It is safe to say that that I have struggled with homesickness. There were days I could barely stop crying over missing home-not just my family and everyone I've ever known, but the spaces, smells and general tempo of things I've known for 21 years. It took about two months for it to hit. One day I was fine and the next, getting out of bed wasn't even worth the effort. After my family spent a weekend up here, homesickness lost its sharpness. There aren't anymore raw edges inside, it's been replaced by more of a small ache with a twinge every now and then.
We have been getting cool-ish days lately. In fact, the high tomorrow is 72 and the weekend promises mid 70s temps. Any Louisianaian worth their salt knows the first cool snap of the season means one thing....GUMBO. For me, at least, gumbo is more than thick, soupy rice and gravy. It's a connection. It's my Maw Maw. They say that out of the five senses, our sense of smell has the strongest ties to our memory. The smell of roux cooking will always bring me back to her kitchen, to piles of Avon products and the tangled jumble of my family: my Uncle Robert asleep in the recliner, my boy cousins tossing a football or playing hide and seek, my Aunt Suzette doing the crossword puzzle and so many more thousands of moments. It's also birthdays. Being an October baby, there was a 50/50 chance that we would have cool weather for my birthday, so I always requested seafood gumbo be served at my party. Generally at 6:30 on a Friday night, my birthday always involved gumbo, a bonfire a cake and an even more extended version of my family. I hold on tight to those memories. Because they will always call me home.
What do the last to paragraphs have to do with each other? I think I've found the cure for homesickness, and it's gumbo.
Now, if you don't know the process for making it, gumbo has many steps. I'm of the train of thought that if you are going to bother spending a few hours on a meal, then you might as well do it right. This means making my own stock and roux. I'm a purist of sorts. So yesterday around 1 I got to cooking. First boiling my chicken and making the roux.
This is what I started with, a little to runny for my taste but oh well. And forty five minutes of stirring later here is what I ended up with....
It ended up a little darker than this picture shows but that's iPad cameras for you.
For those forty five minutes I was no longer in the kitchen of our very urban apartment. I was home and everything was right in the world. Food, I guess, is a vehicle, a time machine to wherever you let it take you. When Doug and I were finally able to tear into it home seemed much closer than 500 miles away. I felt like I was home. And that, made it all worth it.