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Shrimp Gumbo by Neva Mason December 27, 2006 Pascagoula, Mississippi, my mother's birthplace and our yearly, two week family vacation destination for the first 20 summers of my life. Mid-July, every year, my dad, mom, brother and I would pack the trunk with luggage containing swimsuits, shorts, sandals, and tank tops. On top of the luggage: a fishing tackle box and first aid kit. Inside the car, back seat, my brother and I arranged two pillows, food, drinks and games for the 24-hour journey. In the front seat, my parents had their cigarettes, a thermos of fresh coffee and a map. "Alright, everybody needs to get settled. If ya need to potty, go now 'cause I'm not stoppin 'til Wichita Falls. Sister, do you need to go? Sandy, you?" Both of us shook our heads no, anxious to get this "show on the road" as my dad used to say. "Alright, here we go." From the dry West Texas plains, we drove east on Route 187 crossing the northeast part of the State. I was anxious to breathe the sea air and to eat my grandmother's shrimp gumbo. After driving 12 hours, my dad would find a motel in either Marshall or Longview, Texas. We were pretty close to the Louisiana border, but Dad would not spend one night more than necessary outside Texas. Dawn, the next day, we drove southeast crossing the state line of Louisiana. A few hours later, we crossed the Mississippi state line and straight to Ocean Springs. From there we drove due east on the coast line road, which took us straight to Pascagoula. Pascagoula, population 80,000, is on the Gulf Coast between Biloxi Mississippi and Mobile Alabama. In the 1950s and 60s, the prime industries were shrimping, fishing, the International Papermill and Litton Shipbuilding. My grandfather and uncles worked for the papermill which was about 5 miles from my grandparents' home. I remember when he would come home he smelled like pine trees. It permeated the entire house. The road leading to my grandparents' house was covered in white, crushed seashells which were used to keep the tires from sinking in mud when it came a hard rain or flood. When we drove over the railroad tracks we could see the huge white clapboard house. It had a front screened porch lined with old cane chairs and tables. The 75 year old Pecan trees were planted in the front and side yards, branches bending from the weight of the pecans. I could smell the freshly mowed grass. There was also a swamp about 1 mile behind their house that emitted a stronger, darker fragrance when there was no wind. Once the car stopped in the driveway, I jumped out and ran into the small kitchen at the back of the house. I hugged my grandmother, who was in her apron, already beginning preparation for our welcome home feast. "Oh Granny, I am so excited. Did you get the shrimp yet?" "Of course not dahlin', you know yore PaPa looks forward to goin' with you and Sandy to the shrimp boat. You all will go in the mornin' and pick it up fresh from the pier. Now all ya?ll sit down and have some tea. Supper'll be ready in a little while." My grandmother was of Scotch/Irish descent and had strawberry-blonde hair. Her face was round and clear, except for a few freckles across her nose. She was very beautiful and smelled like Mississippi to me. She was damp from the humidity, but smelled also like Ivory soap and "White Shoulders." My grandfather was not tall, but he was strong. He smelled of ivory soap. "Well, sistah, are you and Sandy ready for our trip tomorrow morning?" "Yessir" and I hugged him hard. Once we were done with the supper, my mother and I helped wash and dry dishes, while the men went to watch television or sit outside on the porch. My brother and I were then told, "yall go on to bed now, it's been a long day and we got lots to do tomorrow." The next morning, we were up at dawn. Our grandfather backed his rusty Studebaker truck out of the garage and we all sat up front. After about 30 minutes we drove into a huge parking lot covered in the white crushed seashells. We took out the large washtub from the back of the truck and dragged it to the end of the pier where the shrimp boats had congregated. Handing the tub to one of the fishermen, my grandfather asked him to fill it up with the shrimp. I walked around to the edge of the dock to look at the ocean. The air was humid and I could hear the water slap against the lower part of the boat as it rocked back and forth. That and the squawks from the seagulls were the only noise I could hear. 'sistah, come on, let's go." We got the tub into the truck and drove back to the house. "I can't wait to see what we got, Papa. Maybe we got a monster that never was seen before." I looked forward to this part of the vacation each year. We placed the tub on the back porch, then my grandfather would fill it with water and salt. There was a bucket and pan for each of us: the pan for the shrimp flesh and bucket for the shrimp hulls and inedible creatures found in the tub. Whoever got the most in each utensil was the winner. My mother and grandmother sat on the porch and shelled peas, cut okra, shucked corn and talked. My mother called it "catch up." The air permeated with the juices from the vegetables fresh from the garden. Once in the saltwalter mixture, the shrimp did not smell quite as fishy, but you still knew they were shrimp. My grandmother would then leave us to finish everything so she could start cooking the main ingredient of gumbo. First, a stick of butter warming in a cast iron skillet. When it was brown and sizzling, she slowly poured flour into the pan, never measuring it, but putting just enough to make sure it made a paste. She would add water if it got too dry, but once it was mixed she would add salt, pepper, cumin and tarragon. For the next hour she stirred, never leaving as the flour turned into a thickener. This ingredient known as Roux, was what made Shrimp Gumbo perfect. During the hour, mother would put the vegetables in a large pot and bring them to a boil. Roux smells scorched, but not burned and when ready is the color of milk chocolate and looks like frosting. At this stage it is very bitter, but when added to the vegetables and water, the aroma changes into a warm, comforting smell that makes you salivate. As mother would stir, the water gradually thickened into a dark, spicy liquid. Time to add the shrimp, lots of them. The liquid stopped bubbling long enough for the shrimp to be covered. While simmering for another 15 or 20 minutes, my grandmother washed rice and put it in a double boiler. Her rice was so light and fluffy and a perfect base for the gumbo. I have never known anyone else to make it that way. When everything was ready, we all sat around the small table in the kitchen and held hands to listen to my grandfather say grace. We then spooned rice into bowls. My grandmother would ladel gumbo, thick and steaming, on top. I remember counting the shrimp to make sure I had enough, or at least more than my brother. I can remember that first bite. All I can say is that even as a child, I stopped and savored each one. Even now, closing my eyes, I can remember the taste. It was perfection and not like anything else I have ever had since. About the author: I live in California, but have my heart and soul in Texas where I was born 60 years ago. I have been writing off and on for over 20 years. Some time ago, I began to write stories about my childhood, which to me was very healthy. Living in a ranch-like setting, I was allowed to be a child and use my imagination - something I don't think is as encouraged these days. I rode horses, was in rodeos, and in my teenage years, was one of the only girls who participated in the local drag races as an actual car participant. To see me now, you would have had no clue as to my youthful endeavors. And today, I haven't stopped thinking about what I want to be when I grow up, which makes me still taste life all the more. I love Garrison Keillor and his storytelling ways - I love anyone who can tell and write a good story about moments in our lives and parlay them with humor and truth. I am divorced (3 times!), have no children - only 2 cats and many godchildren - and have a great family of friends. I am blessed in that respect. After 38 years, I finally received my BA in Liberal Arts at Antioch University (2002). I loved every moment of learning. | | | |
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