Ode to Gumbo

Up early in the dark, in the January cold. Up early with the full moon swinging from the branches of the oak tree, the frost crunching silver underfoot. Up early with dreams of gumbo shadowing my sleep.

Inside the warmth of the kitchen, with daylight still missing, I reach for the papery skin of onions, for green peppers and celery. I feel the need to chop and stir, to fry and simmer. I feel the need for gumbo.

Coming into February, it’s always this way. Maybe it’s an antidote for winter, a cure for the excess of the holidays, shades of red and green receding into December. Maybe it’s anticipation of Mardi Gras, a longing for Jolie Blonde, for the abandon of New Orleans.

Whatever the source, it comes on strong this season, and I perch on the kitchen stool in the early hours and chop vegetables until my arm aches. I brown the floured chicken, nibbling at the crusty corners, reasoning unreasonably with my New Year’s resolution to lose weight.

And then I face the roux. To me, it’s a little like playing chicken. I stir the flour, spicy with garlic and cayenne, into the hot oil and watch it darken. At this point, I am committed to stirring. I do not leave the flame.

I barely answer questions if anyone is foolish enough to ask me one. Riveted to the roux, I watch it take on the shades of night, pushing it darker and darker with my spatula willing it not to burn, wondering just how far to go before I rescue it with the chopped vegetables and it deepens to the color of river mud. Black satin napalm, slow burn mystery, foreign words on a familiar tongue.

Breathing again, I stir the roux into the broth, float the chicken, the okra and tomato in its black sea, punctuate the dream with Tabasco. Then simmer, slow simmer song, low flame. Simmer.

Waiting is a winter game, but worth the cold. Fluff the white rice. Drown it in the dark broth, in the voodoo and the smoke. Inhale life’s complexity. Drink it in.

There you go. Gumbo!