Illustration by Kourtney Zimmerman
"Gumbo-making on a weeknight"
My Kitchen
Fantasy: My kitchen is a spacious culinary oasis. Every inch of it shines except for the stove, which sparkles. Hummingbirds tap “hello” to me on the French windows overlooking my private prairie, while wildflowers wave to the beat of Le Roux’s “New Orleans Lady”. All of my appliances are personal gifts from Chefs Paul Prudhomme and Emeril Lagasse. Also, my granite countertops are blessed by the pope.
Reality: My kitchen is a minefield of stray shoes, book bags, and dog toys. It overlooks sweeping views of dead grass, rusted barrels, and a Walgreens. The linoleum countertops shimmer in the natural light with residue of that time my five-year-old smashed two glitter bombs together to see what would happen. All of my appliances are cherished gifts I bought myself half-off at Target. Once, Marie Kondo was supposed to film an episode here, but canceled in the end, saying the space sparked joint pain.
The Prep
Fantasy: I saunter out into my vegetable garden that mulches, fertilizes, and weeds itself. The onions, bell peppers, and celery are perfect despite the morning monsoon. I call out to my husband to fire up the forge and make a custom cast iron gumbo pot. Our children meet us in the kitchen to complain: “Mommmmmm, please won’t you let us help you more around the house?” Before I can refuse, they make a game out of grinding flour, then finish up the potato salad. I let out a loud blissful sigh, then grab a butcher knife. In the barn, I am relieved to find the chicken I’ve come to kill has died peacefully in her sleep. Same for the pig! They’ve even left a will. They do not want to be buried or cremated or creamed. They demand to be gumbo’d.
Reality: I limp to the fridge after stepping on a lego and rummage for string cheese. Then I remember why I came here. Oh yeah, dinner. I locate the onions and celery but can’t find the bell peppers I bought for that TikTok recipe I was supposed to try. Then, I scrape its remains off the shelf before driving to Rouses. I spend eight minutes talking myself into splurging on the pre-chopped container only to realize they’ve just run out. After picking an onion, then picking up the avalanche of onions, I’m stuck in traffic. I call my husband to pick up the kids from practice and draft a text to respond to what I know is coming next: the response: “Where’s practice again?” When I’m finally home, I realize my mistake and get right back in the car, this time heading to Albertsons. I can’t have the cashier at Rouses knowing I also forgot the chicken.
Refreshments
Fantasy: I fetch a zinfandel from the cellar. ‘Twill pair perfectly with la petite snack I whipped up to nibble on while I cook: two stuffed Dungeness crabs with homemade remoulade sauce and a jumbo shrimp. Next, I pour un verre de vin and hold it to the light, then swirl it ‘round and ‘round for eight minutes to admire its color. Slow at first, then slower. Then, super slow like a glitching stop-motion wind-up doll. Finally, I take a sip, swish, and spit it out … for I am buzzed!
Reality: I grab an old Mardi Gras cup and pour whatever flavor Truly is left from last week’s in-law visit. Then, I have two more, plus a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, a half sleeve of Tate’s and a handful of those sour gummy fish thingies near the register at Trader Joe’s. It all tastes disgusting together so I call my bestie to tell her. She doesn’t answer, so I leave a voicemail that says: "I love you I’m drunnnnnnnnk call me back, bitch”. A few minutes later she does, but now I don’t feel like talking, so I pretend my phone died.
Music
Fantasy: After I combine the holy trinity, season the chicken, and give the andouille sausage a full Swedish massage, I roll out the gramophone. My secret to a true roux? Blasting saxophone solos out of a fourteen-inch horn. The rhythm takes me back to my days as a lounge singer à Paris. The dark smoky rooms, the adoring fans, the old flame who still visits me in my dreams . . .
Reality: “SOMEBODY CALL 911!” I yell, along with Sean Paul blaring from the entertainment center. “Shawty fire burnin’ on the dance floor.” I pop, lock, and drop it, then struggle to unpop, unlock and undrop it, feeling around for a drawer knob strong enough to pull me up. That’s when I have a flashback of my twenty-first birthday on Bourbon Street. The questions start flooding back: What was I thinking? Whose idea was that? And how the hell did we make it out of our twenties alive?!?
The Cooking
Fantasy: I could stir roux all day, so I do. The oil and flour pop violently onto my eternally youthful skin. It burns so good and miraculously never leaves a mark. In fact, it’s a regular part of my skincare routine. I put a little under my eyes, my T-zone, and my WB-zone (whole body). Gwyneth Paltrow’s buyers at GOOP are in touch.
Reality: My muscles are sore from trying to take off my sports bra yesterday so this stirring crap is pushing me over the edge. Great, took one second to stretch, and now the roux is burned! I toss it out and crack open a jar of Savoie’s.
The Meal
Fantasy: Wow, eighteen hours of unnecessarily hard labor flies by! I taste it to be sure it’s perfect (I already know it is) and am immediately transported to a meeting with God. He says to me: “I can’t tell you that you already have a spot up here in heaven buuuuuuut….” He winks. Then He blesses the roux, me, and my future. I return to Earth to share bowls of gumbo with my family, who compliment me incessantly for the next hour and a half. We all sing “Kumbaya” until we fall asleep.
Reality: I’m not even hungry for this anymore. Plus, isn’t gumbo better the second day? And after all this work, don’t I deserve a little treat? I tell the fam our new supper plans; we’re having Raising Cane’s instead. They cheer! Then I hop in the car before they can ask to come with. During that twenty-five minute drive, I experience true peace.
Read more satirical takes on Louisiana French culture by Megan Broussard, here.
