Gumbo

Okra is in season, and Liz brought a pound of it home from the Wednesday, Durham Farmers’ Market. It was pretty much gifted to me - you know, in a “here you go, have fun” sort of way.  It was a pleasant surprise because my five okra plants are struggling to say the least. My first instinct was to fry it. All of it. I could see it like it was real. Me sitting on the couch, in front of a movie with a pound of fried okra, eating it like popcorn. Ridiculous, I know. On to plan B: gumbo.

After much research I discovered two things. 1) Making good gumbo is time consuming. 2) People are VERY particular about their gumbo recipes. At first I was intimidated by the amount of ingredients that I found in the gumbo recipes. However, after I made my grocery list it was obvious that I was leaning into it. M’lady was kind enough to take the pictures above, as I was elbow deep in nearly 30 different ingredients.

I decided to make a roux and use it, as well as the okra, as the thickener. It was oddly enjoyable to take what would normally be a base for white gravy to the next level. A rich, brown level that would only appear after 40 minutes of careful attention. The roux was only the beginning of the tedious process. Good thing good music (unfortunately, I had no Zydeco) was ingredient number 24.

At 11:30 am I started prepping the ingredients. At 6:30 pm we ate gumbo.

This all led me to two conclusions. 1) Saturday is a good day to make gumbo. You know, have some Abita and make an afternoon of it. 2) It is hard to go wrong with a recipe if everyone disagrees with one another on what ingredients should or should not be included. I chose to add andouille sausage, crab meat and shrimp among many, many other things.

It boils down this way, it is either great or its not. Though, I had little to no basis for what gumbo is supposed to taste like, I‘m pretty sure it turned out quite well - for a bastardized, do-what-you-will recipe. Love and time were the common denominators of all of the recipes that I researched. Lots and lots of time love. I think that is what makes it so good. Well, that and a little bit of fried okra as a garnish.

Home Sweet 'Homa

When I arrived at my dad’s place, in northeastern Oklahoma, it was perfect homecoming. The hay had just been cut by a tractor that continued slowly to the southern part of the field. That all too familiar smell of fresh cut hay was in the air, and the sky was big. Big in a way that is only found in a place with flat land. It was nice to be home, if only briefly.

There are great things happening in Oklahoma City and Tulsa, but there is something about small towns. Something that I have finally grown to appreciate. En route to my dad’s, Liz had pointed out signs in a small town that I had passed by many times before. I had almost forgotten that they were there. We pulled over. Off of Highway 69, I took a couple of pictures of the signs that I am pretty sure time has nearly forgotten as well. 

Christmas In July

After a trip to the Upper Peninsula, I made my way down to Oklahoma. I saw my mom, as well as others, for the first time since I moved to Durham. Over a year ago. Though brief (less than 48 hours), it was great to see the family that I had been missing. That being said, my mom had a gift for me. My Christmas gift.

To be honest, I thought that she had forgotten to get her son, half way across the country, a Christmas gift. Come to find out, she was holding on to it for safekeeping. I sat with my mom, Liz, Nana and Papa (the Curtis half of Simon Curtis) as my mom handed me a large box with the Frye logo emblazoned on it. I thought that I had just received a pair of boots. I haven’t worn boots since “cowboy day” in second grade. They were bright red. I opened it and saw several individually wrapped items. This one in newspaper. That one in tissue paper. As each piece of paper was unfolded by my hands, the story unfolded from my mom’s mouth. I began to unwrap each piece of, what once was, my great grandfather’s possessions.

Harry’s razors and shaving brush. His manual hair clippers. His Tuckaway, Gillette travel razor (assembly required). And, a Kriss Kross (I know, it makes me want to jump, jump as well) stropper that uses a leather disc to sharpen the razors. I pretty much swooned knowing that these things were used nearly a century ago. Used during the time when my grandfather (the Simon half of Simon Curtis) was born. Hearing her tell me about it, piece by piece, was well worth the seven-month wait.

  

On a side note: With a career in advertising, I can’t help but be enamored by the instructions that came with the stropper. The imagery, the vernacular, and the assumptions that were made during that time period. It could be a post of its own, but I’ll spare the gushing, and just say that it is beautiful.

Kayaking

The first time white water caught, and intrigued, this young boy’s eye was at Ohiopyle, in southwestern Pennsylvania. The name Ohiopyle stems from an extinct Native American language meaning, “it turns very white.” Why? The focal point of Ohiopylye State Park is more than 14 miles of the Youghiogheny River Gorge that provides some of the best white water rafting in the Eastern United States. It contains class II-V rapids. As a kid, I couldn’t help but want to be in them.

Coming from Oklahoma, there aren’t many white water rapids. At least, there aren’t many white water rapids that could be defined by class. When we got to Michigan I heard that there were kayaks at our disposal. That child-like excitement returned. True, there weren’t rapids in Lake Superior. However, there were white-capped waves and glass like water… all on the same beach.

We spent the time discovering how big was too big, when it came to waves. We used the kayaks as transportation to visit the neighbors, down beach, for happy hour. And, simply tooling around in the bay as the sun set, was majestic.

Now that I’ve finally got my rookie appearance out of the way, I’m looking forward to where Liz and I will kayak next. As far as Ohiopyle goes, it will happen sooner than later.