For those who may not know, rice and gravy is considered a compound word in south Louisiana, and it is, of course, one dish. Meat and rice and gravy were a mainstay in our household, and Mama could always be counted on for fork-tender meat and a deliciously seasoned gravy. My mother was the master of the “long” gravy—the meat and gravy dish that consists of more gravy than meat and is needed when you aren’t sure of the number of people who will show up for dinner. It’s not that she did not expect us; it was more that she didn’t know just exactly how many of us would arrive—for we knew that she was always going to be cooking, and she knew that some of us would always stop by just as she was putting food on the table.
This weekend, as I was preparing a Christmas gumbo for our family, I thought of my mother’s gravies and the number of meals she must have cooked in her lifetime. She had only a few pots, one knife, and one cooking spoon. By the time my mother died, her cooking spoon had been worn thin. The bowl had been sharpened in a right-handed slant by the thousands of rouxs she had coaxed to brownness—and there was an actual pinhole in the lower left center of the bowl. Her spoon now hangs in my kitchen—an object d’art that has paid its dues and now watches my gravy-making attempts from a small expanse of wall between my refrigerator and the pantry door.
This weekend, I realized that making a gumbo is really just making one of Mama’s long gravies. I didn’t have an exact count of the relatives who would arrive for our Christmas gathering, but I knew I could never go wrong if I had a good gravy and a pot of rice. It took several days to get everything done: browning the roux, chopping the seasonings, simmering the stock. Mama would have had it all done in one day and on the table for eleven o’clock. She was much more efficient in her cooking than I am—and I do not ever remember her wringing her hands over whether or not she would have enough food for everyone. I always imagined a parallel between her pots and the loaves and fishes story of the Bible—no matter how many people were at the table, she always managed to feed everyone, and everyone left the table satisfied. From the meals at her table, I learned that one chicken can feed ten people when those eating are more concerned about everyone else’s having enough to eat than they are about how much meat is on their own plate.
The Christmas gumbo began with a rooster, two guinea fowl, and a chicken. Later, doubt about whether or not we would have enough food made me add another chicken to the pot. I was feeling confident that I would have enough for my family. Then the doubts began to raise their heads again, and I added two more chickens—four in all. That was the magic mix. In the gravy I used all three cups of roux I had prepared, and at the end when I wasn’t sure if it would be thick enough, I added some okra. It was very much of a try-something-and-see-what-happens kind of gumbo. It might be that that is the best kind.
Everyone enjoyed the rooster-guinea-chicken-okra-sausage gumbo. We had enough to feed everyone that was here. I thought of Mama often during the day and knew she would have been proud of my progress in making long gravies. I have a long way to go before my cooking spoon wears the badges of honor that hers bears, but I am glad to be following in her steps as I make my way around my own kitchen floor from the stove to the sink to the fridge.
Ruby Rita Descant Moreau
December 20, 1912 – March 29, 1989
