In Gumbo, I Trust
Listen, so I have trust issues. My trust is hard to come by, so when I trust something… or someone, it’s a feat. It’s one less therapy session from a miracle.
I trust Gumbo. I trust it obscenely. I trust its truth.
To level the playing field… Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary has four definitions for Gumbo:
A soup thickened with okra pods or filé and containing meat or seafood and usually vegetables
Okra; vegetable of African origin
Any of various fine-grained silty soils, especially of the central U.S., that when wet, become impervious and soapy or waxy and very sticky; heavy sticky mud
Mixture; Melange
Gumbo is all of these things; it’s a Creole stew emblematic of every culinary culture in Louisiana, specifically in New Orleans, one of this country’s greatest port cities. It’s a literal melting pot and tells some of this country’s truest histories. As a result, my trust is earned.
Recently, I came into possession of an heirloom grain, Carolina Gold rice.
My sister works in restaurants -- I reap the benefits regularly. I am a bit of an amateur food historian and know that this rice, in particular, was an ingredient worthy of my respect. I am also an amateur cook, if you couldn’t already tell. You see, ingredients, food products, both manufactured and nature’s bounty, hold stories and memories that are truer and clearer than other tellings of history. It’s a whole thing. If interested, Google Marcel Proust, madeleine cookie, and memory. Prepare to be mind blown. Food is at the root of what we mean by intangible heritage. Carolina Gold rice holds its own history, filled with both dark and light. In its simplicity, there is subtext. Therefore, it deserves my respect and my kindness. This rice is a staple of Lowcountry cuisine, shaped by the Gullah Geechee.
“The Gullah Geechee people are descendants of Africans who were enslaved on the rice, indigo and Sea Island cotton plantations of the lower Atlantic coast. Many came from the rice-growing region of West Africa. The nature of their enslavement on isolated island and coastal plantations created a unique culture with deep African retentions that are clearly visible in the Gullah Geechee people’s distinctive arts, crafts, foodways, music, and language.” (The Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor)
I couldn’t just throw these kernels of grain on the stove, so I decided to pair it with gumbo. The entire meal would take me two and a half hours on a random Tuesday night, and I would end up eating the leftovers for three days. I had some help with the base of my stew, but I am working up to crafting my own roux. I boiled the rice and toasted it in the oven with pads of expensive butter from my sister’s restaurant. I sauteed andouille sausage and shrimp in shallots and a champagne vinaigrette. My only greens in the fridge were chives, so I garnished my bowl with them. When I finally finished crafting my dinner, I scooped my beautiful rice into a bowl and delicately spooned my thick gumbo around this mountain of gold.
I was filled with admiration for my bowl of gumbo. So much toil and taste in one (metaphorically) tiny bowl. Culinary practices, joyful memories, and dark histories all blended into one dish. Creole cooking tells the truth of this country and I could go on and on about that alone. Namely, I could talk about how these ingredients and culinary traditions were forcibly and brutally brought over to North America by enslaved Africans via the Middle Passage. Those who survived the journey were then forced to grow and care for the ingredients in America - a fact that isn’t often talked about. This is why intangible heritage is so fragile and so vital. The history behind the food might have been lost if intergenerational traditions hadn’t managed to survive.
One other truth about Creole cooking? I just love it.
Simple as that. I eat red beans and rice on Mondays. I’m from New England and can tell if I’m slurping down a good bowl of gumbo. I won’t shrug at a fried catfish if it crosses my plate. Sure, beignets sound delightful, but I am mainly here for THICK stocks and roux (plural). I further salivate when I think of shrimp etouffee and the idea of tiny little crawfish dripping atop newspaper excites me. Paprika and garlic. Cracked peppercorns. The idea of some type of “smothered” meat. Yes, please.
I could write an entire book about gumbo, about intangible heritage, about food and memory, about this complicated land and its history. I could, but time is fleeting, and you have other things to read, and I have other things to cook.
So, I will leave this here. There’s a reason I trust this dish and its truth so much. When it comes to telling a story, I trust Gumbo more than most history books - especially in relation to geography and ecology. There’s a reason why identical dishes are made across cultures in similar landscapes. Coastal wetlands, for example. Crawfish boils and clambakes only differ in latitude, not in attitude. I am working up to that cultural exploration. It’s a bigger project -- stay tuned. I am just a simple explorer with a curious taste for culinary heritage… hungry for more.
For now, I stand here with one simple declaration: in gumbo, I trust.