Prose Poem: How to cook a mean gumbo. (Dedicated to Lily Janiak)

 

I use apples and bananas in my gumbo. I know this is viewed as unorthodox by most cooks, but in my defense I can cite Flying Jacob as an antecedent.  Like Moe Howard used to say, you could look it up.

The most important part of any gumbo, as any rank amateur can tell you (and if you don't have any rank amateurs hanging around your kitchen you can always go out to the nearest coffee shop and find one -- they're as thick as water striders in a puddle) the most important part, I say, is the roux.

The role of roux in gumbo is widely misunderstood by most people.  At one time it was thought the word 'roux' came from the ancient Roux tribe that roamed the primeval forests of Galatia.  They would throw captured enemies into a large iron pot and add the bark of the sassafras tree to thicken things up before eating the whole horrible mess.  But recent scholarship has shown that the Roux tribe actually sent captured enemies to the Riviera, where their tortured cries at the amount you have to tip the waiters gave members of the tribe a cruel satisfaction.

Roux, it seems, actually comes from the root word 'ruckus,' which is Latin for 'rutabaga.'  Ancient peoples, especially those idiot Druids, liked to put rutabaga in everything they ate. It helped hide the fact that there was usually nothing at all to eat except rutabagas.  Those ancient peoples sure had a hard time of it.  It makes me glad I'm a modern peoples.

Of course, in today's modern kitchen there are many ways to thicken up a stew such as gumbo.  But they are all WRONG ways.  Absolutely incorrect.  The only acceptable roux for gumbo is powdered chalk.  And if you don't believe me I don't care -- my cat died last week and there's nothing left for me to live for anyway.

Next to the roux in importance is the lashings.  You've heard the phrase 'lashings of cream' haven't you?  Well, in gumbo you have to lash in all the solid ingredients.  Don't measure it daintily or carefully sprinkle it into the pot.  Lash it in like you're throwing a hand grenade.  The physical shock of contact with the boiling liquid releases the most tantalizing aromas imaginable.  It also spatters your kitchen with an immense amount of grease spots.  So wear a hazmat suit.

Finally, all great chefs know that the real secret to a classic gumbo is keeping any and all sprigs of parsley away from the finished product.  Don't garnish it with anything, except an ice cold can of Old Milwaukee beer.  Unopened.  Let that sucker sit in the lava-like gumbo for ten minutes, when it will detonate -- killing all the captured enemies in your kitchen.  

Then you will finally be free to hunt down those wretched Druids and stone them to death with rutabagas.