Louisiana Essays with Recipes

I grew up in a small town near Baton Rouge called Brusly. Brusly is a town settled by French Acadians who found their way there after being exiled from their native Acadia, now Nova Scotia in Canada. Telling stories about Louisiana life and Louisiana food is one of my favorite things to do. Here you’ll find some of those stories and a few recipes to go along with them.

Cooking Gumbo

Shortly after I moved to Portland from my hometown of Brusly, Louisiana, my new friend, Margaret, asked if I would cook a gumbo at her home for a group of ten people. It was 1985 and Chef Paul Prudhomme was popularizing Cajun cooking throughout the country.

“I’d love to,” I told her without mentioning that while I had eaten lots of great gumbo in my life, I had never actually cooked it. My mama was the chef at home, the one who had browned countless rouxs, carefully stirring each until the mixture of oil and flour was dark and nutty, to make the best seafood gumbo around. I should have absorbed some of that expertise while I still lived under her roof, but there had never seemed a reason until that moment. Long-distance calls were precious on my limited budget back then, but I had to get this gumbo right, so I called mama for advice.

“The roux is the most important ingredient in a gumbo,” she said. “You have to use equal parts oil and flour and stir until it turns dark brown, but be careful not to let it burn. If it burns, you’ll have to start over.

“You also need to fry your okra on the side until the slime disappears,” she advised. “That will keep the okra from overpowering the taste of your seafood.”

Read more—Cooking Gumbo.

Beans and Rice

I remember coming home from school on winter afternoons and being met at the front door by the aroma of Mama’s white beans with ham cooking on the stove. Letting the screen door bang behind me I’d call out, “mmmm, mmmm, white beans for dinner,” and follow my nose into the kitchen where Mama was mashing softened beans against the sides of the pot with the back of a stirring spoon. Leaning over, I’d fill myself up with steam rising from the beans then grab a soup spoon and dip it in for a taste to hold me until suppertime.

It seemed like forever before Daddy came home from work and we could finally sit down and dig in. I’d ladle a good-sized helping of those beans over steaming, fluffy white rice, pour sweet cane syrup on the side and mix all the flavors together with a bit of bread before popping a perfect bite in my mouth. I cleaned my plate and went back for more until my stomach strained against the waistband of my pants.

The first time I set out to make my own pot of beans I was surprised to realize I knew more about eating white beans with ham than cooking them. So I called Mama for a consultation.

“You’ve got to cook the beans for about an hour before you start to mash them against the sides of the pot,” she informed me. “But don’t put your ham in until after you’ve mashed the beans; otherwise it’s harder to get the back of the spoon up against the side. Chop your green bell pepper up really fine, and it will cook down to almost nothing. You can also add a little red bell pepper in for color.

“And don’t forget to put in a little vegetable oil. That will make your beans creamier.”

Read more—Beans and Rice.

Picking Pecans

Pecans have always been my favorite nut to eat and cook with. When I was growing up pecan season meant pralines cooking on the stove, pecan pies in the oven and Mama making her special pecan icing cake. There was always a tray with fresh pecans on the counter in the kitchen ready to crack, peel and pop in my mouth to tide me over after school until supper was served.

We had ten pecan trees in our far back yard, and they produced enough for us to fill up a few sacks to sell for extra Christmas money as well as plenty for us to peel for the freezer, where we hoarded bags all year so we wouldn’t run out before pecans started to ripen again in the fall.

On crisp, clear autumn Saturdays, I would head to the back with Mama and my sister, Sandra. Each of us carried an empty gallon-sized ice cream tub and a burlap sack. We staked out separate territories under different trees and started to pick. Mama listened as Sandra and I talked about what was going on at school while we all filled up bucket after bucket, until eventually we moved out of earshot from each other and picked in silence. At noon the sugar house whistle blew to signal lunch for its shift workers, and we took a break to settle in and eat our own sandwiches.

By mid-afternoon we had picked so many pecans we could still see their shapes nestled among blades of grass when we closed our eyes, and it was time to head back to the house. We packed everything up and dragged the now-heavy burlap sacks behind us all the way.

Over the next few months we’d crack pecans at the kitchen table as we watched television during the long winter nights. We’d also eat our fill of delicious candies, pies and cakes for Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s and any other gathering that gave us an excuse to cook dessert. Mama didn’t own a candy thermometer, and I remember stirring praline mixtures endlessly over the hot stove, impatiently dropping a little into a glass of cold water every few seconds to see if it had reached a soft ball stage yet. But the thought of tasting warm, gooey pralines kept me stirring diligently until the consistency was finally right.

Read more—Picking Pecans.