Even as an adult my papa still pulls the same routine when waking me up in the morning. He would open the door slightly, sneak his hand inside, and flip the light switch up. Of course, this aggravates the hell out of me because why can’t I just have another hour of sleep? Why do I have to wake up early and deal with the ever-present crazy that exists in my family? It’s even worse on Christmas when ingredients and directions are flying from the living room to the kitchen at the behest of my nani. She does this every time my mother makes dinner for everyone. We assume it’s so she can feel involved, as she's slowly been unable to help for many years, but that doesn’t make it any less aggravating. This is especially true for my mom who holds a culinary degree and knows how to cook the Christmas gumbo.
   

This gumbo isn’t anything special on the outside but to me, it holds the many memories I have with my family, especially the memories I have with my papa.

 

Papa is the stereotypical gruff and grumpy grandpa who only enjoys working on things away from his family. Even so, he still means so much to me and reminds me quite a bit of a teddy bear. His hugs are warm and comforting and are often the last thing I get when I leave home. He’s always been one of my biggest supporters and that is why I have pushed myself through college. He is the main reason why we even have the Christmas gumbo and why we make it with andouille and shrimp. If it had been up to me we’d have Chinese food for Christmas but that’s neither here nor there as I love Gumbo, especially when there’s shrimp involved. 

 

    The day doesn’t start till all the ingredients are gathered and placed on the kitchen counter. Everything is sorted and the correct amounts of each ingredient are cut or prepared when needed. Fresh shrimp would be ideal for such a meal, but our family doesn’t have fresh shrimp kind of money. We buy the andouille prepackaged from whatever brand papa asked for (he apparently knows which one is best). During this time my mother would get the water set to a point where it could boil and then add the proper amount of chicken broth to the pot. This pot is the big one that is only pulled out for stew, soups, and other dishes that will last us weeks if possible. Slowly other ingredients are added including diced onions and celery, green onions, cayenne pepper, and any other spice that my mother added thinking it would make the flavor pop.

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She does this without telling my nani because she would just say “No, no, no, we don’t add that, we have never added that,” but they never would have known the difference.

 

The andouille gets added before the shrimp as we have to make sure the shrimp doesn’t get overcooked. My mother would then cover the pot, bring the heat down to a simmer, and occasionally stir to make sure the ingredients weren’t just sitting at the bottom of the pot.

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    During all of this, my grandpa is cracking jokes about me eating all the bread they are breaking in the oven with aluminum making sure they don’t burn. He’s not wrong, I will eat as much of the bread as I can, also dipping it into the broth of the gumbo. While I occasionally stir the gumbo in the pot, my mother gets to work on cooking rice for us to pour our gumbo over. It’s one of the last things she does as it doesn’t take a good chunk of time to cook. She had to stir the rice a little bit before leaving it alone to finish cooking. I always get nervous about watching my mother cook. She’s a good cook and I love the food she makes, my issue is that she normally makes a mess and doesn’t often clean up after herself which means I have to clean up on top of having to do the dishes after we’ve finished eating dinner. 

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    Finally, when all the food is finished we place everything in order on the counter to get our bowls or plates together. Papa will make a bowl for nani first since she can’t get up to make one for herself. After that, he’ll make his bowl, then my mom, and then finally me (where I place a good amount of bread on top). When making the bowl you place your preferred amount of rice at the bottom of the bowl before moving over to the gumbo. Some may prefer more broth but I don’t like how it makes the rice get all soggy, so I drain some of the broth and go for more of the meat. 

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    My nani stays in her chair in the living room and depending on how we’re all feeling we may sit with her, or sit at the dining room table. I always get singled out for prayer, even though I don’t like doing it and I always just ramble on awkwardly to the point I’m being laughed at, primarily by my papa.

 

Even if the day was stressful or aggravating getting to eat with family is what makes it all bearable in the end.

 

We ate in a sweet silence for some time before my mom and papa began to discuss things that didn’t mean anything to me. During these moments I become grateful that we’re not discussing politics or “what's wrong with the world” as it becomes repetitive and turns into an argument. I hate arguing, the loud yells from people, the name-calling, and the inability to see different points of view. It all reminds me of the buildup of the water boiling in a pot, that same pot we use to make the gumbo. Many arguments in my family result from talking about what we are gonna eat, sometimes it's between me and my mother, or something my papa said that upset either my mother or nani. If the water boils too much then it spills all over and creates a fire.

 

To prevent that, it’s best if we all just continue to eat in that beautiful silence. 

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    After eating dinner, and maybe a dessert, it’s my turn to take part in the day. I do the dishes without any complaint but I do get teased about how it’s my job. I scrub and scrub through forks, spoons, pots, and pans. Whatever goes into the sink will be cleaned by me and placed on the nearby towels to air dry. If we’re using bowls they might go into the dishwasher but I can’t remember the last time that machine was used, and why they even decided to have it installed if they only choose to hand wash everything. While I do the dishes, the rest of the family gets comfortable in the living room and they decide to turn on the news. Watching the news on Christmas Day should be illegal in my opinion. Why would anyone willingly subject themself to the depressing nature of the 24-hour news cycle? I normally put my headphones on to drown out the obnoxious noise of people talking about what they think is wrong with the world. 

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    As the day comes to an end, presents open, thanks and love given, we all wind down for the evening just to pick back up with chores the following day. The leftover gumbo is kept in the pot and placed in the downstairs fridge for the next day when it’s brought back up and reheated on the stove. We may or may not save the rice depending on what's left and if we’ll use it for the next several days.

 

The smells still linger throughout the house and leave me wanting more, so I stay excited for the week to come.

 

My mother and I take our time to get put stuff packed together, knowing that we’ll be back the next. Even now I still miss those moments of my mother and me leaving my grandparents and the invisible tears I cried over those two. Even if my grandparents are two of the most hardheaded, stubborn mules around, they are still two people who I love so very much. My papa has been a rock, someone I could talk to, someone who taught me how to make sure my car was running smoothly, the different parts of a lawnmower, etc.

 

No matter how noisy the holidays are, they feel like I’m being sung to by a choir of children, the noises coming together to create the perfect symphony of sound.

 

Boiling water, the sound of a knife cutting, the loud volume of the TV, my nani’s directions, my papa's jokes, anything, and everything, it all just feels right. The Christmas gumbo brings my family together, because no matter what, we’re all we got.