Chicken and Sausage Gumbo

October is my favorite month in Birmingham, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise, though I will fight them gently and with cornbread because fighting without food is just arguing, and arguing without food is just noise. October in Alabama is the month when the heat finally surrenders, when the air turns crisp like a good biscuit, when the light goes golden in the afternoons and the trees start to turn and the whole world looks like it has been painted by somebody who loves warm colors and has a generous hand.

The garden is winding down. The tomatoes gave their last this week — a handful of small ones, still sweet, that I sliced and ate standing at the counter with salt and nothing else because the last tomatoes of the season deserve to be eaten simply, honored for what they are without the interference of cooking. The okra is done. The collard greens will continue through the first frost because collard greens are stubborn, like Simms women, and actually improve after a frost, also like Simms women.

Marcus came home with college application news — he is applying to three more schools as backups, though Tuskegee is the plan and has always been the plan. His guidance counselor wants him to have options. I want him to have options too. But I also know that sometimes the first choice is the right choice and the options are just noise, and Marcus's first choice was Tuskegee before he could spell it, and the choosing was not a decision, it was a recognition — the same way I recognized the kitchen, the same way Calvin recognized the pulpit. Some things find you. You do not find them.

Made a big batch of chicken and sausage gumbo this week because October demands gumbo the way June demands lemonade — urgently, without explanation, as a matter of seasonal law. The roux was dark as coffee, stirred for forty-five minutes while I stood at the stove and thought about nothing and everything, which is the privilege of roux-making. Roux requires your hands but frees your mind, and my mind went where it always goes: to the kitchen, to the table, to the people who will eat this food, to the love that lives in the stirring.

Visited Daddy Saturday. He was quiet. He ate the fried chicken I brought without expression. The nurses said he had a good week, which means he slept well and ate his meals and did not try to leave, which he sometimes does, heading for the door in his wheelchair with the determination of a man who remembers that he has somewhere to be even if he cannot remember where. I hold his hand and tell him about Marcus and the college applications and the gumbo and the garden, and the words go into the room and into his ears and into whatever remains, and I have to believe that something remains, because the alternative is too lonely to live with.

This is the gumbo I made the week the garden gave its last tomatoes and Marcus told me about the three backup schools, the one I stood at the stove stirring for forty-five minutes while my mind wandered from the roux to the college applications to Daddy’s quiet Saturday afternoon. It’s the kind of pot you make when October finally cools the air and your soul needs something dark and rich and slow—something that fills the house with a smell that says, sit down, stay awhile, everything is going to be all right. I hope you’ll make it and think of whoever your stirring brings to mind.

Prep Time: 30 minutes | Cook Time: 1 hour 30 minutes | Total Time: 2 hours | Servings: 8

Ingredients

3/4 cup vegetable oil
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 large yellow onion, diced
3 stalks celery, diced
1 large green bell pepper, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 pound andouille sausage, sliced into 1/4-inch rounds
1 1/2 pounds bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs
1 cup fresh tomatoes, chopped (the last of the garden if you’re lucky)
8 cups chicken stock
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
Salt and black pepper to taste
1/2 pound fresh okra, sliced (optional, if the garden still has some)
4 cups cooked white rice, for serving
Filé powder, for serving (optional)
Sliced green onions, for garnish

Instructions

Make the roux. Heat the oil in a large Dutch oven or heavy-bottomed pot over medium heat. Whisk in the flour and stir continuously—do not walk away—for 40 to 45 minutes, until the roux is the color of dark coffee. This is the soul of the gumbo. Be patient with it.
Cook the trinity. Add the onion, celery, and bell pepper to the roux and stir well. Cook for 5 to 7 minutes, until the vegetables are softened. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute more.
Brown the sausage. Add the sliced andouille sausage and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, stirring occasionally, until lightly browned on the edges.
Build the gumbo. Pour in the chicken stock slowly, stirring to combine with the roux. Add the chicken thighs, chopped tomatoes, bay leaves, thyme, smoked paprika, cayenne, and Worcestershire sauce. Stir well and bring to a boil.
Simmer low and slow. Reduce heat to low, cover partially, and simmer for 45 minutes, until the chicken is cooked through and tender.
Shred the chicken. Remove the chicken thighs from the pot. Let them cool slightly, then remove the skin and bones. Shred the meat and return it to the pot.
Add the okra. If using okra, add it now and simmer for an additional 10 to 15 minutes, until tender.
Season and serve. Remove the bay leaves. Taste and adjust salt, pepper, and cayenne. Ladle the gumbo over cooked white rice in deep bowls. Sprinkle with filé powder and sliced green onions.

Nutrition (per serving)

Chicken and Sausage Gumbo — October in Birmingham, Stirred with Love