Growing up as a latchkey kid, cooking was never something I learned through tradition. It was about necessity. I knew how to make enough to get by, but not the kind of meals tied to memories, stories, or family history. That part came later in life, and surprisingly, it came through military service. With every duty station, we started over. New routines. New neighborhoods. New people who somehow became family faster than expected. Along the way, I learned how to cook the same way I learned how to survive military life, through community. Friends sharing meals after long days, spouses swapping recipes, neighbors feeding you when home felt far away.

Then, we moved to New Orleans. Almost immediately, one of our neighbors, born and raised locals, took us in like we had always belonged. She showed us the city, introduced us to Mardi Gras the right way, and for years, she brought us bowls of gumbo that tasted like comfort, history, and care. Gumbo wasn’t just something she made. It was something she shared.

For a long time, she brought it over to us, and eventually, I realized that if New Orleans was going to leave a mark on me, this was the one thing I wanted to carry with me if we ever PCS from here. So, one year, I finally asked her to teach me how to make it. She didn’t hesitate.

Learning gumbo wasn’t rushed. The roux demanded patience and attention. The chopping turned into conversation. Stories flowed while the pot slowly came together. It felt less like following a recipe and more like being let into something sacred. When it was finished, we celebrated. Champagne was poured, and then she handed me my first wooden spoon.

My gumbo spoon. It wasn’t just a tool. It was a quiet acknowledgment that I had earned my place in the process. That I was now trusted with something deeply rooted in her culture and her home. As a military family, that moment meant more than learning a dish. We move often. We rebuild often. With every move, we leave pieces of ourselves behind. Being taught how to make gumbo felt like being given permission to take New Orleans with us wherever we go next.

This recipe represents more than food. It represents community built from scratch. It represents culture shared generously. It represents the beauty of being welcomed into someone else’s traditions and trusted to carry them forward. If we ever leave New Orleans, gumbo will come with us, because sometimes, home isn’t a place on a map. It’s a meal you learned slowly, a story passed hand to hand, and the people who made room for you at their table.

Recipe Notes:

• The roux should reach a deep chocolate-brown color. Do not rush it.
• Homemade stock adds depth, but store-bought works just fine.
• This recipe was learned in community, and it’s meant to be shared the same way.

This gumbo was taught to me by a New Orleans local. I learned so many things that day, but please know that gumbo meets you where you are. I hope you and your family enjoy this recipe as much as my family does!

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