I’ve been feeling introspective about family food lately. My mom, Susan, was born and raised in southwest Louisiana with a mother who cooked fantastic meals (including the best oatmeal I will ever have in my lifetime). As a result, I’ve grown up with my mom cooking so much good food, Cajun and otherwise. One of our all-time greatest family meals is chicken and sausage gumbo. My mom makes it occasionally but every year, without fail, our Christmas Eve dinner is gumbo. This year, at my ripe old age of twenty-two, I figured it was finally time for me to learn how to make it myself.

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My mom walked me through it step by step, telling me all the tips and tricks she does to make the gumbo. She also insisted I could scan a gumbo recipe from a cookbook by the Cajun Ninja because it was “basically” the same way she does it. I didn’t tell her that I didn’t want to do that because I wanted to know the way she does it from memory. I didn’t want the closest approximation from a cookbook (although I’m sure that recipe still makes a good gumbo). It was important to me to know exactly how she does it because I’m overly sentimental and convinced that’s the only right way to make the gumbo I love so much.

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Gumbo always starts with a roux, which is a thickener for soups and sauces made from flour and fat. Making the roux takes constant stirring for about 30+ minutes. I zoned out while I was stirring, waiting patiently for it to turn the color of dark chocolate. I started thinking about how lucky I am to have a dish that feels so important to my family. It’s comforting knowing that gumbo is a way to connect with the people I love and remember a few happy memories of time spent with family and friends. There are others across the world who have special family dishes too and it’s amazing to know we all have a physical manifestation of love and comfort.

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I also had a little moment about the pot when I was making the roux. The pot my mom and I were using has seen a countless number of gumbos and other soups in the decade or so that we’ve had it. The pot has seen better days, but I love seeing its imperfections. The scratches along the outside, the nicks on the inside, and marks on the bottom are all a reminder of the hard work it has done in helping nourish my family. It’s hard to articulate exactly how all of this makes me feel, but I think I’d sum it up by saying it warms my heart and makes me so unbelievably happy.

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I’m excited that I finally know how to make the family gumbo. I’ve joined the special club that includes my mom, aunts, uncle, and a few cousins. Now, whenever I’m homesick or want to impress new friends, I can make a big pot of gumbo. A little bit of home best served hot over rice.