I made Gumbo with my son Sunday.
It’s not the first time I made it for him,
But it’s the first time he helped.
I told my son,
“I’m gonna teach you how to make a roux from scratch.”
“Okay, what’s a roux?” he asked me.
“It’s the base for the gumbo,” I said.
We began.
Me: “Can you get the flour please, then the olive oil.”
I pulled out the cast iron skillet.
I poured in the oil,
Then the flour.
“Here, now you whisk,”
I told him.
He whisked
“Is this good mom?”
“Yes baby,”
I could hear myself say
In that Ancestral voice
I grew up hearing.
“I’m tired,”
he said after whisking for a few minutes.
I checked,
“Okay, well let it sit.”
I looked at the bubbles,
“Okay, come back and whisk a little bit more.”
He obliged.
The roux soon turned from beige,
to caramel, to dark brown.
“That’s perfect son!”
I smiled.
I stirred in the chopped trinity.
Celery, onion & bell pepper.
Then the okra.
I checked on the freshly prepared chicken stock.
I poured it into the pot.
“You need to come watch this,”
I told my boy.
I stirred and it simmered.
I smiled as the memories welled up in my mind.
I shared…
When I think of Gumbo, I remember that sweet little house in a Richmond cul-de-sac. I hear loud mouths negotiating who would contribute and how much.
One of my favorite memories is from very early on before my uncle passed. My Uncle C was a true character. I remember smiles through his wide mustache, laughter, and him paying me a few cents after I reported to him what my cousins were up to.
I remember he always managed to get the best sausage for the gumbo. This deep burgundy red Andouille Sausage with a spice that brought out a few coughs and tears to many eyes. Everyone kept eating. No matter the burn in my mouth, I’d cough, wipe my eyes and spoon in more thick broth adorned with okra, prawns, sausage and more. It was just that good.
I laughed, sharing every memory I could recall with my son.
About an hour passed,
I called out,
“It’s time to put in the crab.
That’s his favorite part.
He ran into the kitchen,
I stared at him as he held up the crab,
juice dripping on my freshly mopped floor.
“I asked you to do one thing.”
I said harshly
with a smile as I guided him.
Crabs in the pot
Cleaned the juice off the floor.
Covered the simmering goodness.
“I’m gonna show you how to shell and devein shrimp.”
My son watched with a curious glaze.
I pulled off the shell,
sliced one side with a knife,
pulled out the gunk,
wiped my finger on the nearby paper towel.
I sliced the other side
looked up at my son watching me,
focusing more than he believed he was.
I grinned, sliced,
pulled out more gunk,
wiped.
Repeat.
I smiled again,
“Okay, you don’t have to watch me do the rest.
He darted off to the living room.
I began to reflect…
Years after my uncle’s passing, we still gathered as much as we could. We knew what was coming when a cousin would say, “You know… got crabs in today. We betta go before they all out.”
With a quickness everything seemed to come together. Cousin shoutin orders about who was gonna buy what, who was gonna make what. “I got 5 bucks,” one cousin offered. Another, “I gotta dollar.” Another shouted, “I gotta 10 spot.”
My oldest brother would kick in a 20 and I would yell, “He’s got me,” cause back then I always seemed to be broke. He’d kick in some more, cause he always seemed to have money, “You need some money T?”
“No, I’m good,” as I watch him add more cash to the gumbo fund.
With lightning speed everyone moved into position. Assigned roles, knife against the chopping board, the oil sizzling, roux being whisked, sausage cooking. Lots of ish talkin, laughing, cousin K yellin, “Too many cooks in the kitchen…” Just a routine weekend.
I finished the shrimp,
jumbo prawns actually.
“Okay,” I shouted to my son,
“I want you to watch this next part.”
He ran back into the kitchen.
I rinsed the prawns,
placed them in the pot.
“Now turn off the stove,”
I said.
I put the cover on the pot.
“Let it steam.
That’ll cook the shrimp
They’ll be real tender.”
“Okay,” he nodded,
Then back in the living room.
He teased me for having “Jingle Jangle” on,
playing in the background.
I laughed…
Not sure how many hours passed, with all the shit talkin, laughing and a few movies that no one watched cause they were busy with the latest gossip. Then we’d hear, “All right y’all, come fix yo plate!”
Everyone gathered in that small hallway kitchen, “The kids first,” Cousin would shout. One by one, paper plate with the bowl on top. The rice first, then the rich brown broth, sausage, shrimp, crab and more. “Don’t y’all greedy asses take all the shrimp,” Cousin’s voice bellowed through the house. All the while my oldest brother was picking out as many as he could find. Not gonna lie, I did too. Everyone settled in, plate strategically on lap, bowl on top, slurping, laughter through the sounds of licking fingers.
I called my son back in the kitchen
Took the lid off the pot and stirred.
“Look at that,”
I beamed over the perfectly pink prawns.
“But that roux, look at that roux!
Son, you made the perfect roux.”
He beamed,
“Of course I did.”
Head held high
his confidence shining through.
We fixed our plates
Bowls on top.
Rice first, then the broth, sausage, prawns, crab and more.
I told him,
“We don’t eat Gumbo at the table.”
We place it strategically
on our laps,
while on the couch,
TV on,
movie playing.
“Won’t we make a mess?” my son asked.
That’s what this is for,”
I handed him the large towel,
napkins in close proximity.
That first slurp,
Then bite.
that beautiful moment.
A deep sigh as the memories flowed.
I shared…
When we used to eat Gumbo at Aunt Jackie’s house, this is the point where the movie’s on and everybody began talking. I’d get made and shout, “Will y’all be quiet, I can’t hear the movie.” Nobody would shut up of course.
I brought myself forward
to the present.
I watch my son,
his concerns dissipating
as he eats gumbo,
plate strategically on his lap.
Cracking the crab with his hands,
licking his fingers.
wiping his hands on the towel
as we watch a movie.
Him talking through everything as I say,
“Will you please be quiet
I can’t hear the movie.”
I feel proud,
peaceful,
happy.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
When I think of Gumbo I’m taken back to the small house in that Richmond cul-de-sac. I hear loud mouths negotiating, pots clanging, knives against the cutting board, oil poppin, broth boiling, yelling, screaming, crabs cracking and lots of laughter. I hear the memories.
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