Recipe: Jamablaya?

A sneak peak from the vault

Before I wrote my third novel, North of Happy, which included recipes at the start of every chapter, I flirted with the idea of writing a cookbook where each recipe told a story. The idea did not exactly flirt back, so we did not court. But here’s a brief glimpse of my pick-up line, written about ten years ago.

Look, you have no idea what’s going to happen tomorrow, so chop some celery.

6-7 ribs, preferably. Get 3 green bell peppers as well. And 5 green onions. If you don’t know what other ingredients you need, this recipe is not for you.

In a heavy-bottomed pot, melt butter over medium heat. For the love of god, watch the butter until it bubbles into something golden, until it smells slightly burnt, rich like a good day you can’t believe has been bestowed upon you. You will only do this so many times in your life, and now is as good as time as any.

You don’t know if your pot is big enough to hold all the jambalaya you aim to make, and that’s okay. Some people will cancel, and some will only pretend to eat, their appetites gone thanks to last night’s events. Place onions and bacon in the melting butter until they start to soften. Add the celery, bell peppers, fresh thyme, cayenne powder, paprika, cumin, black pepper, and salt.

Sort through your inner turmoil and rest assured that not a bit of it will affect the taste of your dish. However heartbroken or anxious you may be, these ingredients will come together perfectly, at least to those around you. Sautee the spices for a minute, then add canned or fresh tomatoes. Cook for a few minutes, stirring, paying particular attention to the sound of the wooden spoon against the bottom of the pan, the swirling of softening vegetables like muck being stepped on, like wind rustling a picnic blanket. Try to guess what the flavor will be before you taste it. Really guess. Summon the sensation in the corners of your mouth designed for such flavors. Marvel at the ability to do just what you’re doing, marvel at the blue part of the flame on your stove, marvel at the old stains crusted onto the white enamel of your kitchen, evidence of some long-gone meal. Marvel at the love you’ve received and given. Marvel at anything at all. Stir in rice and mix well.

Add chicken stock and cover, understanding that in the next forty-five minutes, anything could happen. An earthquake could force you out of your apartment, or bring your whole world down. A phone call could do the same. A fly could find its way into your pot while you’re not looking. The flavors could all go wrong, unraveling into something unservable, a waste of time. Cells deep within you could mutate, a lifetime of bad choices manifesting themselves, or a momentary alignment of bad luck. In some far corner of the world, a disease might be cured. Two people will argue about the love they have for each other, how much of it there has been and how much is left and who has provided more of it. Hearts will flutter at the sight of someone new, or wrench at the sight of someone old. TV will be watched, books read, music listened to while you stand in your kitchen waiting for the moisture in the pot to simmer away.

Check the rice for tenderness, then add shrimp, and check yourself for the same quality. How good are you at making others happy? Add salt and cayenne pepper to taste. Serve with green onions to a group of people who are more or less unaware of what you’ve been doing in your kitchen for the last hour, the thoughts that have crossed your head.