Though I grew up in Austin, my grandmother lived only a short drive away from us in the outskirts of Houston. So as a kid, my parents would often unload me let me spend long swaths of time at her house in the summer — sometimes three weeks or even a month. She would take me to Toys-R-Us and made sure to always have those green bottles of Coca-Cola stocked in her refrigerator. Sometimes, we’d make homemade ice cream out on her backyard patio; the patience required for our cool treat was made all the more unbearable by the thick Texas heat. I yearn for those days now.
Every morning, my grandmother and I would wake up early, and brew a pot of coffee. It’s funny that I’m not much of a coffee drinker as an adult, and I wasn’t really then either — I think I just loved the smell and the ritual of brewing it. She would pour me a very small teacup full, and I would dump in spoonfuls of sugar and a heaping of milk that turned it into a light caramel color. We would go outside in our pajamas, and sit on a small wooden bench next to her swimming pool. As we sipped the morning brew, we’d sing songs and repeat nursery rhymes to each other. “Zippity-Doo-Dah” was a daily must.
And during my summer visits, we’d often drive down to the coast, to Galveston, about an hour from her house. She had a gentleman friend who was in possession of a very fine double decker boat, which was a joy to take out on those muggy, humid summer days. My grandmother still has a picture of me on the boat one summer, a too-big bright orange life jacket strapped tightly across my chest — I must be about 6 or 7 in it.
On these trips to Galveston, we would always stop at a small restaurant right on the beach, whose name I can no longer remember. But, I do remember that it wasn’t much to look at from the outside, and that it was built right over the water on stilts, with a large deck area in the back — much like the picture above. It was sandwiched between two souvenir shops, replete with “I went to Galveston and all I got was this lousy t-shirt” type gifts. But I never held that against it.
I remember the restaurant mostly for its gumbo. We’d sit out on that back deck, ignoring the oppressive summer heat and relishing the salty air, inhaling bowls of seafood gumbo with saltines and washing it all down with big, sweating glasses of iced tea. No matter the time or place, a day spent near or on the ocean always makes one hungry.
The roux in the stew was black as night — a sign of true devotion to the dish, for creating a base that dark requires at least an hour of work, cooking time for the rest of the ingredients not included. I don’t know what got me thinking about the gumbo I used to eat there — Maybe it was the spicy zing of the gumbo that would burn the back of my throat and numb my lips for an hour after eating it? Or the rich, nutty flavor of the base? — but last weekend, I had a big hankering for it. Joe was game for whatever I wanted to make for dinner, so when I floated “gumbo,” and he didn’t pass, I couldn’t either. (more…)
Filed under: American South, Childhood, Food, Soups, Travels | 2 Comments »
