Possible trouble brewing in our own hemisphere is affecting oil prices.

Bloomberg.com: Energy.

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Here are a couple of pics taken in Noble County, Oklahoma while acidizing some shallow wells there.

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Here is another excellent article from Bloomberg.

http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=20602099&sid=afaY5Iyah3N8&refer=energy

http://www.ericwilder.com

Crawfish pie is a Lousiana dish immortalized in the Hank Williams song Jambalaya.  I found this recipe for crawfish pie in the French Acadian Cook Book published in 1955 by the Louisiana Acadian Handicraft Museum, Inc., Jennings, Louisiana.  The person submitting the recipe is Gene Knobloch of Thibodaux, Louisiana and he offers this expert advice:

This is a basic recipe.  To be a good Creole cook you must be original and you must have a good imagination.  So throw in anything your good judgement tells you, even the kitchen stove if necessary.

P.S. – If you do not eat crawfish (shame on you) you may substitute shrimp.

3 cups cooked crawfish, tails and fat                 1 can condensed cream of mushroom soup

3 cups cooked rice                                           4 yolks hard boiled eggs

1 ¼ cups of water                                             2 or 3 slices, well buttered bread

¼ cup minced celery                                         Olive oil or other shortening

½ small green pepper, minced                           Salt, black pepper, Tabasco, Worcestershire sauce, paprika, pimientos

1 bunch shallots, chopped fine                          1 bay leaf

Saute in olive oil or other shortening, celery, shallots and sweet pepper, about five minutes.  Add crawfish tails and fat, saute about 5 minutes longer.  Salt and pepper to taste, add a few dashes of Tabasco sauce.  Mix this with cooked rice, add water, mushroom soup, bay leaf.  Add a few dashes of Worcestershire sauce.  Test for salt and pepper.

Pour entire mixture into a greased baking dish.  Grate egg yolks of the top.  Remove the crust from the slices of bread, cut each slice into four triangles.  Arrange triangles in a circle on top of mixture.  Sprinkle with paprika.  Bake uncovered in a 350 degree oven for about 30 minutes, until mixture is toroughly heated and bread is toasted.  Garnish with pimientos.  Serves about eight.  Present with gusto.

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Bertram Picou is a character in my novel Big Easy.  Like many Southerners, Bertram Picou served in the Army and did his basic training at Fort Polk in Leesville, Louisiana. The Fort is the subject of Tigerland, a gritty but powerful movie starring Colin Farrell. It’s probably the best movie Farrell ever did and you might want to check it out. Anyway, the place was a hell hole and some say the chances of becoming killed or wounded were greater there than in Vietnam.

Rutted dirt roads, tracts of heavily forested land that had never seen a chain saw, miles of seemingly endless rifle ranges, and swamps so murky and misty that they looked like the backdrop of a Lon Chaney horror film, comprised Fort Polk. Alligators, armadillos, water moccasins and frightened, pissed-off young G.I.’s, soon to be bound for Vietnam, populated the musty old Fort where fever and meningitus were everyday occurrences.

And it was hot and humid! The World War II-vintage barracks had no air conditioning in the summer and little insulation in the winter. A soldier’s day started at 4:30 AM with thirty minutes of physical training before breakfast. This was followed by more PT, a one to seven mile hike to the rifle range, orientation, target practice, a one to seven mile hike back to the barracks, more PT, then bed. Bertram lost forty-six pounds in six weeks at Fort Polk.

Some of the drill sergeants were mean, some practically psychotic. Nice wasn’t in their vocabulary. Bertram is the personification of the term laid-back, but two words can still evoke memories of distress and instantly raise his blood pressure and heart rate. Those two words — grease trap! If you ever spent any time in the Army, you probably know what I mean.

Food in the mess halls was simple but filling. All you could eat in fifteen minutes or so. They served red beans in abundance, and rice. Problem was, not together. Army regulation said you can’t have two starches on one plate. Good idea for the Army, bad idea for Bertram Picou who thinks RB&R should be part of the Government’s food pyramid (or whatever shape it is now!)

Bertram breathed a large sigh of relief when he finally got out of the Army. He cooks RB&R almost everyday at his bar on Chartres Street in New Orleans French Quarter and here is his personal recipe.

1 ½ lbs. dry red beans                          2 stalks celery, chopped
3 cloves garlic, crushed             ½  green pepper, diced
1 red onion, sliced                                ½  tbsp. oil
10 c. water                                           1 veg. bouillon cube
1/4 tsp. cayenne pepper                        1 ½  c. rice
3 c. water for rice

Soak beans overnight. Saute garlic, red onion, green pepper, celery in oil in large pot. Add 10 cups of water, vegetable bouillon cube, and beans. Let cook on medium flame until soft. Cook rice separately. When rice is done, serve topped with red beans.

I’m a political junkie and Tuesday I sat glued to the television, enthralled as I watched coverage of the Democratic presidential primaries from North Carolina and Indiana.  I’ve lived through eleven presidents and even though this year’s election isn’t my first rodeo, I readily admit that I understand the politics of a presidential race little more than I did fifty-six years ago.

Harry Truman was the president when I was born but I have no memory of him as a lad.  My first recollection of the political process is when I was six.  It was at my grandparent’s house in Vivian.

Jim and Lela Pittman were good Americans and had strong views on how our country should be run and who should run it.  I don’t remember much about their views except that Grandma and Grandpa Pitt often supported different candidates.

The Dwight Eisenhower, Adlai Stevenson race is the first campaign that I remember, not vividly but subliminally.  I do recall sitting in their bedroom – that is where they always held court – and listening to campaign speeches on their old upright wooden-bodied radio.

The Pitts had six children and one thing that I do remember vividly is that all six sibs usually had very different opinions on almost everything.  The grandparents loved it, in fact encouraged everyone in the family to think for themselves.  If one of the siblings would declare something as the gospel, Grandpa Pitt would always interject a little doubt, just to shake that belief and make sure it was real and not just subterfuge.  Because of this, any discussion by the Pittman family usually sounded like a full-blown argument to the uninitiated.

The family had widely divergent opinions on many subjects but they always stood together.  What I mean is that despite what often seemed like extreme polarization, especially when it came to politics, the family still loved each other deeply and always respected the opinions of others, even if they didn’t always agree with their own.

If I live until 2009, I will see the inauguration of my twelfth president.  Even though I don’t understand every nuance of politics, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.  There is room for diverse opinions in this country.  We should embrace our differences because that is one of the things that makes us strong, and continues to keep us that way.

No matter who wins in September - man, woman, black, white, republican or democrat, we will all survive and prosper, and the United States will still be the most wonderful country that ever graced this old green globe.  My grandparents taught me that.

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As a freshman in college during the sixties I joined a precision marching group called the Fusileers.  The college I attended required two years of ROTC and the national paranoia concerning Vietnam hadn’t yet begun to set in.  Besides, we got to do some neat things like take trips to Mardi Gras and march in parades.

In 1965 I went with the Fusileers to New Orleans to march in the Venus parade.  Although I didn’t know it at the time Venus is one of the older krewes, or carnival clubs.  Our group spent the night at Jackson Barracks, an old army post on the Mississippi River named after Andy Jackson.

The night before the parade most of us left the barracks on foot in groups of five or six and made our way toward Bourbon Street.  My group stopped at a neighborhood bar and drank Regal Beer for twelve cents a glass and sampled the gumbo.  We made it to Bourbon Street around dark.

Much time has passed since then and even the best memories fade.  As I remember it, open containers of alcohol were legal.  I bought a fifth of Early Times at a drug store a block or so from Bourbon Street.  Most of us got separated in the throngs of people crowding the French Quarter.  John T, the last member of the Fusileers that I’d arrived in the Quarter with disappeared down Conti, towing a college girl he’d just met.

I found my own college girl but we were separated in the massive crowd pushing shoulder-to-shoulder in two directions, up and down Bourbon Street — though not before a jealous suitor sucker-punched me and broke my only pair of glasses.  Somehow I made it back to Jackson Barracks before the midnight curfew and stayed up all night reading the Terry Southern classic Candy. 

Mardi Gras that year was my first taste of Carnival, crazy and surreal, and I lapped it up, maybe because I viewed it through tired, near-sighted, hung-over eyes. Even though my feet hurt like hell after the seven mile parade that lasted six hours or so I would gladly have done it again.  Soon after the trip, things got worse in Vietnam.  John T dropped out of school, was drafted and dead within the year — one of the war’s many victims.  I didn’t sign up for a third year of ROTC and quickly forgot my childhood dreams of becoming a soldier.  I had my face rubbed in my childhood dreams when I was drafted shortly after graduation and I quickly learned the truth about the old saying, “don’t wish too hard for anything.  It might come true.”

As a longtime geologist, I’ve heard many oil patch stories, some true, some likely false.  Here is a story I heard about the discovery of the El Dorado Pool, the largest oil field in Kansas.  Believe it if you will.  I don’t know the truth, just the story.

As I’ve mentioned before, many of the early, giant oil fields were found by mapping formations at the surface, then using the surface geology to interpret what is happening in the subsurface.  During the early days of Kansas oil exploration, citizens in the town of El Dorado, a small community in the south-central part of the state, hired a University of Kansas geology professor to do a geologic survey around their town.  What he mapped using surface geology was a huge anticline.

Excited by the results of the study, residents of El Dorado pooled their money and drilled a deep well at the site proposed by the University of Kansas professor.  The test well was drilled and, to the dismay of El Dorado citizens, was dry as a proverbial bone.  They sold the leases for pennies on the dollar to Indian Territory Illuminating Oil Company, the predecessor to Cities Service Oil Company.  The Kansas professor, like so many would-be oil finders after him, became the reviled scapegoat.

ITIO had geologists of their own at the time and was unconvinced that the dry hole was a legitimate test of the huge surface feature.  They risked their money, bought the leases and drilled a well of their own — the result the discovery well for the giant El Dorado Field.

The El Dorado Field is the largest oil field in the State of Kansas and has ultimately produced more than 40 million barrels of oil.  To this day, the only dry hole in the field is the original well drilled there by the citizens of El Dorado and the hapless University of Kansas geologist.

What happened? — An extraordinary stroke of bad luck.  The people of El Dorado drilled down a vertical fault plane — the only place they could have drilled and not hit a producer.  Fact or fiction?  Like all history, I suspect, as my Grandmother used to say, that it lies somewhere between the Devil and the deep blue sea.

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U.S. crude sets record high of $125.98 a barrel - Yahoo! News.

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A while back, I serialized a short story about wolves and panthers in northeast Texas.  The story is whimsical and a work of fiction.  There are no wolves and certainly no black panthers in east Texas.  Or are there?

The answer is – well maybe.  Northeast Texas remains an under populated part of the state.  A region known as the Big Thicket extends north from Beaumont.  The Big Thicket is a vast pine forest that stretches for hundreds of miles.  This large forest, by anyone’s count, contains more wild animals than humans, many of which moved up from Mexico, or south from the huge Ouachita forests in central Arkansas.

The Big Thicket, by definition, doesn’t extend into far northeast Texas.  In reality, however, the vast forest comprising the Big Thicket continues into northwest Louisiana and even into Arkansas, all the way to the Ouachita Mountains.  Anyone that has ever visited the area knows if you stray very far off the main highway and follow a winding blacktop or dirt road, you’ll soon find yourself surrounded by a sea of green often called the “pine curtain.”

Behind this curtain of trees and vegetation lies a world as mysterious and haunting as the day the first white man visited it.  If you take this road, don’t be surprised if you hear the howl of a wolf, or the low throaty growl of a panther – yes, maybe even a black panther.

While growing up, I often spent the night at my Grandmother’s house in the piney woods of Cass County.  They still had no electricity when I was young and burned coal oil lanterns at night for illumination.  People went to bed early in those days, the smoke, soot and acrid odor of burning fuel more than most people could tolerate for very long.

Wolves were very much a part of east Texas in the 1950s and I still remember their mournful howls when we finally snuffed out the lanterns for the night.  Don’t believe me?  They had a bounty on their heads and were hunted into near extinction.  I recall seeing the carcasses of an entire pack hanging in a row by their hind legs on fence posts.  I was probably ten or twelve at the time.

Are there still wolves in east Texas?  Not likely.  Wolves are social creatures and usually run in packs.  Still, it wouldn’t surprise me if an occasional lobo passed through the area.  Black panthers are a different story.  Locals have reported seeing them many times, although this is unconfirmed and denied by the Authorities.  Have I ever seen a black panther?  No, but I’ve seen bobcats and heard their woman-like screams in the woods.

If you’re still unconvinced, travel south to Cass County, Texas sometime.  Leave the main road and follow a blacktop until it dead-ends.  Hike a mile or so back into the piney woods, maybe until you reach a cypress bayou.  Pitch your tent and then wait for the sun to go down.  But zip the door up tightly.  The howls, growls and woman-like screams you will definitely hear may just raise those tiny hairs on the back of your neck. 

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Here we go again.

http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=20602099&sid=aepUSnVB_pkM&refer=energy

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I lived most of my early years in Louisiana and when I moved to Oklahoma I was quickly taken aback by the weather.  The wind seemed to blow constantly and when we had a storm, there was often mayhem involved.  Still, we only averaged half the yearly rainfall that was normal for Louisiana.

Two years ago the state was in a persistent drought and I wrote about it many times in a series of articles titled Oklahoma Burning.  Now the pendulum has swung.  Last year, Oklahoma had more rainfall then it has ever had.

As I write this article I am glancing out the window at my backyard.  Rain is falling, and not a gentle rain.  Yesterday we were only two inches behind last year’s record rainfall.  Today, we may surpass the record.

I took some pictures in the front yard of water pouring down the street in rivulets.  The ditches were full, water white capping and looking for all the world like a wild river.  My bare feet sank into earth already soft from yesterday’s rain.

Last year’s rainfall practically shut down oil and gas exploration in Oklahoma.  Heavy equipment can’t maneuver in soggy wheat fields and there was often more rain before the ground had time to fully dry.

Glancing out the window again I just shake my head and sigh.  The gas wells I need to complete in Noble County may have to wait until August.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Here is a pic of an old well located near Northwest Expressway and Classen Boulevard in Oklahoma City.  There is no nearby pipeline to take the natural gas so it is flared, a throwback to the time when the City skyline at night was lighted by the eerie glow of hundreds of wells being flared.

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Troubling news from several oil producing countries combine to raise oil prices to a new record.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080505/ap_on_bi_ge/oil_prices

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In 1718, Jean Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville founded the colony that became New Orleans. Sieur de la Salle had claimed the territory for the French in 1682 and France was looking for an outpost from where they could take advantage of the resources of the vast domain. They desired a location with access to the Gulf of Mexico at a spot they could easily defend from possible hostility by other countries. These two factors, high ground and access, likely resulted in the choosing of the present location of New Orleans.

High ground, you say? Everyone knows that a portion of New Orleans is below sea level. This is true but much has changed since the City was founded in 1718. The fact is the mean elevation of Louisiana is only 100' above sea level. To put this into perspective, Morgan City is 7' above sea level, Lafayette 39' above sea level, Baton Rouge 60' above sea level and the far northwestern city of Shreveport only 177' above sea level. Why then did Bienville situate the City of New Orleans at the second lowest spot in the United States, higher only than Death Valley that has an elevation of 282' below sea level? The answer is he didn’t.

There were no topographic maps or GPS devices in 1718. Still, seasoned explorers Bienville and his brother D’Iberville understood the concept of high ground. They had located and chosen the site for New Orleans on an expedition more than a decade before the City’s founding. Although no records exist to confirm this assumption, a look at present-day Louisiana geography and geology indicates New Orleans in 1718 may have been at or near the highest elevation at the mouth of the Mississippi River.

New Orleans is part of the Mississippi River Delta, a geographic region that encompasses 13,000 square miles, fully 25% of Louisiana. Deltas are comprised mainly of silt. A look at the mechanics of the Mississippi River explains why. The Mississippi River drops 1,475' from its source in Minnesota to its mouth at the Gulf of Mexico. Water flows down river because of gravity. Along the way the Mississippi is intersected by many smaller rivers.

The Mississippi and the rivers that feed it transport many tons of alluvium picked up along the way because of erosion. The energy of the flowing river carries this alluvium in suspension. As the elevation nears sea level and this energy is dissipated, the river can no longer maintain its load and it is deposited in the form of silt. Often, extra silt is deposited at a meander in the river where energy is locally dissipated. This is a likely scenario for the location of New Orleans in 1718.

Just north of the small town of Donaldsonville the Mississippi turns abruptly eastward. Interestingly, Donaldsonville is near the point the modern Mississippi River threatens to abandon its present course and flow into the Atchafalaya River Basin. The Corp of Engineers has prevented this occurrence for many years by constructing special levees along the course of the Mississippi River. Near Donaldsonville, the Mississippi River flows eastward until it reaches a point just east of New Orleans where it again turns, this time abruptly southward.

Old New Orleans is located in a crescent-shaped bend in the river, a meander. The crescent that formed the Crescent City is really a meander. What happened in 1718 at this meander was a dissipation of energy that resulted in higher ground because of an unloading of sediment. Likely, New Orleans was the highest point near the mouth of the Mississippi River in 1718.

Why is much of New Orleans presently below sea level? The answer is subsidence. Geologically speaking, silt is very unstable. When loaded, it readily compresses and subsides. During the early days of New Orleans there were no man-made levees separating the City from the Mississippi River. Because of this, the City was flooded with silt and knee-deep water every spring. City fathers soon began building up the natural levees to prevent this from happening. The result is that much of New Orleans, without the yearly addition of silt from the river, has subsided in the centuries following 1718. Even with this subsidence, the French Quarter and the Central Business District, part of the original settlement, remains at or near sea level and was surely even higher in 1718.

Another reason Bienville chose the present site of New Orleans was because of access. Native Americans had shown the French a short cut from the Gulf of Mexico to New Orleans - a strategic advantage over any foreign power that might attempt to wrest the region from France. This short cut came through a pass from the Gulf of Mexico to Lake Pontchartrain, and then from St. Johns Bayou to present-day New Orleans.

Everyone is aware of the tremendous damage done in 2005 by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. How can we alleviate a future disaster without moving the venerable old City? Here is my suggestion. Cut the levees near Donaldsonville and let the mighty Mississippi follow its preferred course: into the Atchafalaya Basin to the Gulf of Mexico. Will it change history? Only time will tell.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Like all Okies, I love Mexican cooking (Tex-Mex, at least).  Here’s a recipe that I found on the net to help celebrate Cinco de Mayo.

Shrimp Burritos
California Milk Advisory Board 1997 Calendar

Real California Panela
Cheese tid bit ~ This fresh cheese has a flavor similar to Cottage Cheese. Use it in sandwiches, salads, with fruit and in cooked foods.

2 T each soy sauce, lime juice and water
1 LB med. shrimp, shelled and deveined
6 lg. (12") flour tortillas
4 C cooked rice preferably Basmati rice
1 Can (15oz) black beans, rinsed and drained
8 oz California Panela, * crumbled (2C)
2 oz California Queso Fresco, * crumbled (1/2C)
Cilantro Leaves (optional)
Fresh Salsa (optional)

* May substitute California Jack or California Cheddar

Combine soy sauce, lime juice and water in large, heavy plastic bag. Add shrimp; marinate in refrigerator no longer than 30 min. Grill or broil 6-8 min. until opaque throughout. Warm tortillas in oven or microwave. Top with shrimp, rice, beans and crumbled cheeses. Add a few cilantro leaves and salsa , if desired. Roll-up and serve. Makes 6 servings.

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I took this pic of the full moon as it was rising just over my neighbor’s house.

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I graduated from college in 1969 and took a job mudlogging for a Texas company named Core Lab. The second well I sat was near the south Texas town of Weslaco. The well was a joint venture between Shell and Texaco and on its way to a depth of 13,500'.

Since this was only my second well, a senior mudlogger, Jack Bowie, was assigned to show me the ropes. Jack was as colorful as his name and show me the ropes he did. I would work the well site from seven in the morning until seven at night. Jack would usually spend the day doing other things and would check on me around quitting time when another mudlogger spelled us for the night.

Weslaco was very close to the Mexican border town of Reynosa. Usually Jack and I would leave the location and drive to Reynosa where the food, fun and drink were cheap. We often stayed out until the wee morning hours before returning to our motel rooms to clean up and then go back to the drilling well.

The well was a wildcat. That means it was more than a mile from the nearest producing well. The well was wild for more reasons than that. We were drilling through an extremely thick sequence of alternating sand and shale called the Frio. As close as we were to the Gulf of Mexico, the stratum was unconsolidated and we penetrated 300 feet or so ever hour. And there was gas, lots of gas, coming up out of the hole.

The gas and unconsolidated strata had caused problems on the well since the day it began drilling. The hole was crooked, dog-legged we called it, and there had been problems cementing the intermediate casing. Two drilling supervisors had already been "run off" and a crusty old tool pusher promoted to finish the hole.

I can’t remember the tool pusher’s name so I’ll call him Mike. Mike was of average height and build but he had a badly bent nose from some past altercation. He also had a resolute expression that caused the wild Texas roughnecks to take his directions seriously. He was a former World War II fighter pilot and it only took one look at his dark eyes to know he was likely good at it.

One hot July day found me more tired than usual from the past night’s cerveza drinking and senorita chasing. Jack was no where around and I reclined on the couch, "just to rest my eyes for a moment." I awoke to a sound peculiar to the giant drilling rig: silence. Awakening instantly, I rushed outside to see the backs of every man on location running as fast as they could, through the dry Texas cornfield, away from the location that had suddenly gone deathly quiet. Every man except Mike, that is.

Ten feet from me, he was moving faster than I had ever seen him move, twirling and closing valves, pulling levers, throwing switches. Finally, the diesel engines coughed, then sputtered, then again began circulating mud in the well. Seeing me looking, Mike grinned and walked over to the trailer door. As I stood with my mouth open and hands in my pocket, he pulled an old Zippo out of his pocket, fished a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket, put it in his mouth and lit it. After a long, satisfying pull he looked at me and said, "Another thirty seconds and you and me would have been blown straight to hell."

Mike didn’t elaborate but Jack did when he finally returned to location. "The gas pressure’s so high that the mud’s not heavy enough to contain it. As long as the mud pumps are working, it’s cycled out of the hole. If Mike hadn’t restarted them, the pressure would have blown ten thousand feet of drilling pipe straight up into the air and all over this corn field. It wouldn’t have been a pretty sight."

Jack didn’t bother telling me how stupid I had been not to follow the roughnecks off the location. He didn’t have to because I’d already figured it out. That night Jack and I drank an extra Tecate for Mike, yet another unheralded oil patch hero that I’ve met, somewhere along the way.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Those that have read any of my New Orleans short stories know that Bertram Picou is the owner of an eclectic little bar on Chartres Street, in the French Quarter. He cooks some of the world’s best gumbo and always has a pot simmering in back for his regular customers.

Everyone in New Orleans makes gumbo, some tasting better than others. The best gumbo is like ambrosia, a gift from heaven itself. It’s now made all over the world but one thing is sure. You’ll never find better gumbo anywhere in the world that tastes as good as the worst gumbo from New Orleans.

Some say that Bertram’s gumbo is the best in the Big Easy. Don’t believe me? Next time you’re in the French Quarter, stop by his place and give it a try. The bar’s a little hard to find, but keep looking. Below is Bertram’s recipe, told in his own words.

Bertram Picou’s Mama's Gumbo

"First thing is make the roux. Pour some oil in your big cast iron skillet and put it on the fire, medium heat. Add some flour and start stirring. Whatever you do, don’t leave the stove, even to chase Ol’ Shep, until the roux cooks to a pleasing shade of brown, maybe a little darker if you’re taste buds are more Cajun than most. Be careful now. Don’t burn that roux cause it’s the most important part of the gumbo! If it starts to smoke and curdle up, you done screwed up! Throw it out and start over.

Once you got the roux done, its time to make the gumbo. My Mama throws in crawfish, shrimp, chicken, sausage, squirrel, deer, or even fish. "Whatever floats your boat," she used to say.

Fill up your big stock pot with water and set it on the stove. Get it to boiling then add the roux. Mama always uses four tablespoons, more or less, depending on the weather, how dark she had let it cook, and how she feels that particular day. Good cooks don’t read recipes. They just sense how something ought to taste. However many tablespoons she used, her gumbo always tasted damn good!

Keep stirring until the roux and water are mixed, then add a couple of chopped onions, a chopped bell pepper, six minced garlic cloves and your chicken, seafood, or whatever. This is where it gets tricky. You need to add salt, cayenne and black pepper and this must be done to taste. Using too much, or not enough, can make or break the gumbo and, unfortunately, practice is the only way to learn how. You’ll have to do this yourself cause Mama can’t go to everyone’s house.

Cook the gumbo on a medium hot flame and keep stirring until everything starts getting tender. Don’t put a lid on the pot.

Finally, boil up your rice to perfection (just about the hardest thing in the world to get right, but that’s another story). Add parsley and scallions to the gumbo, and, if you like, a little file, then ladle it on the rice and enjoy!"

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When oil was discovered in northwest Louisiana, rolling hills, massive pines and a few small settlements dominated the landscape, farming and cattle the two major occupations.  Some thirty years before, Army engineers had blasted and methodically dismantled the natural dam known as the Great Red River Raft that had raised area water levels for decades, perhaps centuries.  What were left were shallow bayous, isolated ponds and Caddo Lake.

Caddo’s coffee-colored water was also shallow, no more than 20 feet at it’s deepest.  Turtles and alligators populated the sprawling lake along with miles of impenetrable cane brakes and mazes of giant cypress trees with water-gorged trunks and branches draped with Spanish moss wafting in a damp breeze.  And it was hot, temperatures rarely below 100 degrees in the summer and humidity through the roof.  The shallow, often stagnant water bred mosquitoes, and many early inhabitants died of malaria and other mosquito-borne diseases.

Despite the hostile environment, something began drawing oil hunters to the region — news of oil seeps and gentle rolling topography that possibly signaled subsurface closure.  These explorers, drawn by the lure of black gold, pooled their money and drilled a few exploratory wells.  Believing correctly that oil existed far below the shallow depths of Caddo Lake, wooden pilings were driven in shallow water and platforms built on them.  The explorers constructed drilling rigs on the platforms from native timber and began drilling in Caddo Lake.  This was a first, Caddo Lake the birthplace of offshore drilling.

Like the gold rushes of California and Alaska, men and their families began pouring into the area, intent upon sharing in the prize.  Boom towns sprang up — Oil City, Trees City, Vivian, Rodessa.

What explorers had discovered was the giant Sabine Uplift.  This single subsurface feature underlies several Louisiana parishes, and even more Arkansas and Texas counties.  It not only trapped millions of barrels of oil beneath it, but formed the stratigraphic barrier for the Woodbine Sandstone, the primary reservoir of the super giant East Texas Field.

Caddo Lake sits atop the Sabine Uplift.  Even with thousands of wells already drilled in the region, the deepest horizons of this giant subsurface feature still remain mostly undrilled and unexplored.  What are the ramifications of this little-known fact?  Possibly several hundred million barrels of untapped oil that could ultimately help the U.S. ease its dependence on foreign oil.

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