November 1, 2022 at 11:46 a.m.
Travel Trails: Going Back for Gumbo
By By Renee Risk Strietelmeier-
Although committed to our quest for gumbo, upon arriving, we bee-lined it to Café Beignet. After indulging in caffeine and sugar, we proceeded on a different route to find our gumbo. We took the Trolley to Tulane University. Tulane is where my dad, at the tender age of 17, attended college on a full-ride basketball scholarship. Seventy years later, upon reflection, for a homegrown small town Indiana farm boy to attend college far from home in the big city was not the wisest of decisions. He made the decision based on one practical reason. It was free. Whether injured or not, he would receive a college diploma. The only one to do so in his family. In those days, colleges did not ‘red-shirt’ for injuries. If athletes were unable to play, the scholarship money went away.
While discussing this article with my 87-year-old dad, he clearly recalled every road name and bar in The French Quarter. He remembered the Trolley route, as it was back then, went all the way to Lake Pontchartrain. He also retold, with remarkable detail, all the accounts of his time in New Orleans. With 20/20 hindsight Dad now says, “Leaving the farm and going off to Tulane is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.” I asked, “How come?” He explained. For starters, he was extremely young. Secondly, he had no money to make trips or even calls home. He found himself living in the deep South during an era of extreme racial tension. After games, opposing basketball teams had police escorts out of the gymnasium to their respective buses. A whole lot of the real world for which a sheltered Indiana farm boy was neither aware nor prepared. Reality whacked him upside the head in a hurry.
The decision my dad made many years ago explains why Beth and I took the Trolley to Tulane University. Beth and I enjoyed the peacefulness as we walked the campus. Neither of us said a word. Perhaps, both of us pondering the stark difference from life in the mid-fifties to the present day early-nineties. Both of us definitely recalling our own not so distant college experiences. We found our way, and let ourselves into the gym, prepared with the guise of being recent college grads doing research for a story. With our cameras and notebooks, we looked the part. No questions were asked.
We sat in the bleachers taking in the gym’s sights and sounds. No words were said. We simply sat. You know you have a good friend when you can talk endlessly for hours. You know you have a have best friend when you can say nothing for hours. Deciding to get on the move, we started walking the halls of the gym, taking time to stop and read Tulane’s athletic history. Perhaps, I should not have been surprised when I looked up and saw pictures of a much younger version of dad. However, I was completely taken aback by the team pictures as well as individual photos of my dad making his “famous” fade-away jump shot. A brief moment of pride swelled in my heart.
Back on campus, Beth and I decided to ‘camp’ under a tree for lunch. Lunch consisted of left-over beignets, peanut butter crackers and water. We watched a group of students who undoubtedly had made the decision to skip class in order to play hacky sack. As the afternoon was winding down, Beth and I decided to get to know the group. We were still under the guise of story researchers. The group graciously welcomed us. The only question they asked is if we wanted to join them for an “authentic gumbo experience”. So much for getting to play the role of story researchers. We rode with the group to a party which seemingly had started at daybreak if not the night before. Two bonfires already ablaze: one for warming, chatting and relaxing; one for an enormous cast iron pot for cooking gumbo.
Beth tried to ask the difference between gumbo and jambalaya. We quickly realized, oddly enough, this was neither the time nor the place to be educated on the topic. Before I started writing this story, I researched recipes for gumbo and jambalaya. What I found is there are as many recipes for both as there are for chili. The one common ingredient both gumbo and jambalaya have in them is fun. The cooking is an experience. Eating with complete strangers as though they were long lost friends is part of the experience. The uniquely Southern experience is akin to our Mid-Western pig roasts.
Our adventure back to New Orleans provided a completely different perspective and explains a small-town rural boy and his daughter’s love of spicey Cajun food.
** In Loving Memory of Beth Sayer **
