So I’m coming off a really shit week and we’re doing our shopping after work on Friday because that’s what replaces clubbing when you graduate to middle aged. That’s right, kids. Ya’ll have that shit to look forward to; Friday nights, hanging with your grocer, listening to your jams being interrupted by "Cleanup on aisle 4".

Anyway, we’re at the store and I have to buy more chicken legs because I need a ready supply of stock and because of my residual mood, I really have no desire to do anything chicken leg related. Believe me, if I could just buy chicken bones, I would because pressure cooked chicken leg meat is really beyond utility chicken. It’s great for pot pies, casseroles, chicken salad and little else. Except gumbo.

Instant mood shift. I didn’t even buy beer. I needed to make gumbo. I got excited the more I thought about it. MrsDamnCook is staying loyal to her diet, God bless her, so that means I didn’t have to share. I could add okra, which I normally leave out. I could add as much spice as I wanted. Hell, I could use shrimp stock if I really wanted. I didn’t go that far because what I wanted was some freestyle chicken and andouille gumbo with my go to Texmati. Like I’ve never heard of a diet or restraint or anything and that’s exactly what I resolved to do. “Watch the basket, Honey! I’m going to find some Zummo’s andouille. And if I’m not back in 10 minutes, wait another 10. I’m sure I just got distracted.”

As I’m on my way back, I think to myself how fortunate I am that I don’t need anything other than my ingredients. No recipe, just a goal. I’ve done it a thousand times. Same effort. Same intent. Same results. God is in Its Heaven and all is right in the Universe.

I didn’t actually get to throw down the gumbo until yesterday. I did it while I was doing that pear cake video. I multitask. In my defense, I needed to be in the kitchen anyway waiting for stuff, so why the hell not? If you have time to lean, you have time to make gumbo.

Again, I don’t have a recipe. I never have. Every time I make it, regardless of the variety, I’m forced to ponder people who have “award winning gumbo” and “secret recipes”. Those sort of concepts continue to elude me. I eat what I like. I cook what I like. Still at some point, I do need to document “my” gumbo.

I have issues with that, too. It’s not “my” gumbo. It’s how I make it. Everyone can use the same ingredients and the same methods and get the same results. They just have to do it. But it will never be the same as “mine”. Why?

Intent. I will always believe the most important ingredient in cooking is intent. You have to want it. You have to need it. You have to love it. You can’t be aloof about the results, ambivalent about the ingredients. You have to center yourself before you cook and bring your best you to the stove. You can taste contempt, anger and fear. I can, anyhow. Those I don’t necessarily mind so much, because at least there’s passion. Ambivalence is the worst seasoning. I’d rather have my food prepared by soulless machines.

The Wife did want to taste the gumbo despite my putting okra in it. I refrained from using any cayenne except as a final seasoning at the table, my only nod to her sensibilities. Yes, it wrankled, but I thought about it, and it wasn’t a big deal. Everything else was to my desire and intent. Making it felt so good, so right, and because there was no request or demand, I could share my good fortune, my happy feelings, and leave the cayenne out.

Maybe it’s her diet. Maybe she tasted my intent in her tiny sample. Either way, I’ve never seen her as enthusiastic about any gumbo I’ve made. She even commented on how well I handled the frozen okra I had to use. Not a bit of slime.

She even asked if I wouldn’t give her my recipe. I told her I was pondering documenting it, but I’ve honestly never thought it was worth documenting. Gumbo is a working of the soul. It doesn’t really take well to being documented. Rigidity makes it fragile.

But that’s me. I’ll still write the “recipe” and post it here, one day. But not today. This gumbo is a product of the moment, not all that different from each and every one of us. And that’s just fine.