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Writer's pictureBrennan

My Daddy's Gumbo

Updated: Jun 25, 2020

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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