Reflections on Red Beans and Rice

Although I am not really southern, my mom was born and raised in New Orleans. As a consequence, I use the word "y'all," get twitchy when I hear people pronounce "pecan" like "PEEcan*," and know how to make a roux. Because a part of my New Orleans heritage is the God-given right to make red beans and rice, and grillades and grits (go on--look it up).

I spent a good part of the day yesterday making red beans and rice. It takes about 4 hours, not counting the bean soaking time, so this is a serious undertaking. I should have made it on Monday, which is the day when you'll find it as the daily special on every restaurant menu in the New Orleans area. And that's because Monday was traditionally wash day, so it made sense to make a slow-cooked dish that could sit basically unattended on the stove while the fire burned hot all day to heat the wash water. And that's the end of your Crescent City history lesson for the day.

BUT ANYWAY.

As I was making the roux, I was reflecting on how I never liked the smell of roux when my mom made it. But I like it now because I associate it with my mom. Roux requires constant stirring, so it's easy to get contemplative while you stand there for half an hour, staring at the greasy cobwebs on your ceiling (but not in MY kitchen of course, ahem). And what I was contemplating is how nice it is to have that memory of taste and smell to remind me that while I am now an upstate New Yorker, I am, and always will be, a transplant. That I have my own family history, and my own sort of roots. It's easy to forget that here, surrounded by A.'s family, A.'s house, A.'s life.

In short, red beans and rice provides a needed reminder of my own identity. That's a lot to read into a pot of legumes, but there it is.

Do you have a food that connects you to your family and your past?

* Say it with me now, y'all--puhCAWN