The Gumbo Portal

Gumbo starts with the roux.

You stand over heat—low and slow—watching flour and fat transform into something dark and elemental.

If you rush it, it burns.

If you ignore it, it fails.

You learn to listen to the pan.

To smell time.

There’s a reason they say the roux is the heart of the gumbo.

It’s a conversation with your past:

What are you willing to hold over heat without flinching?

What flavors did you inherit?

Which ones did you have to invent?

When I make gumbo now, I’m not just cooking.

I’m choosing.

To stay.

To stir.

To unlearn the silence that was once served with every meal.

I add things in the order they deserve

not based on a recipe,

but on memory.

Filé powder like forgiveness.

Celery like structure.

Okra like the parts of me that were once seen as too much.

Sticky. Bold. Necessary.

Because gumbo isn’t a fast love.

It isn’t performance.

It’s care. It’s built.

Bite by bite.

Green light: when the roux doesn’t burn,

when your hands know what to do,

when you stop asking for permission to be the main course.