I’m an only child but I have never longed for siblings, as I’ve been fortunate enough in my life to have met incredible women who have always managed to fill any void a longing for a sister might create. Some of my friendships stretch back to kindergarten and my friend Rochelle and I are always proud to say (in unison) to anyone who asks how long we’ve known each other, “We’ve been friends since preschool." It is a gift to be sure and I will never take for granted how blessed I am to have an amazing group of girlfriends in my life.

The friend I’ve known the longest however was, I believe, my friend before we were born. I hold her heart so tightly bound to my own that I am certain we knew each other somewhere else before, or perhaps we just belonged to the same patch of stardust floating around out there in the universe before we arrived here on earth and met each other in the flesh at last. Every time I see her after a long absence, my eyes fill with tears and my heart flutters. My friend has me smitten. I adore her, and I always will.

Our inevitable encounter (for I do believe it was fate) was made easier by the fact that our mothers were best friends from high school and we have therefore known each other since she was one, and I was born. I am certain though that it was not just circumstance that brought us together, it’s impossible to love someone so much just as a matter of logistics and I am therefore sticking with the stardust theory.

It goes without saying then that when I was told at the age of ten that my friend’s family was relocating from Minneapolis to Ocean Springs, Mississippi I was beside myself. Yet even in the midst of my heartbreak, I knew in the deepest, reddest place inside that the strings that bound us together would never slacken or grow weak from the pressure and burden of time and distance. She was my soul sister, and a soul sister is never lost.

Fortunately for me, my mother was a teacher and we therefore had our summers free to road trip, and road trip we did. We crisscrossed the country in search of adventure and nearly every summer included a stop in Mississippi to visit with our dearly missed, freshly minted southern family. My friend’s mother and father are like a second set of parents to me and her two sisters as close a thing as I will ever have to little sisters of my very own.

It was therefore such a joy to walk into their home every summer and be surrounded by a group of people that are as much family to me as my own relatives. There was never the awkwardness that sometimes presents itself when getting reacquainted after so much time has passed. Whenever I saw them, whether they lived in a suburb of Minneapolis or the town of Ocean Springs on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, I knew I was home.

My southern sisters didn’t waste any time adopting their incredibly lovely beach town as their own and their affection for its many charms were infectious. The places that lined the coast were rich with the unique blend of Cajun history that is not to be found anywhere else in the country, or in the world for that matter. The grand antebellum mansions that lined the coast were strung like regal gem stones in a necklace of coastal destinations that possessed the richly textured charm of mouth watering cuisine, ingratiating people and cozy, eclectic neighborhoods. The towns adopted their status as beach getaways with pride and blended it with a respect for history and graciousness to create a mouthwatering stew of sand, sun, bayous and food so good it still to this day makes me salivate just to think of it.

There was nothing better than venturing down to the shrimp boats on a winding road that took its time to get to wherever it was going. Giant ancient trees bowed genteelly to each other from across the road, Spanish moss spilling from their branches, creating an intricate spiderweb high above our heads. And while I did appreciate the beauty of the journey, the main thing I was thinking about was the shrimp.

The juicy, salt kissed gift of Gulf Coast shrimp is beyond compare and when wooden baskets are handed to you by the shrimpers themselves, overflowing with shrimp plucked fresh from the sea only hours before, it is quite a heady experience, even for a twelve year old. My three southern sisters and I would ride back with the baskets stacked between us, anticipating the feast that was to come.

We spent all afternoon preparing for a shrimp boil; peeling the corn, scrubbing the potatoes, rinsing the shrimp and concocting the ideal blend of spices that would not dissuade the meek among us but would also satisfy those who demanded a bit of fire in their boil.

Everything was layered into a massive pot where it slow cooked for hours, the scent of Tabasco and paprika, cumin, lemon and cayenne filling the air like a cloud that was about to burst and rain down upon us piles of shrimp, corn on the cob and potatoes. As it cooked we spread newspapers across picnic tables, laid out bowls of melted butter and hunks of fresh bread and when it was ready, the feasting began in a rush of flying shrimp shells and adept finger licking. Our chins dripped with butter as the mountain of shrimp shells grew higher and higher.

Satiated, the adults retired to the porch where they were content to sip mint juleps and talk the night away. We girls on the other hand were now fueled up and ready for adventure. I think I can safely say that my feet crisscrossed every part of my enchanting strip of Gulf Coast. I say mine because through the years it, like my sisters, found a place in my heart and became a part of me.

In those years, the casinos that would eventually line the shore did not exist. We were free to run and laugh along the sugary white sand beaches as we held out our arms to the dizzying thrill of freedom found beneath a lazy southern moon reflected in ribbons of light off the gentle black waters of the gulf. There was nothing better than cool night sand between my toes and fresh, crisp Ocean Springs air in my lungs. When we grew bored with the beaches we would wander further afield, armed with flashlights, giddy with fear.

It was bayou time.

There were always friends that joined us on our expeditions into the deep, inky southern nights and there was always a storyteller in the group. The level of anxiety was intensified then because a ghost story inevitably accompanied our frightening journey along the wooden platforms snaking over the deep black swamps as we scanned the water for alligators with our flashlights.

These were not just any ghost stories either. They were intricate adventures woven from the threads of deep Cajun history, a few laced with the ghost of Al Capone, who made his home in the area for many years. The one that frightened, yet thrilled me the most was the tale of the incestuous albino family who lived deep in bayou country and feasted on nothing else but foolish children who ventured into the bayous at night looking for alligators with their flashlights.

My eyes would tear up with fear as my heart pounded and a huge smile spread across my face. For as we screamed in fright, I hugged my southern sisters tightly beneath the moonlight that found its way down through the maze of Spanish moss and bayou ferns. In our embrace I was reminded, yet again, of how fortunate I was to have these women in my life, enjoying their company in such a mysterious place of ravishing beauty.

Throughout my life I don’t think I’ve been away from Ocean Springs for more than a year. There were my friend's weddings to their charming southern men in the breezy antebellum mansions hugging the shore, but most of the time, I visited out of longing; a longing for my friends of course but also a longing for the Gulf Coast and its stately charm. I always felt its grace and beauty was the perfect metaphor for my beloved friend and her generous heart that seemed to find goodness in everyone, even when they were not able to locate it within themselves.

Over a decade ago, my friend started having trouble with her legs. She said the first time she noticed it was in an aerobics class in college when she wasn’t able to stand on her tip toes. I noticed that her legs were becoming more and more of a burden with each successive visit. It was becoming difficult for her to walk and keep her balance. She began to endure painful testing that including nightmarish muscle biopsies that left her with tears in her eyes, but still her unflappable spirit remained.

It took them years to diagnose her with muscular dystrophy and still longer to discover the form she suffers from. It is very rare, affecting only female populations of Japanese and Norwegian descent. My friend is a teacher and as she endured the failure of her legs, she persevered in her professional life, thrived even. She married an incredible man, her high school sweetheart no less, and became a mother to the loveliest child to emerge on this planet in decades, centuries even. Through all the success and the joy though, there was always the issue of her legs. They were failing her, cheating her, causing her unimaginable pain. I hated her legs for what they were doing to her and yet I loved her legs because they were still functioning.

It was becoming harder and harder for her to walk but my friend’s spirit is not only woven of grace but of strength and courage too. She refused to use a wheelchair, relying instead upon a cane and her husband’s solid shoulder. Eventually though, after a few dangerous falls, she decided that after all these years of refusing to use one, she was going to try it out.

It was a painful decision for her and I visited during this time to offer support and selfishly, just because I missed her. At this point, she had her wheelchair for a few months and over a long, tearful dinner, she discussed how difficult it was to admit to herself, even when she knew all those around her could see it in plain sight, that she was handicapped.

As we talked though, she said that this admission and her decision to move to a wheelchair, while painful, had finally set her free. It was a revelatory statement. After so many years of denial, facing her illness head on was giving her strength and choosing to use a wheelchair, something she feared would immobilize her forever, had actually provided her with more mobility than she had had in years. The dinner that began in tears of sorrow ended in bittersweet joy. My friend was free again to move through her world without the fear of falling and with a new sense of liberation.

Our evening transformed itself into a joyful celebration. We decided that since we had never celebrated New Years Eve together, we were going to pretend as if it was December 31st and count down to midnight on that warm southern, February night. We picked up a few bottles of champagne and bourbon and laughed the evening away, drinking mint juleps until midnight finally hit and we popped our champagne and toasted to each other and to the eternal bond of friendship that we were so fortunate to share.

It was such a wonderful evening, an evening of bitter truth but one of renewal and hope too. I returned home from that visit to Ocean Springs feeling more positive about my friend’s situation than I had been in years.

Then, in an instant, it all changed.

The following August, the monstrous beast of Hurricane Katrina ravaged my friend’s life. I know Katrina ravaged many lives but this is my friend’s story and it is the one I know most intimately.

At the time of Katrina, my friend was eight months pregnant. Her father-in-law insisted that their extended family relocate to Atlanta to ride out the storm. It was difficult for my friend with her wheelchair, her young daughter and pregnant body to make the journey but thankfully, she did.

When she returned home, ninety percent of her town was decimated, wiped out like a nuclear bomb had hit it, not a giant wave. Fortunately, their house remained, sitting smack dab on some strange cosmic line dividing what the storm took, and what it left behind. Her parent’s home suffered severe damage, one of her sister’s homes survived but the other sister, the youngest, lost everything to the storm; her entire house, all of her belongings, essentially everything but her husband and young son. She is still paying a mortgage on a house that does not exist as they deal with the red tape of insurance companies and a government that refuses to do anything for the thousands like her in the same situation.

My friend lost the school where she taught and even her OBGYN clinic and the hospital where she was supposed to deliver her baby. The laundry list of loss was so long it stretched out the door and down the road so far that it was impossible to see the end of it.

My friend’s voice, normally infused with a swirl of honey even in the darkest of times, cracked on the phone when we talked in never ending circles about all that had happened. The palpable shock of it swimming through her words, numbing her gentle voice and punishing her spirit.

Everyone in the entire family, besides the middle sister, a nurse, lost their jobs. There was nowhere to work. The buildings did not exist. There were no stores. For weeks there was no electricity. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do, nowhere to buy food, mail a letter, there was nothing. There were no longer even any streets which she said was one of the worst things because it’s nearly impossible to be mobile in a wheelchair when pushing yourself across an uneven field of dirt and debris.

There was also no support. The nightmare of FEMA and the disgusting way the government reacted is now legend and it affected my beloved family and scores of others in countless, humiliating ways.

I hear daily reports about the devastation New Orleans suffered in the wake of Katrina. I know the city suffered. I've visited a few times since the storm and spent a week last year volunteering there with CulinaryCorps. It was an intense experience to be sure and the support that the city needs to lift itself up and shine again is not being offered in sufficient amounts.

I know all of this. I know that New Orleans is hurting too and that it deserves help but I also know that it’s a manageable situation, made more so by the endless human and economic resources pouring into the city each day.

But what of my forgotten town of Ocean Springs? What of my beloved Gulf Coast, with its ancient mansions, rich history, mysterious bayous and unparalleled graciousness? What about my friends?

I know that New Orleans was also greatly affected by Hurricane Katrina but this is a story about my family and my family lives on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi.

My family has been forgotten.

The last time I visited the Gulf Coast, we drove for hours along the stretch of road hugging the ocean. I sat in the back seat beside my friend’s beautiful children and their parents sat in the front as we watched the horror movie unfold before us.

Unlike New Orleans, where the devastation is obvious, with houses sitting on top of cars in the Ninth Ward, the loss the Gulf Coast suffered is a different kind of story.

When the levees failed in New Orleans due to Katrina, the result was a jumbled mess. When the wave of Katrina washed over the Gulf Coast and its unforgiving wind bore down on the region, it took everything in its selfish grip back with it out to sea. The towns along the Gulf Coast are now lying at the bottom of the ocean. They are our modern day Atlantis.

Nearly every mansion, tree, store, restaurant and home was uprooted and swept away in the greedy mouth of the storm. It sucked from the region its history, its charm and many of its people. It stole its buildings, its roads, its proud genteel spirit. It stripped the land of its giant trees and their Spanish moss, it bore down upon the bayous and left a stew of curdled swamp in its wake.

When I was a child I loved the movie The Never Ending Story. In it, the enemy is a thing called The Nothing and as it spreads it takes with it not only the structure of a place but the spirit of its people. It leaves in its wake a void of emptiness, a place of sorrow and forgetting. I never quite grasped what an enemy this nothing could be until we drove the coast of Mississippi.

Katrina was The Nothing and she had succeeded in her quest to strip a place bare of its soul. The endless miles of nothing stretching before us were punctuated only by the skeletons of trees, now white and dead from the high salinity of the soil and the ravage of the storm. Nearly every building was washed out to sea or transported to another place and left in a wrecked heap.

The only thing that remains of the buildings now are the foundations; massive white slabs of concrete that taunt the residents of the coast and remind them of the treasures that once existed there. Even lifelong residents are forgetting where things were. As we drove, my friends would point periodically to random foundations and ask each other, was that this restaurant or was it the theatre? The towns have no boundaries now because there are no towns. There is nothing on the coast but an empty stretch of land stripped bare of its identity.

I wonder if this is perhaps why people don’t focus more on the Gulf Coast. If you had never seen it before Katrina, you might find it hard to imagine entire towns sitting at the bottom of the ocean that were once thriving places to visit on the shore. The visual of destruction in the Ninth Ward inspires people to pick up a paintbrush and dig in to aid in the recovery process. The visual of nothing on the Gulf Coast inspires people to turn around and head back to New Orleans. The loss is so immense on the coast that it is overwhelming to the point of numbness that perpetuates this frustrating sense of apathy that our nation seems to have for the region. 

As we drove, I thought back to the many times I visited the area growing up. I could nearly see us running along the beach, stopping for a soft shell crab po-boy when we were hungry at one of the beach shacks, diving into the ocean when we were hot. I thought of how those afternoons and sunsets of pure joy gave way to another kind of happiness that we found in the bayous at night. I thought of the Spanish moss that now blew gently in the breeze only in my memories. I thought of the shrimpers who once so proudly hoisted over their boats the gorgeous baskets of their labor. They were gone now, the majority of their boats devastated shells or more typically, sitting at the bottom of the ocean like everything else. I thought of the regal mansions that once lined the coastal road, so carefully tended and loved for decades, centuries even. They were nothing but ghosts.

As we drove, I looked at the beautiful girls sitting next to me. They were both asleep, having grown up surrounded by the loss of the storm, this vast emptiness was of no interest to them. The Gulf Coast landscape that I held so protectively in my heart would not be the same landscape they would know. Theirs would be a landscape of vast emptiness, of people remembering with wet nostalgic eyes what once was and of how good and sweet it all used to be.

I wanted more than anything to somehow transplant the memories of my coast into their hearts. I wanted them to know how much I loved it, how much the place and its incredible people enriched my spirit and my life. I vowed to myself as we drove to always express this to them as they grow up, to share with them the vast richness of the place they call home. I fear my two lovely girls will look at me as I describe to them how wonderful the coast used to be like I’ve had one too many mint juleps.

I hope that the region will eventually get the help it needs but this means that our government and our citizens need to wake up and take notice. We have forgotten the coast and it is a disgrace. More than that, I fear it is a reflection of where we are at in this country; willing to turn our heads and try to forget if it means that we can continue to drive our SUVs, shop at Walmart and eat our corn fed beef.

In The Never Ending Story, a small boy fights The Nothing and he succeeds. At the end of his battle he believes that nothing exists in his world until the only other person alive, a princess, hands him a single grain of illuminated sand and says that if he believes, then with this single grain of sand, he can recreate his entire world.

I wish it was that easy on the Gulf Coast. I wish that if I just believed in its recovery, it would happen. I wish that this country was not trying so hard to forget about it. I wish that my friend’s children would grow up enjoying the same gifts that the region so generously gave to me.

This recipe then is a bittersweet one. I will never be able to drink a mint julep and not think of my beloved friends. It is the signature drink of the region; it’s bright, cheerful mint cutting through its base of languid southern bourbon.

This, and every mint julep that I will ever drink, is in honor of my friends. I will always toast to them, to their courage, their perseverance and their ability to find happiness in even the darkest of times.

I will never stop visiting the Gulf Coast, for while the region may have lost many of its most precious treasures to a devastating storm, the spirit of its people will always remain steadfast even in the wake of such heartbreaking loss. The courage they showed during and immediately after Katrina and the patience they are showing now to a nation that has forgotten them is a symbol of the power of forgiveness. It is my purest definition of grace under pressure. This grace has made the love I have for the people of the coast grow exponentially.

I made this mint julep, such a traditional symbol of warm southern hospitality, as a tribute to my beloved friends and to all of the people who have endured unimaginable loss along the Gulf Coast. It is a disgrace that the hospitality the region has shown our nation for so long is not being returned to them now when they need it most.

To the Gulf Coast and to my friends I toast, “I will never forget you, your courage humbles and astounds me, I will always try to help you remember what has been lost and I will hope with you for a brighter future so that the memories your children have of their coast are as sweet as mine will always be.”

A Mint Julep Not To Forget 
This classic mint julep recipe is from www.nerve.com.  I like it because the mint leaves are not simply muddled with the ice as the drink is constructed but instead, before the ice and bourbon are added, a mint syrup is created which lends impressive intensity and definition to this classic southern cocktail.

2 cups water
2 cups white sugar
1/2 cup roughly chopped fresh mint leaves
32 fluid ounces Kentucky bourbon
8 sprigs fresh mint leaves for garnish

1. Combine water, sugar and chopped mint leaves in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil over high heat until the sugar is completely dissolved. Allow syrup to cool, approximately 1 hour. Pour syrup through a strainer to remove mint leaves

2. Fill eight cups or frozen goblets with crushed ice and pour 4 ounces of bourbon and 1/4 cup mint syrup in each. (Proportions can be adjusted depending on each person's sweet tooth). Top each cup with a mint sprig and a straw. Trim straws to just barely protrude from the top of the cups.

Yield: 8 mint juleps