Gumbo Days (revised)

The gigantic silver pot that housed the tastiest meal even a king could fathom, sat dominating our kitchen stove. To my six year old eyes, the pot was intimidating as steam billowed out of the sides cascading slowley across the counter. My nose tickled as I smelled the "spicy air." I glanced across the kitchen to the clock; it was only 2:00. There were still three agonizing hours until dinner would be ready. I watched and watched the clock hoping that it might possibly speed up, bypassing time, and allowing dinner to be ready sooner. However, I was not lucky enough for time to warp. The clock still ticked away as it always did. The highly anticipated meal inched by as expected.

I can remember the first time I ever tasted Gumbo. I was six years old and just old enough to want to try new things. The thought of Chicken Nuggets or PB&J no longer excited me. I wanted to try what my entire family was eating, what they raved about, and what they had been slaving over all day. I wanted to eat gumbo!

I wonder now if I actually wanted to eat it, or if I wanted to experience it. It may sound odd, experiencing a food; but to me, gumbo is an experience. It is far more than the mere taste; it’s the anticipation, the actual process of cooking it, and more importantly the family. Gumbo is something special. It’s not like spaghetti, mac and cheese, or that odd chicken casserole my mom always makes. Gumbo is rare and having it for dinner is special. It didn’t matter what the plans were, if my grandmother announced that we were cooking gumbo, all plans were temporarily canceled. My uncle canceled his dates; my parents appointments were canceled; and my brother and I would skip practice or whatever event we had planned.

When family friends have the honor of joining us for a gumbo dinner they always ask for the recipe. But they never receive it. Among other things the recipe for my grandmother's gumbo is a family secret. It’s not written down in any cookbook or note card. It’s stored away in the mind of my grandmother, mother, and now me. I have watched my grandmother make it many times and she never makes it the same way twice. “It’s still a work in progress,” she always says. Regardless, I always watch with meticulous attention. I have not yet mastered the art of gumbo. I do however have high hopes that I might one day be able to craft such a delectable dish.

On a typical “Gumbo Day” the day starts off early. I’m not talking a late lunch early, I’m taking a before the rooster crows early. We all start by dragging our exhausted bodies out of the beds and begin chopping the bags and bags of fresh vegetables. The traps must be re-baited early in effort to collect the treasured Gulf Coast Blue Crabs. The shrimp, if we did not catch them our selves must be bought as soon as they arrive at Skinners Seafood. A few hours later the crab traps must be emptied, the crabs must be washed, boiled and cleaned. The claws are dismembered from the bodies and the gills which are called “devil fingers” are removed. The pounds and pounds of shrimp must be individually peeled and de-headed then washed. All the while, more vegetables are being chopped and the numerous spices are added to the roux. For the next several hours, the big silver pot must be constantly stirred over and over. All the while, the addicting aroma fills the house like a fog.

No one person can successfully make a pot of gumbo. To make a successful pot it takes a fleet. Delegation must take place to accomplish the daring task. It takes some to diligently chop the veggies, someone to handle the sometimes dangerous crabs, and several people to peel the shrimp. Typically when my family makes gumbo, everyone helps, whether they want to or not. Even my brother, who despises cooking, drags himself away from the water and helps.

Since there are so many people in the kitchen, jokes and stories are always exchanged. Given my family, more jokes are told than stories. Maybe this is one reason why I love the gumbo experience. I love making it with everyone. Sitting around the counter and meticulously chopping greens doesn’t seem as bad when your sides are ripping with laughter. It’s also amazing to have my family all together at one time, especially at the beach. Usually, my brother and I are on the boat, my mom is lying out, and my dad is fishing. When it’s a gumbo day everyone is in the kitchen. Maybe it’s because my grandmother demands extra hands or maybe it’s because they love the sense of family as well.

Some of my favorite memories of my grandfather, Poppy are during gumbo days. He would beg and plead my grandmother to make it, but she would agree only if he helped in the process. I can remember him dragging himself sluggishly to the counter. He shuffled his feet across the hardwood floor and always grumbled something incomprehensible underneath his breath. He always acted like he hated it, but he knew it was worth it at the end. I can remember sitting at the counter and hearing him tell his hilarious and sometimes inappropriate jokes. Now that he is gone, making gumbo always reminds me of him.

Gumbo really is a family meal. A pot of gumbo doesn’t make one or two servings. It makes about thirty. That alone implies that it’s a meal cooked for the masses. For my graduation party, we cooked gumbo for the guests. For the workers who helped after Hurricane Katrina and Ivan, we cooked gumbo for them. And for family and friends, we make gumbo. Whenever we cook gumbo you can expect a crowd. Like I said, gumbo is an experience in its own.