William Doran — Mon., Jan. 8, 2024

I usually tell people that I’ve been doing things last minute my entire life, but it holds true when you were born on New Year’s Eve!

December 31, 1984: It was almost nine o’clock and my uncles and grandparents were likely crowded around my grandmother’s kitchen table with a few cousins and at least one neighbor. My grandma’s house was never empty. I imagine the sound of errant firecrackers popping off outside somewhere in the cold night air. Grandpa probably sat at the head of the table, surrounded by chatter and the familiar glow of an old J&B whiskey tin that he had turned into a lamp with parts from the local hardware store. It sat on the bar in the kitchen right next to the telephone. He would have been jotting down projected birth times for his first grandchild, with the word ‘boy’ or ‘girl’ next to each person’s name (most likely scribbled on the last page of a yellow legal pad). No one seems to remember who answered the phone (or who won the bet). If anyone collected money on a good guess, I think I’m owed a share! Though I wasn’t there, I know for sure that a huge pot of gumbo would have been bubbling on the stove in the background. My grandparents made it every year; and in 1984, my birth got added into the mix of traditions along with treating the arrival of babies like the Kentucky Derby.

Ninety miles down the Mississippi River in a New Orleans hospital, I wonder if my tiny ears (less than three hours old) could have heard the fireworks exploding outside to ring in the new year — 1985.

Thirty-nine years later, I’m the one making the gumbo and I love the sound of fireworks on New Year’s Eve. We’ve since lost both of my grandparents. It brings me so much joy to keep their memory alive with a whiskey drink in my hand, a big-ass pot on the stove, and a house full of people I love. Besides, someone has to teach all these Yankees how to make a roux! New York is just as coastal as Louisiana, so finding good seafood is easy. But making a roux that looks like melted milk chocolate is not for fairweather cooks — it’s easy to burn and takes a long time. So make a drink, get a whisk, and settle in.

Forged in early kitchens across Southeast Louisiana, gumbo is as storied and diverse as the Cajun and Creole people who created it.

Black slaves, French and Spanish settlers in New Orleans, and the Acadians exiled to the bayous of coastal Louisiana from Canada, have all had a hand in what this dish is today. There are as many variations as there are people in Louisiana. The word gumbo comes from West African and Native American terms used for okra, which is a bland, slimy pepper-shaped vegetable used to thicken soups and stews. Filé powder (dried sassafras leaves) or a traditional French roux are often used in its place. Some gumbos feature poultry and some focus on seafood, while others have both! They are all insanely delicious and everyone has their own version. Mine has shrimp and crab and uses both a roux and okra for thickening! Gumbo is in my blood and making it for people I love on my birthday is all I can ask for. Cake and singing are just a bonus.

If you’re enjoying what you see, please forward this newsletter or give me a shout at william@adventurouscooks.com. Ask me questions or tell me why you hate cooking. I will gladly convince you that cooking is fun and that you can do it in your spare time. Find and follow me on social media below!