The Flavors of Home - Modern Farmer

Like anything worthwhile, be it a relationship or a home, gumbo is only as good as its foundation. Gumbo’s base, called the roux – a flour and butter, or oil, mixture – requires patience to make. You stand over the pot for an hour or more, stirring the mixture until it begins to turn a deep, luxurious brown, a color reminiscent of the bayous that snake through the country where I grew up in Southwestern Louisiana. This is where the dish was born close to 300 years ago, and where today it remains not just a quirky local specialty, but the embodiment of a way of life.

Happy Mardi Gras!

[mf_list_sidebar_item]Enjoy a story from the Big Easy.
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Stirring a roux gives you a lot of time to think. So last week while making gumbo for 50 friends I had time to ruminate on the dish, its shrouded history, the Cajun culture in general and what gumbo means to me personally.

Gumbo, like Louisiana’s heritage, is a blend of French, Spanish, Afro-Caribbean and Native American elements, among other cultures, and was originally “a cook’s way of making do with whatever was at hand,” according to the book “Cajun Country” written by my old undergrad professor, Barry Jean Ancelet, along with Jay D. Edwards and Glen Pitre, published by the University Press of Mississippi in 1991.

Catholicism is even part of the story in the form of the Trinity – in this case, the three vegetables used in many Louisiana dishes: onions, bell peppers and celery. My old boss at my first job in New Orleans, Denise Austin, tells me her mother would, on special occasions, “openly bless ‘the holy trinity’” in her “mama roux” while making her gumbo.

There is debate on which culture can claim the biggest role in the creation of gumbo and whether it was born in New Orleans or further west in Cajun country. The argument, for me, misses the point. Gumbo, like Louisiana culture in general, is a layered affair, with each ethnic group adding something special to the pot and creating a dish, and a culture, that is more than the sum of its parts.

“Much like the idea of gumbo itself – bringing disparate ingredients together into a most comforting dish – gumbo is inviting folks in. Gumbo is home.”

The act of preparing the food is often as much of a party as the actual meal, with everyone lending a hand to help cook. Often, there’s more than a few drinks to help in the process. But the cook remains at center stage, the master of ceremonies. In many cases, the cook is also the teacher, helping to pass on the kitchen tradecraft to the next generation.

An old friend from high school, Terry Guidry, recently recalled how as a child during Louisiana winters “If it was a cold, damp day, the kitchen windows would be fogged up from the boiling gumbo and I could smell the roux when I stepped off of the bus.” He still makes the gumbo he learned to cook as a kid.

Even for people like myself, who weren’t born in Louisiana and aren’t of Cajun ancestry, learning to make the dish was a memorable experience. Another old high school friend, Bobby Cooper, moved to Louisiana when he was young and learned to make gumbo from a neighbor’s grandmother. “She lived in an old home on the (Bayou) Teche in St. Martinville. I would sit on the edge of a cast-iron hand-wash sink and watch her cook. Her gumbos were always extra-dark and super-rich. She liked to roast her trinity and meats before adding them to the stock. I still make mine the same way,” he says.

In my mind, the archetypal gumbo is the style I grew up on and what I tend to make at home: a deep, dark, richly flavored and smoky variety filled with andouille sausage and chicken, with gumbo fié (powdered sassafras) added at the last minute for flavor and without okra. I also like mine with a dollop of potato salad, something I’ve only seen done in Southwestern Louisiana.

This is only one of many styles of gumbo. During a recent conversation with Louisiana food writer Ian McNulty, he rattled off several types: Creole, Cajun, green (which contains a variety of green vegetables), red (with tomatoes, which tends to be more of a warm-weather variety).

Ian says gumbo encompasses “the high to the low. It’s on the menu every day at some of the most famous restaurants in the city,” including Commander’s Palace and K-Paul’s, but “any little neighborhood cafe, po’ boy shops, little family restaurants will have gumbo. It’s all pervasive. It’s essential for the city, the community, across Louisiana.” Beyond this, “it’s a very important part of the home experience, the lifestyle. It’s always somewhere.”

Making gumbo allows me to reconnect with a place I haven’t lived for nearly 15 years but still carry in my heart. Serving it to my friends, especially those who are from the North, gives me the opportunity to act as an ambassador, probably something closer to an evangelist, for the food, the love of life, and the idea of sharing that was instilled in me by my time in Louisiana.

An old friend, Kathleen Gregory, sums it up better than I ever could. She says she and her friends who no longer live in Louisiana use the phrase “I’m making a gumbo” as a proxy for “I’m bringing folks together.” As in, “I’m watching the Saints and making a gumbo, having some folks over.”

She says she loves this idea – “much like the idea of gumbo itself – bringing disparate ingredients together into a most comforting dish, gumbo is inviting folks in. Gumbo is home.”

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