Black-Eyed Gumbo

My family’s New Year’s celebration always included fireworks and black-eyed peas. Many of the fireworks were left over from my father’s superb Christmas collection, which contained the usual array of bottle rockets, Roman candles and firecrackers, but he always had a few fire fountains and a loud sparkling rocket or four put away for the last night in December. The peas, which we had on the table pretty much year-round, assumed an incandescence all their own that night as signatures of memory and rapport.

Our freedom of worship brought many people to this country. Among the earliest were Jews who had endured centuries of barely tolerable hardships. Many Sephardic Jews settled in South Carolina, Georgia, and Maryland well before the Civil War, and they brought with them their tradition of eating black-eyed peas at Rosh Hashana. In time, this custom spread to their New World neighbors who were already familiar with the bean (yes, a black-eyed pea is a bean) but doubtless confused as to why the Jews celebrated New Year so early and didn’t use a ham bone in their peas like everyone else did. Still, the tradition caught on and endures as evidence of the South’s many-layered and multifaceted culinary heritage.

This is another recipe I made at the Harvest Cafe in Oxford, a vegetarian restaurant on the corner of Jackson and South 10th. On the brunch shift, I’d make soup specials, which was always a challenge, because the black bean chili was outstanding and one of the most popular dishes. Under duress, I rose to the occasion and in a memorable effort made a gumbo using black-eyed peas. This combination of peas and okra in a thickened, richly-seasoned stock with aromatic vegetables and tomatoes seemed a good combination for our clientele; most people who ordered soup wanted something warm and filling around Sunday lunch time, and this recipe seemed a good alternative to the chili.

My idea received a guarded reservations; when my boss, John Anderson, asked me what he needed to put on the blackboard as the soup of the day, I said “black-eyed pea gumbo.” He blinked his eyes behind those big glasses he wears, slowly nodded his head and said, “Okay”, which in my experience with this gentle man I recognized skepticism of a profound and imponderable nature. Jennie Lee, my co-worker, asked me if I’d lost my mind, but she’s from Charleston, knows perloo better than gumbo, and she knew I was crazier than an outhouse rat anyway. She also didn’t sign my paychecks.

Besides, the dish was well underway. I’d made a good brown roux with vegetable oil and our lightest flour, added minced garlic, chopped onions, celery and bell pepper. This primordial goo I combined with a good base made with vegetable stock, basil, thyme, oregano and bay. Not only that, but I’d been soaking the peas since happy hour the day before, and they were simmering on a back eye. I also had two packages of organic okra stashed in a refrigerator in the back; these were expensive contraband (imagine the price of a frozen package of organic okra in 1995 Mississippi), but essential to my enterprise. The okra I rinsed under warm water before adding it to the pot to relieve it of ropy-ness. The peas I drained but kept the liquid. After adding the peas and okra to the pot, I started adding the liquid to achieve a good consistency (I like it thickish, but with a good juice) then added two small drained cans of diced tomatoes that I’d smuggled in from James’ Food Store. Once that was done, I began adjusting the seasonings, and finally put the gumbo in a serving pan on the line.

Of course, John ordered the first bowl. His comment was just as laconic as his first, but delivered with a smile, which I took as a positive sign. This interpretation was confirmed when the orders started coming in, many for the gumbo. This earned me a grateful nod from my co-workers, since pouring something in a bowl and sending it out the window is one of the less stressful acts you can perform in a busy kitchen. Before the end of the shift, John was gracious enough to come into the kitchen and say, “They loved your gumbo. How did you make it?”

John, sorry I’m late. Again.

Good Luck Gumbo

Our freedom of worship brought many people to this country, and among the earliest were Jews who had endured centuries of barely tolerable hardships. Many Sephardic Jews settled in South Carolina, Georgia and Maryland well before the Civil War, and they brought with them their tradition of eating black-eyed peas at Rosh Hashana. In time, this custom spread to their New World neighbors who were already familiar with the bean (yes, a black-eyed pea is a bean) but doubtless confused as to why the Jews celebrated New Year so early and didn’t use a ham bone in their peas like everyone else did. Still, the tradition caught on and endured, one of the more evident examples of the South’s many-layered and multifaceted culinary heritage. This combination of peas and okra in a thickened, richly-seasoned stock with aromatic vegetables and tomatoes makes a comforting New Year dish.

Make a dark roux (the color of a beer bottle) with 3 tablespoons flour and 3 tablespoons vegetable oil. While the roux is still hot, add one large chopped onion, a chopped bell pepper, and about three stalks (with leaves) chopped celery stalks. Stir well, add 3 cloves minced garlic. Slowly add about a quart and a half of chicken broth. To this, add about six cups pre-cooked black-eyed peas (you can use dried, but I prefer the “fresh frozen” because, well, they’re just prettier; sue me), a 12-ounce sack of frozen sliced okra that has been rinsed in a strainer so it’s not so ropy, and a 14-ounce can of diced tomatoes, with juice. Stir in about a pound of cubed or sliced andouille or smoked sausage, or you can use ham if you like. Add a bay leaf, about 2 tablespoons of an Italian herbal mix, and let cook on low heat for about an hour. Adjust seasonings for the table, adding salt if necessary and pepper to taste. Serve over rice.