Gumbo

I love spicy food.

I love eating.

I love hanging out with fun friends.

This Saturday we had an impromptu "Part-y!" with our friends the Nelsons. It started out innocent, mild and simple--a last minute get together.

But then Jay showed up with bags and bags of groceries.

He wanted to make us "soul food". Now I didn't exactly know what that meant when I agreed. But anything that has the word food in it--I'm game! And if it nourishes my soul while I am chewing--so be it.

Did I mention that one of the bags of food included Alaskan King Crab legs?

So the menfolk chopped and seasoned and spiced and created. Okay, I include Bob here because he was in the kitchen with his buddy afterall. Not that he has ever eaten seafood gumbo or soul food before.

This masterpiece of chicken legs and bones, links of sausage, bags of shrimp, and other mysterious ingredients (I did mention the many large legs of crab didn't I?) simmered and stewed for hours. Jay forbid snacking and appetizers. We needed to be huuuuuungry to truly enjoy.

The smells! Oh the wonderful olfactory pleasures that tempted and taunted and tantalized. For hours.

He had his wish. We were hungry.

When we finally sat down to this mouth-wateringly, smell-sensation soup ladled over rice with prickly crab legs poking out of our overstuffed bowls--it was quiet. Except for the moaning and humming and outbursts of ectasy.

At one point Kady had to warn me to knock it off. She said I was frightening her.

"OH MY! OOOOOHHHHH!" loudly interjected in between mouthfuls.

"WHAT?!?! What's the matter?" her concerned query.

It took her a while to figure out that I am an expressive eater. Dramatic diner? Theatrical taster? Whatever. I enjoy my food. I already told you that.

I have never tasted anything so delicious and soul-satisfying.

I can't even tell you about the cornbread right now. It wouldn't be fair. You would only think I am embellishing.

"Bless the Lord, O my soul!"  Thank you Jesus. For friends. For soul food.

PS- I try to have fine manners (well, except for when I am moaning at the dinner table and scaring guests) so I sent the leftovers home with the Nelsons. I knew it was the polite thing to do. I remembered how Jay likes to eat leftovers for days straight. And he had made it afterall, and paid for it. And shared a large portion of it with us. Seven of us with mounds of shells and unbuttoned pants to prove it. It was the right thing to do. But I regretted it the moment I woke up the next morning. With the pungent smells settled over the house and my first breath was GUMBO. Big mistake! Big mistake!