Now listen here baby…
First thing ya do is drop that oil in the pot and stir that flour slow. Real slow. Ain’t no rush in good gumbo
At first it look pale and harmless, but you stay with it long enough, that roux start changing color like the sky over the Mississippi at sundown. Little by little it turn brown… then darker… then deep like midnight coffee down on Rampart Street
You smell that almost burnt edge creeping up out the pot. Heat rising in your face. Wooden spoon scraping the bottom steady like a snare drum in a back alley club
GUMBO FEVER!
GUMBO FEVER!
STIR THAT POT!
MAKE IT HOT!
Then in go the onion, celery, and bell pepper. Lord have mercy… whole kitchen start singing. That sound hit the pot like a second line parade coming round the corner. Garlic jump in after that and now the whole house smell like somebody grandma cooking for the entire block
Then you pour in that stock slow. Let that dark roux melt down into the broth till it look like muddy river water after a storm. Throw in that smoky sausage. Drop them shrimp in later on. Little thyme. Little bay leaf. Let it all roll together low and lazy
See gumbo ain’t just food
Gumbo got time inside it
Rain outside the window. Old record spinning somewhere in the back. Maybe some dirty horn section crying through the speakers while the pot bubbles slow
That when New Orleans start creeping into the room
GUMBO FEVER!
GUMBO FEVER!
HOT ROUX!
HOT POT!
Then come the okra. Give it that little velvet thickness. Not too pretty. Not too clean. Gumbo supposed to got some rough edges on it. Hit it with black pepper till ya chest feel warm. Little cayenne too if ya brave enough
Then you take that hot gumbo and slide it right beside a pile of white rice
And baby… after that…
Ain’t much talking left to do
Just sweat
Just spice
Just soul
GUMBO FEVER!
GUMBO FEVER!
STIR THAT POT!
MAKE IT HOT!
Gumbo ain’t fancy food
It smoky
It loud
It got a little danger in it
Like soul music coming out a radio at two in the morning while the whole city still awake
