We'll Always Have Fried Pickles

Roger Burks in the Gulf. Photo: Mercy Corps

Ultimately, somehow, it all comes back to fried dill pickles.

At the end of each marathon workday, some portion of the Mercy Corps Katrina Response Team finds itself at City Café, a local restaurant in Baton Rouge. It’s a time to get together over Louisiana cookery and bring each other up-to-date on the day’s activities.

Without fail, the team straggles into the restaurant at about 9:00 PM each night. It’s the earliest we can pull together as a group after a rigorous schedule of site visits, assessments, phone calls and meetings. Even then, someone’s cell phone will often ring and a conference call will materialize in between drink and food orders.

For almost two weeks now, City Café has become Mercy Corps’ third Gulf coast office. This satellite location has no computers, fax machines or filing cabinets - but it does have plenty of fried food.

And that’s where fried dill pickles re-entered my life and crossed into the consciousness of other team members.

What can be fried here will be. One of my colleagues even suggested tossing their cell phone into the fryer.

George Devendorf, Mercy Corps’ Director of Public Affairs, recently returned to his office in Washington, DC after several days spent in the region and at City Café. “When I got home, I actually started ordering yogurt and granola to try to purge my system of deep fry,” he confessed.

But I know for a fact that he was into the pickles.

Tonight, our supper club includes Richard Jacquot, Mercy Corps Director of Katrina Response; Nick Macdonald, Deputy Director; Chris Rooks, a program officer who’s just returned from our Mississippi office; Ellie Johnson, a recruitment specialist from our Portland headquarters; Eric Block, our communications officer; and me.

The atmosphere around our table is paradoxical: saturated with exhaustion, yet charged with energy. There is gratitude that the day is finally drawing to a close, anxious plans for the next day, frustration over unaccomplished goals and excitement over new possibilities.

Above all, there’s friendly solidarity. Soon, somewhere in between the fried dill pickles and the main course, talk turns from work to personal anecdotes, travel tales and even a few jokes.

Nick is brandishing his “Operation Hurricane Katrina” badge like a backstage pass. “I’ve got full access!” he brazenly announces to our table. It’s a hilarious diversion, and that’s not just the fried pickles talking.

Over the next couple of hours, the mood will roll from rollicking to somber, passing through nearly everything in between. We will be serious. We will cut loose. Above all, we will enjoy each other’s company.

Tomorrow at 4:30 AM, I’ll be leaving the little space above Mr. He’s garage to return home to my wife and eleven-month-old son. On the way out of City Café, as the wait staff wipes down tables and closes for the evening, I take time to say good-bye to my colleagues and wish them luck.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Whatever may come to pass, we’ll always have fried pickles.