For as long as I can remember, gumbo has been more than just a dish in
our home—it’s been a symbol of love, comfort, and connection. I can
still picture myself as a small child, sitting in the kitchen,
watching my mom at work. She would stand over her large Magnalite pot,
the rhythmic whisking of the roux filling the air with its rich,
savory scent. And then, the magic would begin. The onions, celery, and
bell peppers—what we called the “holy trinity” of gumbo—would sizzle
and blend into the roux, filling the house with an aroma that could
make everything feel right in the world.
It wasn’t just the smell, though. It was the conversations that came
with it. Over that pot of gumbo, we talked about everything and
nothing. My brother and I would help where we could—debones chicken,
slicing sausage, doing whatever we could to be part of the process. No
matter what stage of life I was going through, no matter how
challenging things seemed, a pot of gumbo always had a way of making
everything feel better. It was more than just food; it was a balm for
the soul.
Even though we didn’t have much growing up, one thing we always had
was gumbo. My mom’s chicken and sausage gumbo was my absolute
favorite—rich, flavorful, and comforting. It wasn’t just the
ingredients that made it special, but the love and care she poured
into every step. I still remember the first thing I’d ask for every
time I came home from the military—after my deployments to Iraq, I
didn’t even have to ask. She’d already have a large pot waiting for
me, ready to remind me of home, of love, and of the warmth that only a
mother’s cooking can bring.
My mom didn’t just teach me how to make gumbo; she taught me how to
create something that brings people together. She taught me, my
brother, and later, all of my children the secret to that special
dish. She passed down not just the recipe, but the heart behind it—the
feeling that comes with every stir, every added ingredient, every
simmering moment of anticipation.
When my mom passed away, it felt like the world shifted. The thought
of making gumbo without her felt impossible, as though the heart of
the dish had been lost. For a while, I couldn’t even bring myself to
cook it. The kitchen didn’t feel the same without her there, guiding
us, laughing, and sharing stories. But over time, I realized
something: one of the best ways to honor her memory and the love she
poured into every bowl of gumbo was to continue making it, to share it
with those I love, and to pass on the traditions she’d started.
Now, in my own home, gumbo has become a tradition, a dish we make for
every occasion—or sometimes for no occasion at all. The act of cooking
it brings me closer to her, even though she’s no longer physically
here. Each time the familiar aroma fills the house, I feel as if my
mom is with us again. In the warmth of the kitchen, surrounded by the
laughter and chatter of my family, I can hear her voice, see her
smile, and feel her love. The memories flood back—sitting at the
counter, watching her cook, hearing her tell jokes or simply talk
about our day.
Food has a way of retaining memories. It’s not just about what’s on
the plate, but about the moments we share around it, the stories we
tell, and the connections we make. For me, gumbo will always be a
reminder of the love my mom shared with us over the years. It’s not
just a dish—it’s a piece of her, passed down through generations,
warming our hearts and filling our homes with the kind of love that
lasts a lifetime.
So, whenever we make gumbo in our house, we’re not just cooking a
meal. We’re honoring a legacy. And through every bowl, I’m reminded of
the most important ingredient of all—love.
