Stirring It Up with Molly Ivins (12 page)

11

MOLLY AND I HAD COOKING DATES
, which probably sounds just as weird as “play dates” for kids, but those escape-from-Dallas cooking weekends produced rollicking good times, except for the occasional mishap, like the time a heavy container of gumbo destined for a dinner party tumbled out of the fridge and onto Molly's right foot, breaking her big toe.

We should have used something rectangular instead of an oversized cylindrical blender bowl to fit into her already overstuffed fridge. Even I, the Din-math-and-physics-forget-about-it student, knew that. Molly was tired and cranky and insisted that the giant cylindrical container would do just fine. The reconstructed conversation went something like this:

Me, regarding overstocked shelves: “Mol, I don't think this is gonna work.”

Molly: “Of course it will. I'll just give it a good shove” (jamming the container into place). “There” (with a triumphant crow—the container is precariously balanced but stationary).

Me: “Jesus, I hope one of us remembers to open the door carefully tomorrow.”

Molly: “Sweets, sometimes you're a real pain in the ass. It's too heavy to fall out.”

I shrugged, acquiescing. It was rarely a good idea to argue with her once she set her mind to something.

The next day, with the previous night's exchange about potentially hazardous refrigerator door openings a distant memory, I yanked open the door to surf for breakfast food, hoping to find remnants from the hearty beef stew served two nights before. I love leftovers. I'll eat almost anything for breakfast if it has an over-easy egg on top.

Molly stood by, seeking jam for a rapidly cooling croissant.

First to fly out was a package of cream cheese, easily intercepted with a midair catch. Next came the six-quart gumbo-laden bowl, the one containing a meticulously browned roux blended with homemade shrimp stock chock-full of chopped onions, green bell peppers, chopped celery, paper-thin hand-sliced discs of fresh okra, bay leaves and thyme, and generously endowed with crab claws, andouille sausage, and big fat shrimp.

A slo-mo camera should have been there to capture me going “Nooooooo!!!” and Molly going “I got it!” and neither of us reacting in any meaningful way to halt the no-slo-mo, 100-mile-a-minute trajectory from mid-fridge to tile floor. The resounding
thunk!
was in fact the sound of heavy glass breaking into three perfectly cleaved chunks.

On Molly's foot.

I looked at her, stunned. She shot me an “I dare you to open your mouth” look heavily weighted with a combination of frustration, annoyance, and, as I later learned, pain. We instantaneously directed our attention to the mess slowly radiating outward from the point of impact. It could have been a scene from a bleeding body on a
CSI
television episodes, except that the corpse in this instance was our Saturday-night supper.

Without uttering a word, we each grabbed a pot from the nearby stove and began retrieving shrimp, crab legs, crab claws, and sausage slices. Making another roux was no problem. Buying more shrimp, crab, and sausage at that point was. Mercifully, the oysters had not been added. We exchanged knowing glances that sealed an unvoiced pact that we would never again speak of recycled ingredients.

She did not argue when my grocery run included Knorr shrimp bouillon cubes, chicken stock—albeit organic—and frozen okra for the new roux. Time was now of the essence. No quibbling over onion-chopping techniques, though. Molly refused to use the food processor to chop onions, bell pepper, and celery. If you're persnickety, skip the following account of how Molly further injured herself while stubbornly re-chopping the onions by hand. It is a morality tale, and as good a reason as any for not rushing while cooking and, truth be told, for avoiding beverages stronger than water while using sharp knives.

Let's just say the edge of the onion pile was showing a curiously pinkish tinge of undetermined origin until it was revealed that the razor-sharp blade of Molly's eight-inch chef's knife had seriously nicked the end of her left middle fingertip.

We once again exchanged meaningful glances. We looked first at one another, then at the pile of onions—three pounds of them—that she had carefully, painstakingly, chopped. In unspoken agreement we trotted out a big colander, rinsed the onions with lots and lots of running water, and added them to the roux along with bell peppers, celery, garlic, and okra.

As the vegetable mix was added to the roux, followed by the requisite seasonings, a neighbor, out on an exercise walk, popped in to ask what we were cooking. Actually her comment was, “Whatever y'all er fixin' shure smells good!”

To speak proper Texan you must internalize certain grammatical constructs: one doesn't cook or prepare a meal; one “fixes” it. One is never “about to leave.” You're “fixin' to leave.” And if you're running behind schedule, you're “fixin' to be late.” Fluency in Texan is achieved when you instinctively understand that a qualifying commentary is superfluous when the phrase “Bless her/his heart” is employed. The person so objectified is doomed.

Texas aphorisms have leaked out as far as Los Angeles—I once heard a guy who has one of those self-help, pop psychology shows inform a participant, “This ain't my first rodeo, y'know.” He and the quip came from Texas.

Disagree with an argument? “You can put your boots in the oven, but that don't make 'em biscuits.”

Hit a stumbling block? No. You've got a “hitch in your getalong.”

Looking tired? “You look like you been rode hard and put up wet.”

Our accelerated cooking activity had alerted the neighborhood to the fact that we were
fixin'
something good and garlicky. Thanks to the open door that led from kitchen to patio, the area immediately surrounding Molly's house was redolent with aromas rising from that sizzling sauté. Following an hour-long slow simmer, we added sausage, chicken, and crabmeat just prior to reintroducing salvaged shrimp and crab claws. It was all done by early afternoon, leaving plenty of time for the flavors to marry—or at least live in sin for a while.

At dinner even Molly had to laugh at the inevitable commentary on the tiny condom-like cover on her bandaged middle finger. In keeping with the general tenor of the moment, she raised the injured finger in the direction of successive speakers.

As for the saga of hastily reassembled gumbo ingredients and blood-free onions, both remained a Molly-Sweetsie secret.

That was a long time ago, and with any luck all anyone remembers from that particular gumbo supper—if they remember anything about it at all,
inasmuch as Jamaican, Dutch, and Louisiana beers were involved—there was enough for seconds and even some for our friend Elliott to take some home. Remember that name. State Representative Elliott Naishtat views food through a prism not unlike that of a lion spotting antelope in the savannah: see, stalk, seize, savor.

Anyway, dinner was salvaged, the reconstructed gumbo was cheerfully consumed, nobody got sick, and the secret was secure. Until now.

I later recounted the broken-toe, sliced-finger gumbo saga in New Orleans during dinner at one of Molly's favorite restaurants, Commander's Palace. Situated in the heart of the Garden District, the sprawling turquoise and white Victorian structure represents the confluence of good food and good fun. Originally founded in the 1880s, Commander's is generally recognized as the grand dame of Crescent City restaurants, and a member of the Brennan family has presided over its Victorian grandeur since 1969. This might well be part of the reason Molly loved it so: not only did she love good food, she loved the idea of family-owned businesses. Ti Adelaide Martin—daughter of matriarch Ella Brennan Martin—is, like her mother, a staunch Molly fan.

Ti, as she is called, recalls in particular how, despite suggestions that she try something different from a constantly evolving menu, Molly returned time and again to the restaurant's Pecan Crusted Catfish, which gives the lie to the notion that catfish is somehow less deserving of elegant treatment than snapper, trout, or flounder.

Here our bottom-feeding, whiskered finny friend gets a Cinderella make-over with Creole seasoning, a light egg wash, and a dusting of pecan flour before being finished with lemon, Worcestershire sauce, thyme, and our dear friend, butter. It is worth buying the cookbook for this recipe alone, but for a full-fledged at-home Commander's experience, start with an oyster chowder, segue to a green salad tossed with avocado and a light vinaigrette, then dig into the pecan catfish, maybe with sides of garlic-wilted spinach and Creole mashed new potatoes.

When Molly's nephew Drew graduated from Tulane University, the family celebrated the event as Molly's guests at Commander's, joined by Carlton Carl, whose niece, Rebecca, was completing rabbinical studies. Drew now lives and works in South America, and Rebecca is a cantor in Philadelphia. So, yes, you come here for the magical Creole cuisine for which New Orleans is famous, but you come here for a good time too.