Gumbo

Several days ago I made another summer favorite: gumbo. Gumbos seem to be about as varied as the people who make them, at least in my experience, and this one is uniquely my family’s. While stirring the roux, I had plenty of time to contemplate what I would say in this blog post, which got me to thinking about the first gumbo I made. I can’t remember what it was that one foggy day in San Francisco that made me determined to try my hand at making a gumbo, but I remember that resolute feeling I had that I was going to make a gumbo. I don’t even remember where I had heard about them, or what was so enticing about them, or how I knew what flavor I wanted, or even exactly how to make a roux.

But I knew precisely what I wanted it to taste like.

That first gumbo was quite tasty, as I recall, yet every summer the gumbos have gotten better. This summer I had been looking forward to making the gumbo. I had made a delicious one earlier, called Gumbo Z’Herbes, made of greens and bacon and smoked pork that was so creamy and rich, but I hadn’t been able to make this one yet because the pepper plants were a little behind in growing. By the time I got back from the coast, there was a profusion of peppers though, so early in the afternoon I got started. I got out the biggest pot we had, gathered flour, butter, olive oil, bacon fat, a spoon, my book and got settled in in front of the outdoor stove, since its too hot out to cook inside. It was pretty hot that day, and the sun was at an angle so that I was in the sun where I sat lovingly stirring my roux. I heated the fats, and sprinkled flour in until it was the right consistency, and then stirred the mixture over a very very low heat. The roux is the most important part of the gumbo, and it can’t be taken lightly. You have to baby it, cooking it slowly until the flour begins to fry. You can really tell when it starts frying, because it has a distinct popcorn smell. The texture changes over the course of the cooking process, becoming thick and bubbly, and then smoothing out into a more liquid texture as the oil heats up. You continue to cook the roux until you achieve the color and smell that you desire for whatever soup you are making, because that flavor will be the base of your soup. For this gumbo, I cook it until it reaches a deep chocolaty brown, and smells very roasted, almost burnt smelling. Because I was cooking such a vat of it, it took me a couple of hours to get to this point, but it was well worth the babying because after you have a good broth going, you can add pretty much anything to it and it will taste delicious.

When I was done cooking the roux, I poured in pork stock, barbequed chicken stock, and lingcod stock. You have to stir it carefully, despite the heat that it will emit, because the flour can lump up and then all that time you spent will be down the drain. Literally. I tossed in some peppers from the garden, some canned tomatoes, someWorcestershire sauce and some Tabasco to cook together to make the broth, and let it be for a couple hours or so. After the flavors had blended, I added in homemade Andouille sausage, onions and a variety of peppers (bells, jalapenos, garden salsas).

 I gave it more time to meld, and added fresher vegetables in right before we ate it, and at the very last second I put the pieces of fish in it and then turned it off and served it.

{Summer Gumbo}

The result was a rich, complex, meaty, fishy, spicy, thick experience that we served over rice. It was a thing of beauty. The fish was perfect, tender and juicy in the rich broth. Talking about it while we ate it, people said they could taste all the individual broths and ingredients  in the same bite, and then later it all melded into one: gumbo.