Rasberry Family Shrimp-and-Sausage Gumbo

I'm not going to pretend for one moment that I'm qualified to tell you how to make roux or gumbo. I am neither Creole nor Cajun, but 38% of my DNA comes from Western Europe, which includes France—from whence came culinary techniques that greatly influenced both aforementioned groups. For you folks who are unfamiliar with roux, it is simply a mixture of equal parts fat and flour cooked to varying hues and used as a basis for sauces, gumbo in particular. The recipe is simple, but the process can be nerve-racking.

My precious mother-in-law, Ouida (pronounced WEE-duh) Rasberry, cooked gumbo for special occasions or anytime she could get her hands on some fresh Mississippi Gulf Coast shrimp. Served over hot rice, it was always the most requested meal for family birthdays.

My father-in-law, James, was a harsh critic of her roux. We would hold our breath until he passed judgment on the thickness and color of the delicacy set before us. Most of the time, he would proclaim, "Weeder, your roux is just right." There were a few times that he said bluntly, "This roux is a little thin and pale." To which she would reply, "Thaaanks," in the most sarcastic tone her sweet soul could muster. I wanted to hit him upside the head with a hot skillet. Of course, even if it were thin and pale, that wouldn't have kept him from going back for seconds and thirds.

Ouida's gumbo was top-notch, and as far as I knew, her recipe (which was included in a handwritten cookbook that she gave me for Christmas several years ago) was all I ever needed to know. Her mother showed her how to make it, and she passed it down to me. I've experimented and fine-tuned it over the years, but the base of her recipe remains. Both of our methods of cooking gumbo are part Creole (tomato based) and part Cajun (roux based).

Sooner than I would have liked, I became the matriarch of the Rasberry clan. Ouida died at the age of 97, but I had been practicing her recipe for years because her health was failing. It was a daunting task that terrified me when I stood over an iron skillet and started making the one thing that would turn my gumbo into something disastrous or legendary: the roux. The goal is to cook the flour and oil together—slowly, patiently, lovingly, confidently, and attentively–until it resembles the color of an old copper penny or darker. There's a fine line between dark enough and disaster. Only instinct, sight, and smell (which come with experience) can distinguish between the two.

The first time I attempted to make a roux, I scrounged around in my wallet and pulled out the oldest-looking penny in there. It was from 1972 and had obviously been around the U.S.A. a few times. You should have seen me eyeballing that coin in my left hand over the skillet and stirring with a wooden spoon in my right hand. The phone rang. I dropped the penny and the spoon to answer it. I swear it was for only a few seconds. The roux scorched and set off the smoke alarm. I pitched a hissy fit, stomped my feet, grabbed the pan, ran into the yard, and poured out the catastrophe. I wiped my eyes, fanned the smoke, and then pulled on my "Weeder" pants to start over.

That was a long time ago. I now have gallons of gumbo and dozens of skillets of (nearly) perfect roux under my cooking belt. I've learned that it can be unforgiving, selfish, and demanding. It has to be the center of attention, or it will give you a very roux awakening.