In many Louisiana households, after the Thanksgiving meal is eaten, along comes the moment when a crucial decision must be made: whether to make the gumbo. I can remember my brother, Chuck, some six or seven years ago, holding a bird carcass over a big boiling pot of water, and saying to no one in particular: "See you in three days." (This is the same brother who often says, "Some people's body is a temple; mine is a carnival.")
Properly executed, a gumbo takes time. First, it's very labor intensive. And second, the pieces just need hours and hours to come together. It's nothing short of a mystery, to be honest, how the disparate parts produce the final taste. Sure, any gumbo recipe can show you the "how," but it sure can't explain the "why."
When I see people take their carved-up Thanksgiving turkey and throw it in the trash, I want to shake them hard, convert them, explain the gumbo that awaits if they only take the time. And so, herewith, the map down Gumbo Road. ...
Read the rest for step-by-step instructions, some of which leave us more than mildly apprehensive (microwave roux?).