By rights, red beans and rice should only ever be eaten after midnight. Ours still has a while to go until the magic hour, but the simmering pot on the stove has filled our house with a scent that is familiar and unnatural. This holy blend of creole spices belongs distinctly in New Orleans – not here – where it wafts from unexpected corners and has a residence I envy.
I’m not even sure at this point what all I’ve stirred into my stew. The onions, bell pepper, and celery have melted into a singular entity. Andouille sausage is clear enough, I suppose, but the mixture has darkened as it cooks and taken on a thick, sludgy consistency. It is exquisite.
My local butcher eyed me suspiciously when I presented him with my shopping list earlier in the day. He didn’t have turtle meat. Not that red beans calls for it; I had originally hoped to make turtle soup, though it seems the whole of Chicago is rather offended at the thought of it. Even the butcher, with his dripping arms and juicy cleaver, apparently has limits. He couldn’t name a single place to purchase turtle meat and only begrudgingly suggested I try a gourmet supply house (“You monster,” his eyes added) when I pressed him further.
Ham hock and tasso are also apparently not Midwestern butcher staples. (Nor are sweetbreads and frog legs, I later found, which only further convinces me that despite all the culinary accolades, Chicago is hopelessly squeamish.) I settled on smoked ham shank. Not entirely authentic, and I’m still a bit unclear on what exactly it is, but as the stripped bone bobs into view it seems to be doing just fine in the deliciously dirty bubbling muck I’ve created.
My guy adds more wine to my glass. The raw edges of winter have left us itching for the home where we are not. At times like this we cook, sometimes all day and into the night, sharing bites and memories and hopes as we create the essence of places we love or will love one day.
We look beyond the kitchen and toward the window at the far end of the living room. There are only impressions to be seen in the dark outside. So we conjure a gas lamp out of the perpetual porch light flicker and ladle heaping piles of now-ready red beans over fluffy white rice.
If we shift focus enough, at this midnight hour we could be anywhere.