When my wife and I took a weekend trip to New Orleans, we thought we were signing up for just another cooking class in the French Quarter. Instead, what we found was a dish that has since become a staple in our home—and a deeper appreciation for the history simmering in every pot of Gumbo.
That class changed how I thought about cooking. The instructor didn’t just hand us a recipe; they taught us that good gumbo is a layering of flavors. Each ingredient is built slowly, allowed to cook down until it adds depth and richness. It’s not a meal you rush. The most important—and sometimes most intimidating—step? Cooking the roux. You stir and stir until the flour and fat transform into the color of peanut butter. Any darker and you risk burning it; any lighter and you miss out on gumbo’s signature flavor base.
Ever since, I’ve been making gumbo once a month for my family. Sometimes it’s a classic chicken-and-sausage gumbo, and other times I use the Thanksgiving turkey carcass to create an “after-holiday” gumbo that feels like a second feast. No matter the variation, it always carries a taste of New Orleans with it.