Making friends with an exceptionally talented specialty pastry artist, I’ve come to know, is always a good thing to do.  If you haven’t befriended one yet — like my pal Melissa Torres, aka Cake Hero — I highly recommend it.  A couple of years ago, I trusted her to create my birthday cake, and boy howdy did she deliver: A giant, pink pig’s head with edible fondant ears, big black Xs over the eyes, and, in its long snout, a wax apple that served as the candle.  And when we cut it open?  You guessed it: red velvet cake.  It was gruesomely fun, not to mention tasty.  So, this past year I again decided to employ my friend and her considerable talents to craft me another exquisite birthday creation.  Only this time, I wanted it to be a surprise.  I emailed about fifty of my friends, and told them to take whatever they knew about me, for good or ill, and get in touch with Melissa with ideas and suggestions for what they felt was the perfect Scott Gold cake, something that summed me up in one lovingly baked and frosted package.  Given how much they knew, I couldn’t help but worry a little bit, but I was willing to give Melissa the benefit of the doubt.  Then, on the big night, after a massive Roman family-style feast at Testaccio restaurant with my parents (flown in from the deep South) and two dozen of my friends, the big surprise was unveiled:

It was so beautiful, I nearly broke into tears.  Being an avid guitarist and a professional meat maven, I expected something to do with steaks or Les Pauls or Led Zeppelin or explosions, possibly all four in combination (my friend Katie suggested “Something with a pig shredding a guitar solo, with sausages for musical notes.”).  But what was set before me was just so… perfect.  My home state.  The black and gold fleur de lis.  And, my god, even an edible magnolia flower!  Of course, it was also delicious, a chocolate cake — my favorite since childhood — with peppermint buttercream frosting for a festive, wintry vibe.  If ever there was a moment where I was both heartsick with nostalgia and glowing with pride, this was it.

Being from New Orleans isn’t like being from most other places.  Whether you were reared in the Crescent City as a babe and raised on King Cake and po-boys, as I was, or you’ve adopted the city as your own at some point, there’s little doubt that NOLA, like some sort of hoodoo magic, gets inside of you, into your blood, your bones, and eventually makes a permanent nest in your heart.  And now that our beloved, historically beleaguered Saints will be making their first Superbowl appearance in history this Sunday (WHO DAT!!!), I couldn’t think of a better time to reflect a bit on what my hometown — and its food — mean to me.

When people speak of New Orleans, the cuisine always rises to the surface of conversation.  Since I’ve been living north of the Mason Dixon, I’ve noticed that every time I encounter another Louisiana native, it’s barely minutes before the conversation turns to food.  And when people ask me about my career as a writer and why I decided to focus primarily on food, I tell them where I’m from, and they usually say something to the effect of, “Well, that figures.”  And the wonderful thing about New Orleans cuisine is not that it’s the most haute, the most refined and exquisitely crafted food in the world — although, of course, some of it is.  What really strikes me most about my hometown and its dedication to gustatory delights, is that the word “foodie” almost never enters the local lexicon.  If you live in New Orleans, you love to eat.  Not just to stuff your face, mind you, but to really savor and enjoy.  There’s no pretense, no culinary elitism about the way we love food.  We just love food.  For us, every meal is a holiday, and we’re not shy to share the holiday cheer.  We love to eat and sing and dance and revel in the company of our friends and family, and usually strangers as well.  And everyone in town — from the little boys tap dancing in Jackson Square with bottle caps on their shoes to the chef de cuisine at Commander’s Palace — feels this way.  It’s just how we’re made.  The cloth from which we’re cut?  Probably cheese cloth.

Since this column is about meat, I couldn’t help but share a few of my favorite New Orleans delights with you.  Not all, of course; I’ll have to save that for a book, seeing as how long I could wax poetic about the gustatory offerings of my beloved south Louisiana.  It would be an understatement to say that people from my neck of the woods enjoy their meat.  In fact, not a few people in New Orleans consider raising a child in the city as a vegetarian to be nothing short of child abuse.  The impressive bounty of game and seafood indigenous to the area, not to mention the myriad culinary traditions — Cajun, Creole, Irish, Italian, Spanish, French, African, etc. — has stewed together over centuries to create the gumbo we enjoy today.  Take, for example, the swamp.  There’s probably nothing that swims, slithers, hops or crawls among the cypress knees and bog water of South Louisiana that its people haven’t cooked up at one point or another.  On a recent trip through the state, I insisted to my Mother on pain of adult temper tantrum that we must stop at Prejean’s restaurant just outside of Lafayette.  Sure, it might be a little on the touristy side, what with the stuffed 14-foot, 800-pound, 65 year-old alligator (nicknamed “Big Al”) that greets you as you enter.  But Prejean’s not only has the most insanely delicious duck and andouille gumbo, they also have the most insane seafood platter ever assembled: alligator tenders, oysters, shrimp, shrimp-stuffed crab, and catfish, all fried-up golden and served on a bed of french fries with sides of corn maque choux and dirty rice.  It’s as though someone one day decided to deep-fry the entire contents of the nearby bayou.  With fries.

Yes, I know, it’s a heart attack on a plate, but you know what?  Not a bad way to go, if you ask me.  And this, of course, is only a slice of the Cajun-influenced side of our cuisine.  Most people, when they visit NOLA for the first time, are somewhat surprised that the shops in which you’ll find the very best fried green tomatoes with shrimp remoulade or grouper amandine also serve pizza, lasagne and spaghetti with meatballs.  Italian immigrants have had a deep and lasting effect on the culinary landscape of the Crescent City, most notably with the muffaletta, our take on the classic Italian sandwich.  The Central Grocery in the French Quarter (ironically enough) is home to this classic combination of ham,  capicola, salami, mortadella, emmentaler, and provolone garnished with olive salad and served on a roll of bread roughly the size of a tractor tire.  Though a newcomer to the local scene, on my last trip I enjoyed a divine muffaletta at Donald Link’s Cochon Butcher, and I have to say, they nailed it.

Naturally, I could go on.  Get me a cold glass of Abita, and I’d be happy to spend hours regaling you with tales of food from the city and the swamp, from the ghettos to the Garden District.  Problem is, I’m making myself hungry, and I need to get something good inside my belly if I’m going to have strength enough to adequately cheer on my boys in black and gold this Sunday.  And you’d better believe that when I do, it will be with a hot bowl of red beans and rice with ham and sausage, crispy fried alligator tenders, and some very cold beer.  As for Peyton and the Colts, I wish you the best of luck.

You’re gonna need it.