Gumbo and the Green Goddess, part 2: Do Roux

Rascal helps Aimee make her first roux.

I may have devoted my last post to bragging about my salad, but the real purpose of our shindig last night was for my friend Jon to teach my friend Aimee how to make his gumbo.

For the uninitiated, gumbo is a hallowed Creole stew that first appeared in Louisiana more than two centuries ago. It was made in humble backwoods Cajun settlements and in the kitchens of the finest Garden District homes in New Orleans. Every pot of gumbo is an American melting pot, melding culinary traditions from West Africa (in the form of okra; “gumbo” is an African word the green pods) to the file powder (made from dried ground sassafrass leaves used by the indigenous Choctaw Indians) to the roux contributed by French settlers. Gumbo takes many forms, with each cook tailoring the ingredients to suit. In lean times, folks might settle for a vegetable-only gumbo. In times of plenty, gumbos are augmented with oysters, crab meat, even turtle meat. Gumbo may be a child of Louisiana, but it’s been embraced across the South, from Mississippi to Alabama and beyond. For a wonderful, comprehensive history of the dish, check out the Southern Foodways Alliance’s Gumbo Trail Web site. It’s a treat.

Teacher and student: Jon gives Aimee a lesson in the finer points of making roux

So when someone agrees to share his gumbo with you, he’s sharing more than a recipe. He’s sharing a piece of his soul. (Sorry, Jon, I know that will make you puke, but it’s true.) That’s because gumbo recipes are handed down from one generation to the next, evolving with each cook’s taste. Jon made a study of gumbo, seeking advice from his mom, of course, a chef from New Orleans’ Commander’s Palace, and anyone else with expertise. Along the way, he refined his gumbo (I’ll share the recipe in a follow-up post). Last night, he taught the recipe to Aimee, who in turn will refine it and make it her own.

Gumbo’s foundation is the roux (pronounced ROO), which is nothing more than flour cooked in fat (can be vegetable oil, butter, lard, or drippings) over low heat for a long time. It takes patience. There are a few things to keep in mind:

• Roux takes time–at least 30 minutes, often longer. You can’t rush roux. 
• Roux requires constant attention. It can burn in the blink of an eye. Do not stop stirring, do not turn your back. Do pour yourself a glass of wine, gather a few friends for company (they can take over the stirring, if needed), and settle in at the stove.
  

  Kevin helps with the stirring.

• If the roux burns, you’ll need to start over.
• Making roux is a lesson in trusting your senses. You’ll see it change color, from a pale paste to a smooth, chocolate-colored, nutty-scented concoction with a consistency similar to thick yogurt.

Time and attention will transform a humble paste of flour and oil into a luscious roux.

Jon had Aimee start with 1 cup all-purpose flour and 1/2 cup canola oil in a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet (if it’s one that’s been in the family for generations–this one had been a gift to Aimee’s husband, Kevin, from his mama–so much the better). You can use any sturdy pan, but cast iron holds and conducts heat particularly well. Adjust the proportions as needed. If it looks too thin, add a tablespoon or so more flour. If it’s too thick, add a bit more oil.

Aimee settles in at stove to make her roux. Brodus supervises.

Within 10 minutes, the roux takes on a smooth consistency and pale-almond color.

Within 10 minutes or so, the roux begins to take on a pale almond hue. Things are happening…

Halfway point: the roux is the the color of caramel.

Another 10 minutes or so, and it’s starting to look more like caramel. Things are looking good!

After about 20 minutes, Aimee needs a quick break, so Kevin steps up to the stove. She returns, commences stirring again. After about 30 minutes, the roux is looking like milk chocolate.

“It’s magic!” Aimee claims.

“It’s science,” says Jon.

He’s a former high-school science teacher, so we know he’s right. He starts explaining how the heat and oil are affecting the gluten in the flour, etc. Etc. Etc. If you want to learn about the science behind roux, I suggest you consult the fine work of food scientists Harold McGee or Shirley Corriher. 

Finally, the roux reaches chocolate stage. It’s smooth. It’s dark. It smells nutty. It’s ready.

The roux is ready. It's time to make gumbo!

Up next: Gumbo and the Green Goddess, part 3: Time to Eat (and the recipe).