"First you start with a roux"

That's what I've always been told about Cajun cooking. People from Natchitoches to Houma to Breaux Bridge all say the same thing. And so last night I did.



I celebrated the end of this cold snap by making something that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike gumbo. Let's get this clear: gumbo has okra. What I made last night did not have okra. Ergo it wasn't really gumbo. Q.E.D.

While I don't know why, I just love the smell of roux. Apparently the scent of deep-fried flour had some evolutionary advantage way back when and it has survived until today. Down South you can buy jars of roux in grocery stores but I've never seen a Yankee grocer carry the stuff. If you're in a hurry, I can understand the convenience of the pre-made stuff but, if you have the time, make it yourself as it is a zen-like experience. You stand huddled over a pot for half an hour stirring all the while. It's the culinary equivalent of one of those rock gardens. Instead of raking sand you slowly stir your mixture of fat and flour. Left to right then back to front – maybe some kind of swirled pattern thrown in for good measure. Over the course of 30 or so minutes the roux changes from yellow to light brown and finally ends up a nice chocolate color.

Despite the absence of okra, I chopped up plenty of Holy Trinity and had not one, but two different kinds of sausage. I had a large stash of Polish varieties from Chicago in my freezer and it was time for them to be eaten. So into the pot went Kiełbasa Polska (the smoked stuff you find everywhere) and Kabanosy (stick sausage).



Ooh mama! The pot sat on the stove uncovered for quite a while so the whole place was sweetly scented with bay, smoked sausage, etc. And just as the kitchen smelled of venison stew yesterday morning, last night's dinner remained when I awoke today. If I keep it up, even this stuff will be powerless against me.

There was some basmati-wild rice mix leftover from last week that was dying to be eaten so I threw some of that in a bowl. I figured the wild rice would give the dish a nice Upper Midwestern touch. From there I ladled my almost-gumbo into the bowl and topped it off with some filé.



Since I didn't have any French bread, I had an onion bialy with it. Mo bettah!



For dessert, I had some vanilla ice cream topped with a mint porter brewed by Joe Walts:



It was quite delicious as the hop bitterness and a hint of mint alternated with the sweet ice cream on my tongue. Indeed, I added more beer a couple times.

Although good on ice cream, the beer was best from a glass after having let it warm up a bit.



It poured a nice frothy head which dissipated quickly. Sticking my nose into the pint glass, I beheld a chocolate aroma at first, and then I swear there was some of that estery banana goodness as well. Never having tasted a mint porter that wasn't on ice cream before, I wasn't quite sure what to expect once the beer had warmed up and its flavors allowed to bloom.

I ended up drinking a damn fine porter. The hops were assertive but I could taste the mint clawing away at them for the attention of my taste buds. At the end of each sip, I think they found a way to co-exist peacefully on my palate. About a quarter of a pint in I had a nice mellow mint burn in my throat. Certainly one of the more unique beer drinking experiences I've had. Great stuff.

You can keep track of Joe as he pursues his dream of opening a brewpub here in Madison by going to his blog.