Shrimp, but no crawdads
Last night our usual "Lost" friends (minus one, but with the addition of one newbie) gathered once again at our house to glue our eyes onto the television screen for that way-too-short-of-an-hour-long show. Our meal was later than usual this week, and so we ate on TV trays in the den, barely able to swallow our food because of all of the drama and suspense.
Last night Ken and I got the wild idea to make a huge pot of Louisiana Gumbo....I capitalize its title because it is so worth paying respect to....it is the mother of all gumbos. It is a basic recipe that I found online, and then I add to it the ingredients that I remember being in some of my favorite gumbos which I had while living in the Crawdad State myself.
My dad was stationed at Fort Polk (affectionately nicknamed "Fort Puke" by those who have been there and seen it) from the years 1987-1990. Now it is a joint readiness training center, I believe. I was 9 when we moved there. My memories are as sharp as a sword, though, when it comes to things I saw, people I met, and food I ate.
Gumbo had never entered my culinary sphere until I moved into this area. Now it is here to stay. My first time eating it at ALL was at a restaurant built into slave quarters of a Civil War mansion near New Orleans, called "Oak Alley Plantation." This gumbo would not hold a match to an even more authentic, down-home gumbo that I would experience later on.
I had a friend in LA named Keri. Her mother was of Hispanic origin, and oddly, her father was as Cajun as you get. He did not talk much. He was actually an alcoholic, I believe...as best I could tell at that young age. My parents were wary of me going over to her house to play because of the doubts about what kind of influence it might be on me....but I did go over a few times, and most times I ended up staying the night.
Keri, her parents, and younger sister eventually moved out of the small town of Leesville. They situated out in the country....and I mean, in the middle of nowhere....true bayou country. I went over to her house one summer evening, and that is where I first tasted my Louisiana Gumbo.
Her dad didn't do much....I don't recall him doing much of anything, actually, except coming home from work, grabbing a beer, and watching television. But one thing he did and did very well was make some gumbo. I can still remember my eyes creeping over to the kitchen to watch him standing at the stove, in a wife beater, beer can in hand, stirring a delicious, steaming pot of the soup. To this day, I'm convinced that part of the reason it tasted so good is because he added some of that beer in his hand. Who knows.
We ate gumbo that night during a horrible summer thunderstorm. Their roof was tin, no doubt, and so the huge pieces of hail battered the ceiling above us as we ate by candlelight (the power went off early on, as well). All I can remember was being thankful that the power held out long enough for the gumbo to finish steeping.
Strange memories are often tied to food....yet the foods continue to whisk us back years and years to recreate those scenes in our memories over and over again. I make my gumbo now in honor of Keri, and her misdirected father, and the bayou state which I called home for three years. Keri's dad inspired me to add tomatoes and cabbage....two things that are not often found in out-of-Louisiana gumbo recipes. I add shrimp in place of his crawdads, but that is certainly open for experimentation. Recipes change, methods evolve, yes, that is true. Yet the whole, entire essence and experience of gumbo has a way of never leaving one's heart once it has settled there.
Last night Ken and I got the wild idea to make a huge pot of Louisiana Gumbo....I capitalize its title because it is so worth paying respect to....it is the mother of all gumbos. It is a basic recipe that I found online, and then I add to it the ingredients that I remember being in some of my favorite gumbos which I had while living in the Crawdad State myself.
My dad was stationed at Fort Polk (affectionately nicknamed "Fort Puke" by those who have been there and seen it) from the years 1987-1990. Now it is a joint readiness training center, I believe. I was 9 when we moved there. My memories are as sharp as a sword, though, when it comes to things I saw, people I met, and food I ate.
Gumbo had never entered my culinary sphere until I moved into this area. Now it is here to stay. My first time eating it at ALL was at a restaurant built into slave quarters of a Civil War mansion near New Orleans, called "Oak Alley Plantation." This gumbo would not hold a match to an even more authentic, down-home gumbo that I would experience later on.
I had a friend in LA named Keri. Her mother was of Hispanic origin, and oddly, her father was as Cajun as you get. He did not talk much. He was actually an alcoholic, I believe...as best I could tell at that young age. My parents were wary of me going over to her house to play because of the doubts about what kind of influence it might be on me....but I did go over a few times, and most times I ended up staying the night.
Keri, her parents, and younger sister eventually moved out of the small town of Leesville. They situated out in the country....and I mean, in the middle of nowhere....true bayou country. I went over to her house one summer evening, and that is where I first tasted my Louisiana Gumbo.
Her dad didn't do much....I don't recall him doing much of anything, actually, except coming home from work, grabbing a beer, and watching television. But one thing he did and did very well was make some gumbo. I can still remember my eyes creeping over to the kitchen to watch him standing at the stove, in a wife beater, beer can in hand, stirring a delicious, steaming pot of the soup. To this day, I'm convinced that part of the reason it tasted so good is because he added some of that beer in his hand. Who knows.
We ate gumbo that night during a horrible summer thunderstorm. Their roof was tin, no doubt, and so the huge pieces of hail battered the ceiling above us as we ate by candlelight (the power went off early on, as well). All I can remember was being thankful that the power held out long enough for the gumbo to finish steeping.
Strange memories are often tied to food....yet the foods continue to whisk us back years and years to recreate those scenes in our memories over and over again. I make my gumbo now in honor of Keri, and her misdirected father, and the bayou state which I called home for three years. Keri's dad inspired me to add tomatoes and cabbage....two things that are not often found in out-of-Louisiana gumbo recipes. I add shrimp in place of his crawdads, but that is certainly open for experimentation. Recipes change, methods evolve, yes, that is true. Yet the whole, entire essence and experience of gumbo has a way of never leaving one's heart once it has settled there.
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