"Jazz Festival"?? More like Food Feast...

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As I enter the sprawling mud covered terrain, I am overwhelmed by different sounds, smells, and structures drawing my attention in every direction. It was my first visit to New Orleans, LA and I couldn’t wait to immerse myself in the immense culture that I’d heard so much about. Luckily, my revisit day to Tulane University (where I plan on spending my next four years) coincided with New Orleans’ famous annual Jazz and Heritage festival. When I set out for the festival, I was expecting to just roam the grounds for a few hours and take advantage of the various artists performing; however, within minutes of first entering the grounds, I realized that this would be nothing like what I’d anticipated. A heavy storm had just passed, leaving the fair grounds thick in mud more similar to glue. Each step required enough physical exertion to leave my calves sore for days, ruining my shoes and splattering manure-scented grime onto my legs in the process. However, despite the repugnant smell and filth surrounding me, my appetite remained unaffected and eager to indulge. Nearly a hundred miniature cabin-like structures extended across the fairgrounds, each one offering their own unique variation of NOLA’s renowned southern cooking, rooted with Caribbean features. Cajun and Creole staples were widespread, and if you looked hard enough you could even find a few Japanese and Mexican offerings as well. However, I opted to try some of the more locale dishes. My first prey was the deep fried green tomato. Clothed in a sumptuous salty fried batter, the added crunch and burst of flavor provided the perfect contrast to the unripe tang of the savory tomatoes. Although I had hoped to eat healthily in preparation for my upcoming prom, after having such a joyous experience with the friend green tomatoes, I just couldn’t stop. Everywhere I looked I saw signs for some sort of crawfish delicacy. Offered as a bisque, in a batter, or simply the main ingredient in a New Orleans’ signature “Po-Boy” sandwich, you could find crawfish in virtually any form. However, after a fellow patron walked past holding a massive container of the cockroach-like creatures in their natural form, I was determined find them boiled. Forty-five minutes and a few miles of wandering later, I arrived at my destination: the boiled crawfish stand. I exchanged eight dollars for about twenty-five miniature lobsters infused with a mixture of spices: paprika, salt, cayenne pepper, thyme, and a bountiful amount of garlic and onion powder. Numbed by flavor and covered in the intestines of my many victims, I decided to head back to my hotel early and wash up for dinner. In NOLA, it’s as if I created a few new compartments within my body capable of storing anything and everything I desired, making it easy for me to say that my eyes most defiantly are not bigger than my stomach.