut’s, he wasn’t treated as a man who had just been through a trial. He was treated as a hero. Honestly, when he walked in the door, my cousins and I squinted our eyes because the sun shone into the bar as he crossed the threshold.
“Who is that,” I asked.
“Girl. That’s Bill Belt,” Harris-Gaspard replied.
“Yes, indeed,” we both replied in unison.
Without delay, Belt came in and greeted everyone in the building with the congeniality of a beauty contest host.
But he didn’t come alone and he didn’t come without a reason. Following Belt was Damon Didier, grandson of another legendary sheriff, F.O. “Potch” Didier - and Belt's predecessor. Potch Didier, as bar patrons explained to me, was “ … the best sheriff ever … ” in Avoyelles. “If it weren’t for Potch,” as one reveler explained to me, “the parish would be a mess.” Another commented that Belt only sealed what Potch Didier had put together.
And in true political fashion, Belt grabbed the microphone from the DJ and proceeded to thank everyone for their support. He then reminded them of his legacy and introduced Damon Didier as a candidate in the next sheriff’s race.
Damon Didier promised to be the type of sheriff his grandfather was-whatever that meant. It was evident to me that he was riding on his grandfather’s legacy as he courted the patrons who dominated Tut’s, which by the way, happened to be the minority vote.
“I want to be a sheriff everyone can trust,” said the grandson. But for some reason, Damon Didier didn’t look like a gun-totin’ lawman to me. He appeared as someone who would offer to do my taxes had I been CEO of a Fortune 500 company.
Damon Didier is projected to run against incumbent sheriff Doug Anderson, a local guy, whose roots are deep in the beds of law enforcement. However, personnel concerns, along with a controversial ambulance service contract, have incited the polarization and defection of supporters and opposition.
Bookie, a former deputy, is lit like a halogen headlight by the bar’s political climate, and shakes his head in agreement at Damon Didier and Belt, then proceeds to introduce the duo to other bar patrons before the two men depart the building.
Another parish politician, Kirby Roy, of Hessmer, is standing outside talking to Avoyelles Parish District Four Police Juror Joe Johnson, of Mansura. Worn out from either the plum brandy or the oratory overload, I approach Johnson just to say hello and then once again, I hop on the campaign rhetoric railroad with Roy. Roy, a Republican, is seeking to unseat La. State Rep. Rob Johnson (D-28), who didn’t attend the boucherie.
“I know I’m a Republican, but everyone knows I’m a good guy who’s all about the people … everyone,” Roy said. “There are some folks who won’t come out to stuff like this. But, this is where it is. These are people you want in your corner.”
I don’t know if Roy was alluding to Johnson or what he meant by “… stuff like this …’ ” but as I faded in and out from my inebriated state, he seemed to stay on track with interacting with hopeful constituents, informally pitching his platform. He seemed to be a hands-on type of guy who could cross any political party and turn it into a shindig type of party-hands down. Big fun.
As the day dwindled, the temperature dropped and so did the number of patrons. The politicians also left – with Styrofoam folding plates loaded with the day’s wares – and contact numbers of potential supporters. And as I proceeded to leave, I began to internally question if the AVP stood for more than pork lunches on a cool December day.
Could it also stand for pork barreling? Or perhaps Tut’s stood as the deliciously residential Ulcer Gulch for those who already aggravated their ulcers with such delicious food? Hmmm … food for thought.
In either case, I now know that Tut’s is so much more than a pillbox oasis that has inebriated the thirsty masses of Avoyelles Parish and beyond. It represents the backbone of rural politics at its best, with a plate of pork stew and rice for constituents, and a glass of plum brandy to wash it all down.
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