The Roux in the Gumbo

  The Roux

  In the

  Gumbo

  Dedication

  Watching the shell that remains of my maternal Grandmother, devoid of her vibrant life, her encouraging smiles and constant conversation was the final factor in my decision to vote with the rest of the family to let her expire. We could not allow her to continue to endure so much pain.

  Throughout her entire life this woman took good care of any and everyone who came into her world. It just does not seem fair. Then again, how often was fair a factor for black people?

  Anyone who had ever been in the company of her spirit would know that she would not want to exist this way– her body twisted from multiple strokes, her limbs failing, and the cancer eating away at her spine. This was more than any soul should have to bear.

  To starve her to death seemed so cruel, yet it was the only legal way to let her pass on. The fate of someone who had fed half of Los Angeles was to starve to death.

  Helen, whom everyone called ‘Mother,’ would feed anyone who was hungry. She always said, “Anything I give, God will make sure I get back tenfold.” You had to know her to understand her way of thinking. Maybe this book will help to clarify and glorify a woman who is certainly an angel in heaven. When she died, she left seven children, twenty-four grandchildren and thirty-eight great-grandchildren. Mother was the kind of woman that no matter what you did she is “gonna” still love you unconditionally. Don’t get it twisted now, she would be the first to tell you when you did wrong, but still be there for you.

  Anyone could knock on Mother’s door or come into her café, and say they were hungry and she would feed them. If you needed clothes, she would take you to her second-hand store and clothe you. Many people took advantage of this, but she knew exactly what was going on. More often than not, when these people got on their feet, they always came back to repay her. Some said they could never do enough for her. Her good deeds were often the catalyst in helping them get their lives together. Mother always said, “Folks is folks. There are good white folks and good black folks. There are bad white folks and bad black folks. She also said, “Every person’s life is like a pot of gumbo, you get out what you put in.”

  Gumbo is a very popular Louisiana dish, a kind of soup. There must be a million variations on how to make it. Every person who makes it thinks theirs is better than the next. I have seen people arguing over what is the best way to make this dish. Just like life, everyone has some input on what would make the next person’s life better. Some people want more sausage, more shrimp or no shrimp. Some want crab or oysters. Some prefer more spice, more file’ (fee -lay). One thing they all have in common is a Roux (Roo). Roux is the gravy base and the foundation of this dish. It gives the soup its flavor and is what makes you get that second bowl. Everyone has a Roux in his or her life. Someone who influenced every step they took, and in some way gave their life direction. Mother was my Roux.

  To see photos of the people in this book go to my website.

  www.Kim-Robinson.com, click on the book cover of the my books page.

  In order to see into this incredible woman, you have to know what came before and what came after. That is where we are going in this book. Let’s go, it is going to be an adventure.

  Laissez les Bon Temps Rouler

  NOTE: There is a family tree in the back of this book.

  They Live On

  Life does not start at conception or birth

  A soul takes milleniums to create

  To raise and nourish future generations of worth

  Ancestors who bore fruit, come back to relate

  Leaving shared beliefs and astral dreams

  Memories and professions passed on with bites of recipes

  Cuisine perfected through time with spices of personalities

  herbs of love, marinades of meetings

  baste in other’s life experiences

  A sculptor preserves a person with clay

  A photographer immortalizes a face a physique

  A producer creates a movie to tell a history

  An artist paints a likeness of a profile or day

  To get to tomorrow, you have to have yesterdays

  Their stories should be told. It is what they deserve

  To be passed on to children to come

  I write to preserve

  http://www.kim-robinson.com

  by Kim Robinson

  My Family’s Gumbo

  3 lbs. snow crab, cleaned and washed

  15 chicken wings, cleaned and washed

  1 lb. chicken gizzards, chopped fine

  4 lbs. diced smoked sausage (Hillshire Farms).

  Fry lightly to remove some fat

  3 lbs large shrimp, peeled and deveined

  4 packs dried shrimp

  2 lbs. baby shrimp

  4 stalks of cleaned and diced celery

  3 diced onions

  3 packs of onion soup mix

  2 cans of okra; preferably “Trappeys” brand. Drain off liquid and

  fry in ¼ cup of oil. This removes the slime.

  gumbo file’ (ground sassafras leaves)

  seasoning salt

  black pepper

  celery salt

  prepared rice

  Roux:

  1 cup of vegetable oil

  1 cup of flour

  If you prefer a thicker soup, add more flour. Heat the oil over medium heat. Sprinkle flour over grease while constantly stirring, so as not to scorch, based on your preference. I prefer a nut brown or caramel color. Some people like a darker roux. You can always taste as you go along. Set aside.

  Gumbo:

  Use a large stockpot. Fill half way with water and set on high to boil. You can divide ingredients into 2 or 3 smaller pots. I prefer this method, because it takes a while to get the water to boil. It will also decrease the chance of your Gumbo sticking to the bottom. There is nothing worse than a burnt pot of Gumbo.

  “Chile just thinking about it makes me want to cry, Gumbo is something that every time it’s made it just gets better as you add or take away ingredients to tailor to your taste, much like a fine suit of clothes. Other variations have bell pepper, tomato puree, oysters, crawfish, rabbit, turkey or chicken, parsley, green onion and garlic. I could fill this book up with various ways to prepare this dish. Do not be afraid to experiment. Add gizzards, onion, celery, onion soup mix, dried shrimp and sausage.

  When it reaches a rapid boil, reduce flame to low and cook for an additional 20 minutes. Add Roux and stir. Add chicken, crab legs, okra, black pepper, seasoning and celery salt. Be very careful with celery salt, it can overpower the other flavors. Add 1 teaspoon to entire pot. You can always go back and add more.

  Boil for 35 to 40 minutes. Add shrimp and boil 5 minutes more.

  Remove from heat add 1 teaspoon of gumbo file to each pot.

  Serve in a bowl over rice.

  Sprinkle file’ to taste. Do not be afraid to get your fingers dirty.

  Also, do not forget to suck the gravy out of the crab legs before you open them up.

  You have to let the gumbo cool down all the way before you can refrigerate.

  It can be frozen for up to three months. I prefer in Tupperware containers or Ziploc freezer bags.

  Enjoy and drop me a line and let me know how you like it.

  kim@kim-robinson.com

  Life is what you make it

  To be a woman around times of slavery

  You are subject to acts that are unsavory

  In order to keep your head up through the depravity

  You command from your soul a certain kind of bravery

  The only true freedom that you have, no one can enslave

  With your brain you fight back


  Even if outwardly, you behave

  For the people who keep you back and bound in chains

  You pray to god that one day they will know this pain

  They can put chains on your arms, your legs,

  and even your behind,

  But the thing that can’t be restrained is your mind.

  Keep the curtains drawn on the windows of your soul,

  Your eyes…

  Don’t let them see the strength that is inside, your pride

  Say your prayers every day; hold on to your faith

  Just in case, the after life is the place

  The place where you get your taste

  Of the good life our oppressors don’t appreciate

  But with some hustle and creativity

  You might not have to wait

  And the days and nights in this life don’t have to go to waste.

  Life is not how you take it,

  Don’t spend all your time looking for answers

  Your life is what you make it.

  1

  GIZELLE

  Gizelle welcomed the feel of the cool sheets against her skin. She crawled exhausted into her bed, naked as always during the humid summer. As Gizelle slept, her subconscious took her back to a night twenty years ago in 1850. She was twelve years old and alone in the middle of the night. Scared, tired, hungry, and sick, she sat crying and shivering under a huge magnolia tree in driving rain, deep in the bayou near Lake Charles, Louisiana. Gizelle decided to sit and wait. Surely, one of the water moccasins or some deadly spider would put her out of her misery. No matter what, she was not going back to the plantation. Before Gizelle was old enough to be weaned, she had been wrenched from her mother’s breast and sold to the Sunrise Plantation. They should have called it “The Graveyard” because so many slaves were buried there. They worked clearing the bayous so the boats could navigate through the waters to bring in materials to build plantation homes and slave quarters. They also brought in seed and supplies to cultivate the fields of cotton, rice, and sugar cane; anything that was agriculturally profitable. The overseers did not allow slaves who labored in the fetid water to get out as they watched others pulled under by the alligators. If the poisonous snakes and spiders did not kill them, the elements would. They worked regardless of rain or snow. Those who fell ill were left on the bank to die. The owners could always buy more slaves. During the epidemics, cholera and yellow fever laid claim to many. Hundreds expired from colds, croup or the many diseases that thrived in the swampy water. The soles of their feet split open from the fungus brought on by standing in dirty water for too long. They bound their feet with bandages but without proper treatment, the cuts developed gangrene. The limbs were amputated. Cripples sat in pirogues to transfer the debris from the water to the bank. A slave was lucky to make it through a year working at Sunrise.

  Gizelle’s dark skin dictated that by the age of four she was sent to the fields to pick cotton. When she was nine years old, the overseer gave her a gift. He raped her. He had been doing so for three years now.

  He had very strange and unnatural desires, and she could not take it anymore. She would prefer death to the tortured existence she was living. Each time lightning brightened the sky, Gizelle prayed for God to end her life.

  Finally, the storm passed. She gathered Spanish moss from the trees and made a pallet. She closed her eyes, hoping they would never again open.

  “Cher, Cher, Wake up chile! What are you doing here? Get up Cher you are soaking wet. Come with me. Open your eyes,” the voice said. Gizelle heard the words but did not want to open her eyes. She did not want to be alive. Maybe God was a woman, or maybe he was busy and had sent an angel for her. She peeked out with one eye. Nope it was not God; God did not have long white hair that hung down to his waist. She opened the other eye and looked into eyes that looked like a cat, colored a greenish-gray.

  Her face was soft with what seemed to be concern. No one had ever looked at Gizelle with such kindness. “Can you stand, Cher? Are you hurt?” The woman touched Gizelle’s forehead and found it burning with fever. “You poor chile, you come with Tallulah; I will make you better,” she said. Gizelle rose shakily to her feet and leaned against the strange woman. Tallulah was the tallest woman she had ever seen. When Gizelle got dizzy and could not walk, Tallulah carried her.

  Tallulah took her to a cabin built three feet above the ground alongside a creek, allowing the water to flow under rather than through the house when the water was high. It was a cozy habitat. Three large rooms were more than adequate for Tallulah. One, a large inviting kitchen kept warm by the stove where she prepared her food. Another was the bedroom, which boasted a four-poster bed with night tables and an armoire that covered an entire wall. The custom furniture would have done any mansion proud. The last room had a massive desk on one wall. The other three walls were bookshelves, overflowing with books and mementos of her life. The collection of Indian and French artifacts spoke volumes about Tallulah’s heritage. Gizelle dreamt that someone removed her wet clothes and placed her in a large metal basin filled with lavender scented water that had been warmed in a teakettle that sat on the top of a big pot-bellied stove. Her hair was gently washed and braided. She was spooned hot soup; the tastiest she had ever eaten, nothing like the slop at Sunrise. The woman held a cup for her so she could sip delicious honey-sweetened herb tea. It soothed and warmed her from the inside out. When she was out of the tub, Gizelle’s body was rubbed down with oils that made her skin feel smooth and soft like a baby. The towel was soft, like freshly ginned and cleaned cotton. She wondered if she was dreaming, or maybe this was heaven. Wherever she was, this was where she wanted to be.

  Gizelle awoke in the comfort of a soft feather mattress. This must be how the people in the big house slept, she thought. She was afraid that if she moved her surroundings would disappear and she would find herself back on the floor of her plantation cabin. Tallulah warmed the sheets by filling a bottle with hot water and rolling it between them. The quilt smelled as if it were filled with fragrant flowers. She drifted back to sleep.

  Tallulah—1850

  As Tallulah bathed the child, she noticed scars, welts, and burns. Tortured slaves were a familiar sight for her. She spent her days making rounds to plantations in the area. Some plantation owners believed in caring for the blacks that worked for them, not that they considered them human, but just as horses or dogs could get sick, so could slaves. They did not mind the small retainer. It was much less than the cost to care for a sick slave or replace a dead one.

  Tallulah worked wonders on slaves and animals. It seemed she always knew which herb would revive her patient. Many physicians who refused to work on blacks came to her for advice on perplexing cases. Some white people found her much more effective than the college-educated doctors; before long, they joined her list of exclusive clients.

  The fullness of Gizelle’s breasts, and the life-giving milk that leaked from her swollen nipples, along with the slight roundness of her stomach alerted Tallulah.

  She would wait for Gizelle to get better to ask if she wanted to keep the baby. If not, she would prepare a brew from the black cohosh plant. If taken early in pregnancy, it causes the necessary bleeding to bring down the period and abort the fetus. She had prepared this for many women with great success.

  Tallulah lay down next to Gizelle and went to sleep.

  Tallulah was French and Indian; the result of an affair her mother, Jennifer, had with a tall Muskogee (Black and Indian) warrior named Schwa. She was nearly five feet, eleven inches tall. She had bronze skin and a slim figure that even at her age of fifty, was statuesque.

  Tallulah came into the world amidst great tragedy. Jennifer’s husband, Jacques Boneaux, a French Diplomat with blonde hair and blue eyes, could not deal with the horror of his wife’s betrayal.

  Jacques—1800

  Jacques rushed home after receiving word from one of his slaves that Jennifer had borne the child. Upon entering the foyer of his ma
ssive plantation home, he saw the doctor coming down the stairs.

  “Congratulations Jacques,” he said as they shook hands. Jacques offered him a flask of bourbon.

  “Let’s celebrate, Doc.”

  Doc took the flask, closed and returned it without taking a sip. “Your wife and daughter are resting, both healthy and fine.” He put on his coat and hat.

  Jacques could not help feeling something was amiss. Doc’s eyes never met his. He seemed nervous and in a hurry to leave, much as a man with something to hide.

  Jacques had never known him to refuse a drink. Yet, he had begged off, saying that he had to get home to his wife as he hurried out the door. Jacques had spent many a night in brothels with Doc and he had never seen him in a rush to get home. Actually, it was just the opposite, and who could blame him? Jacques had met the good doctor’s wife and she was far from attractive. Pictures in their home professed to the great beauty she once was. When she got pregnant with their only son, she had put on quite a bit of weight and after the birth; she continued to blow up like a balloon, which distorted the once pristine features of her face. No, he thought, Doc just said they were fine. Then he remembered he had a baby.

  He took the stairs two at a time.

  Jacques stood at the bedside watching Jennifer in her slumber. He could not help but smile at the blissful serenity of her sleeping, angelic face. They had been married exactly one year ago during this very month, December of 1800. Their fathers had been childhood friends in France and had come to America to make their fortunes in slaves and cotton. From the day Jennifer was born, their parents spoke of their marriage.