Gumbo Attempt No. 2

As you may remember, I had some issues making gumbo from a recipe my mom gave me. I have since built my confidence back up and am not deterred when trying out a new recipe and it doesn't taste good or doesn't go as planned. I realize now that it's all okay and just part of the process. At the end of last week, my mom asks if I'd rather have jambalaya or gumbo on Sunday night. I figure this is the perfect time to revisit the gumbo by being able to watch Mom make it and figure out what went so wrong when I did it.

Her first stray from the recipe was she cooks with less than the suggested 2 gallons of water/broth and then adds to it as she sees fit. I just went whole hog and dumped in the 2 gallons, like the recipe said. When making the roux, the recipe says to cook it until it becomes "the color of an old penny." I cook it until I think it's pretty dark and ask if it looks right to her. She goes and gets a penny to place on the counter next to me as a reference. Cute.

So I keep stirring and it's starting to smell like it's burnt and ask again if it's done. It gets to the point of looking like tar before she says it's perfect. So we forge ahead with the recipe and I'm waiting to see when she adds more liquid since we've only done a scant gallon and it's calling for 2.

We go through the entire recipe, which filled up her stock pot, and we never added anymore liquid. It was a quart shy of a full gallon. So I had 1 1/4 gallons more than she did. No wonder my gumbo was all wrong! I get hysterical about the recipe and how no wonder my gumbo was awful and all she has to say is, "[Who she got the recipe from] isn't precise on measurements." No kidding.

The gumbo turned out marvelous and even my dad, who is hard to please when it comes to true Louisiana cooking and finds something to complain at every Louisiana restaurant, said the gumbo was really good. Success!

So I'm basking the afterglow of righting my wrong and realizing that if the recipe is all wrong, it's not your fault and shouldn't feel inept all through dinner and continues on until we have to put all this gumbo up. We were worried we were going to run out of plastic containers it was so much leftover food. I fill up 3 of our biggest containers and still have a little leftover for us to freeze for later. I get out a quart sized hard plastic container for freezing and fill up as much as I can with the measuring cup. Then I ask Mom if she'd help me by either holding the pot over the container while I scrap the bottom out with a spoon or vice versa. She decides to hold the pot while I scrape. I finish getting all of the gumbo and it fits in the container just perfectly. Mom says, "Hang on, I need to set this pot down because it's heavy and hot," and tries to place it on the counter. The problem was she tried to set the big pot on the counter where the quart container was and managed to tip the container forward so it flies off the counter. Somehow the pot managed to stay on the counter, but the entire contents of the quart container splattered all over the floor.

I jump back into the wall to try to save myself from the splatter and only manage to get some on one of my toes. I look at the mess all on the floor and there is steam rising from pile because it had been on the stove on warm all through dinner for us to keep coming back for more and we cleaned up right after we were done eating so it hadn't had much time to cool off. I look over at Mom and she's got it all on the front of her shirt and her feet are just covered in it. She tried to fling some of it off but it was sticking pretty good. Let me also point out that we were both barefoot when this happened. No wonder they want you to wear close toed shoes in cooking classes.

Mom just looks back and forth between me and the mess while my mouth just hangs open in shock. It looked like she couldn't tell if she wanted to laugh or cry, but thankfully laughing type noises were coming from her. This is when I decide to move and try to wipe off the bottoms of our feet so she can go rinse them off in the tub. All my mom managed to say throughout this whole moment of shock and terror was, "It's burning my feet." So I got cold water running and ushered her towards the bathroom while I cleaned up the mess.

Apparently I'm cursed when it comes to gumbo. Gumbo voodoo.

My 25th Birthday Party

Every year for my birthday, I spend it with my mom and dad at home. Mom asks what I'd like for my birthday meal, then all day at random times I ask what was happening X amount of years ago, and then I get the story of how I was brought into this world. It involves Dad going over 100 mph, Mom going down a drug-induced "rainbow-colored slide," and Dad being half-naked in the waiting room. The story never gets old because it's so funny.

Also, there's a theme every year that used to be left up to me. I've come up with Rescue Rangers, Snoopy, 1950s, Catwoman, etc. For the past few years, Mom has done all the planning and surprises me with a well-thought-out theme. Two years ago it was Pirates of the Caribbean complete with treasure chest cake. Last year it was the 24th Annual Bessie Awards that was basically Hollywood-esque with my name in lights and a cake that was like my star on Hollywood Boulevard, including me getting to put my handprints in the cake. This year, it was my favorite Disney movie, Robin Hood.

Wanted posters were all over the house.

On the morning of my party, Mom came into my room reading a proclamation on parchment announcing that the "fair maiden Bess" was to celebrate her 25th birthday. This proclamation was also featured on the front door attached to the wall with an arrow. Next to that was another "tree" with Prince John looking sneaky.

"Prince John" with his crown as well as money bag party favors.

Mom bought a little cat purse to go with the table centerpiece that could have gone for Prince John, but the real reason was because it looks like my cat, Butters, which happens to be her favorite. Can't wait to see if she shows favoritism to real children one day.

Robin Hood in the trees in Sherwood Forest and Sir Hiss in his balloon at the archery tournament.

Edited to add: It's been requested that I tell why my dad was half-naked in the waiting room. I was born several weeks premature so when my mom went into labor, she thought it was just false labor "because the book said so." So Mom and Dad weren't in go mode. Hence the 100+ mph car ride. Anyway, they rush into the hospital and whisk Mom away so she could go do her thing. Dad had to change and went behind a screen that was nearby. Well, in the middle of changing, his screen starts moving. As in being carried away by a couple of guys. Finally, he gets to Mom and gets to hear her scream away, which she doesn't remember. Only the rainbow slide. After I was born, I had to be transferred to another hospital because I was so frail. Dad was a trucker, so he had to make a run that evening right after I was born. He drove from Louisiana to Tennessee without stops and had guys basically throwing stuff to go quicker so he could get back to check on me. Turns out when a 6'7" guy tells you to hurry up so he can get back to his baby girl, you listen.

Take Me Home, Country Roads

Last weekend I went back to where it all started. Well, sort of. I was born in Louisiana and moved when I was five. Anyway, I went home for the weekend for a much needed visit and relaxing weekend with my parents. Dad was out of town, so I didn't get to see him this trip. Since I knew I was going home, I decided to take my torn pants to fix with her gorgeous sewing machine and other fun tools. Mom was, after all, offered a job with Coats and Clark in Manhattan, but that was before my time. Good thing she didn't take it otherwise she wouldn't have met Dad and then had me. Perish the thought!


Now, you may ask, "How did your pants get torn?" It was a situation that I thought would never happen to me. I bought the pants at Macy's because I was (and still am, sadly) in desperate need of work clothes. I'm really bad about buying clothes for myself even when I really need them because I know the money could be spent elsewhere on more important things. Like food, which causes my pant size to fluctuate. But I digress. I find these wonderful, classic black and white checkered print like old man pants. Not like Dorothy from Oz kind of checkered. Anyway, they're comfortable, the perfect length, so I buy them. I had already envisioned the outfit I was going to wear to work next day, so I was ready for the morning.


Morning comes, and I shower before changing. I get everything but my boots on and when I bend down to get them...riiiiip. I stand up quickly in mild shock and confusion. "Did that really just happen? No, surely not. I have no backside to speak of!" Lo and behold though, when I looked in the mirror, there it was. A hold as big as a quarter. My first thought was, "Maybe no one will notice." Right. I think they'll notice the pink contrast in the middle of black and white fabric. So I sigh, change pants, and don't feel as put together as I originally did. I was excited about those pants.


Thankfully, the rip was just where some thread in the seam was weak, so fixing it would be no problem. So I go home and get to fixing the pants. I machine-stitched them to death so they wouldn't come undone, oh no buddy. These pants weren't going to play peekaboo with no man! Or woman. Or dog. Whatever. No one was going to see my underwear.


Mom's sewing machine is very unique in the way that it operates. It was originally a treadle machine, where you pump the foot pedal which powered the machine, going only as fast you went. Her dad, an incredible handyman, built her a motor to go with the machine that would be powered when you pushed the treadle. So her machine has the early 1900s look with the modern feel. The best of both worlds, I say! It still runs beautifully and will one day be mine. I can only hope to do it justice, and find someone to repair it if I screw up. *cringe*


Now this handy gadget is one of my favorites that I have yet to see anywhere else but firmly attached to the end of Mom's sewing stand. It's an antique pinker which is SO much easier than using pinking shears. You just feed your fabric under the cutting wheel on the left and turn the crank on the right. There's even a guide so you don't cut your fabric crooked. I wonder if Mom would notice it missing? Since I have no nifty sewing stand like she does, I'd have to mount it to something like the kitchen counter. Wouldn't that be a lovely conversation piece? Perhaps Victoria and Bo would come over, see it, and say:

V/B: "I didn't notice this last time! What handy kitchen gadget is this?"
Me: "It's a pinker."
V/B: "Oh, what does it make pink?"
Me: "It cuts fabric."
V/B: ...

Then they would probably never come back again thinking I'm crazy for having a fabric cutter right next to my toaster and mixer. Nah, I think Victoria would be pretty fascinated by it and would still come back. She likes things like that. And understands my crazy.