my daddy’s gumbo is magic
the cauldron from which it gurgles and steams Jekyll-and-Hyde in its duality
crusty-rough on the outside
oil-slick smooth and glass within
the alchemy begins
flour: soft, common, white like so many ancestors who likewise met and intermingled with the fat, rich, and European
to form a roux, a bind, a culture
and like those lily-white ancestors of mine who hardened, darkened, and deepened with exposure to the southern heat
the lily-white hardens, darkens, and deepens with exposure to heat elsewhere derived
with constant agitation and relentless disruption, they grew complex and subtle
and nuttier with time
the base elements grow heated as more brown appears
the stirring quickens –
in one, because of burning
in another, to prevent it
and if, like the James Beard-winner who absentmindedly dipped in a finger to taste for seasoning, you happen to come into contact with the chocolate magma
your skin bounds to the forefront of your mind, the center of your consciousness
for whether this roux is of a racial or culinary origin
the sloughing of that lily-white is painful
the recognition of its blandness made magic by the introduction of heat and color
the realization that alone, it is mere pabulum, made glorious by the Other
to understand the power of that lily-white, undeserved and ungainly
we must dip our pinky into the roiling face of the modern South
and be burned anew
again
and again
starting over from scratch, new white to again meet heat and color
because only when the alchemy achieves its darkened objective can the Trinity do its work
in that ancient pot well-worn with prolonged exposure to the flame
its exterior rough, surly, curt like its history
its interior shiny and bright
forward-looking with promise of alchemical wonders
inextricable
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