do you ever smell something cooking andboomyou’re not in your own kitchen anymore? you’re 10 years old, standing on a stool that wobbles way too much, watching somebody who loves you stir a pot like it’s a sacred act. for me, that smell is gumbo. Creole gumbo, specifically. the kind my grandmother, Nannie, used to make in her little kitchen with a black cast iron pan that probably weighed more than I did.
this isn’t just food. it’s history and Sunday afternoons and family arguments about who forgot to buy celery. gumbo is one of those dishes that can cause debates at the dinner tableCreole vs. Cajun, sausage or no sausage, filé or not filé. (we’ll get to all that, promise.) but first, let’s set the scene.
memories stirred into a pot
NannieMs. Anna Mae King if you’re being formalwas the kind of cook who didn’t really write anything down. you learned by watching. by listening. by getting bossed around in the kitchen (“no, not like thatlike this”).
I can close my eyes and still see her, in her house dress and wig, standing over the stove, stirring the roux. if you’ve never made roux, let me warn you: it’s a commitment. you don’t walk away. you don’t scroll Instagram. you stir until your arm gets sore, because if it burns, that’s it, game over. Nannie would stir until it turned this deep chocolate color that almost glowed, and she’d do it with a kind of patience I can only dream of having.
and then there was the okra. the slimy reputation of okra has ruined friendships, I swear. but Nannie had a trick. she’d “rope” it, sautéing until it was bright green and the goo (technical word, goo) disappeared. sometimes she’d toss in just a pinch of sugarthough she’d never actually admit it out loud.
so… tomatoes in gumbo?
oh boy. the eternal debate. Cajun gumbo says no, Creole gumbo says yes. and me? I grew up squishing canned whole tomatoes with my hands over the pot (the most fun job in the kitchen, fight me). Nannie let me do it every single time, and it felt like a secret pact between us.
so yeah, I’m team tomatoes. Cajuns can keep their sausage and no-tomato rules.
what makes it Creole?
quick crash course: Creole gumbo tends to feature tomatoes, seafood, beef or chicken, sometimes a little bit of everything. Cajun gumbo leans more on andouille sausage, darker roux, and filé powder.
our family recipe? chicken, shrimp, beef, blue crab. but *no sausage* (Nannie didn’t like it). and filé? forget it. “not in my gumbo,” she’d say, shaking her head.
it’s messy and layered, kind of like families themselves.
the holy trinity (and other flavor magic)
if you’re not from Louisiana, “the holy trinity” might sound religious, but in the kitchen it’s onions, celery, and bell pepper. you sauté those in the roux until your whole house smells like somebody’s gonna knock on the door with a bowl and say, “save me some.”
add garlic, Creole seasoning (Lawry’s if you’re keeping it old school, or Old Bay if that’s what’s in your pantry), and suddenly you’ve got the backbone of the dish.
side note: once, I burned the garlic because I got distracted by my cat knocking a plant off the windowsill. do not recommend.
the proteins (because gumbo doesn’t play around)
– beef cubes, seared until they smell like Sunday dinner.
– chicken thighs, bone-in and skin-on, because flavor lives there.
– shrimp, tossed in at the end so they don’t turn rubbery.
– blue crab, if you can get your hands on it.
crab is controversial too. some people hate cracking shells at the table, others think it’s the best part. personally, I love the whole messy business of it. broth running down your wrist, a little pile of shells on the napkinit’s living. but if you don’t want shells in your gumbo, lump crab meat works just fine.
a day in the life of gumbo
here’s the truth: gumbo isn’t a quick Tuesday-night dinner. it’s an all-day (sometimes two-day) event.
– you start with the stocksimmering shrimp shells, crab shells, and chicken broth until the whole kitchen smells like the ocean met a cozy chicken soup.
– you stir the roux. and stir. and stir.
– you sear meat in batches, because if you crowd the pan, you’re doomed.
– you rope the okra.
– you build everything together, stock and tomatoes and spices, stirring, tasting, adjusting.
I once tried to rush it because I had a Zoom call in the afternoon. bad idea. gumbo punishes impatience.
taste, taste, and taste some more
this is one of those recipes where the instructions can only take you so far. you’ve gotta trust your tongue. maybe you add a splash more Worcestershire sauce. maybe a few extra dashes of hot sauce. maybe you screwed up and it’s too salty (been there)so you thin it with water.
gumbo isn’t about perfection. it’s about coaxing flavors to hang out together, like inviting a weird mix of friends to dinner and realizing they all get along better than you thought.
serving time (aka the best part)
gumbo + rice = love story. and not just any riceshort-grain Carolina rice if you can find it. scoop a mound into the bowl, ladle gumbo over the top, make sure everyone gets a fair share of crab/shrimp/chicken/beef. sprinkle scallions, splash of hot sauce if you dare.
and then… silence at the table. the kind of silence that only happens when everyone’s too busy eating.
leftovers (lol, if there are any)
the recipe *says* it serves eight. but if your family’s anything like mine, it serves maybe five hungry people, tops. if you do end up with leftovers, portion them out in containers, freeze for a rainy day, and thank yourself later.
warming it back up is easylow heat on the stove, a splash of water, stir until it’s cozy again. microwave if you must, but honestly, gumbo deserves better.
cajun vs creole smackdown (sort of)
let’s circle back for a second. people love to argue about gumbo authenticity. Creole has tomatoes, Cajun doesn’t. Cajun has sausage, Creole maybe not.
but here’s the thing: gumbo belongs to families. it belongs to memories. my version won’t be the same as yours, and that’s the beauty of it.
Nannie’s gumbo didn’t have sausage or filé, but that doesn’t mean yours can’t. cook what tastes like home to you.
cooking notes & kitchen confessions
– I once made gumbo with store-brand canned tomatoes, and my mom noticed immediately. “This tastes… off,” she said, giving me side-eye.
– don’t skip browning the meat. seriously. it’s tempting to toss it all in and hope for the best, but the sear makes magic.
– gumbo is better the next day. somehow everything just settles into itself overnight, like a stew that went to therapy.
– warning: your kitchen will smell like gumbo for days. this is not a complaint.
food as love letter
writing this out makes me miss Nannie more than usual. I can see her stirring, fussing, bossing us around, feeding us until we couldn’t move. food is love, yeah, but gumbo is also memory. it’s culture. it’s saying, “I remember you” in the form of a steaming bowl.
I dedicate this recipe (and this rambling blog post) to her, to my mom, to my sister, and to the whole King family. and to you, if you decide to stir your own pot of Creole gumbo one weekend.
let it take time. let it be messy. let it taste like home, whatever that means for you.
laissez les bons temps roulerlet the good times roll.
final thought
gumbo isn’t just food. it’s a story you get to eat. and honestly? those are the best kinds of stories.
