Roux is a wondrous thing. A culinary product which, alone, holds little charm for most palates, the brown oil-and-toasted-flour base is a flavoring for a French, Creole or Cajun concoction- in my case, gumbo- the backbone and soul of the dish together.
Roux: A French word derived from the Latin word ”russe,” meaning brown or reddish in color. Paul Prudhomme says, “The cooking of flour and fat together to make a roux is a process that seems to go back as far as my ancestors of four hundred years ago…My mother used to start with a paste of animal fat and flour and cook it for several hours.” Prudhomme describes light roux to enhance sauces and gravies, red-brown roux for light white meats and seafood. But of my favorite- the black roux- the famed Louisiana chef says “results in the thinnest, best-tasting gumbos of all."
Roux-making is a test of the heart of the cook. It determines whether one has the patience, the hallmark of Cajun cooking, that brings about the rich, nutty, toasty flavor around which any reputable gumbo is created. I learned roux-making from my husband early in our dating. While our relationship was not one built on patience, patience could be found in us, nonetheless, in the kitchen. In this case, my first batch was made in a rustic cabin kitchen in an Alabama state park, just a long day’s drive from Washington, Louisiana, where the Soileau family roux was pampered in the hands of Maman (“Mawmaw”) Melba. I earned, that night in the cabin kitchen, the sparkle in my man’s eye by way of mastering the roux solo as he drove miles away to find a large, worthy gumbo pot. I guessed that all Louisiana state park kitchens came with a gumbo pot.
That sparkle moved on, but I’ve kept the roux and gumbo close to my heart. Last night I served up three pots of gumbo built around the best batch of rich, dark “black” roux I’ve ever made. It pleased the crowd of fifty friends, and brought me joy to share such a rich tradition- even one from a borrowed family heritage. Roux was, after all, adopted and adapted from the French by Cajun descendants and the creoles, Spanish and Africans.
Since roux is time-consuming and can be refrigerated or frozen, I make mine two weeks before a big event. To make a big batch I start with 4 c all-purpose flour and 2 c vegetable oil (not Olive oil as it will smoke and burn at a lower temp than vegetable oil). A typical roux proportion is one part flour to one part oil, but I use 2:1, flour to oil. In my largest, deepest cast iron skillet, I whisk the oil and flour together until it’s perfectly smooth, and continue to whisk the roux constantly over medium heat while holding good book in the other hand. After ten or fifteen minutes, the oil is hot enough to begin toasting the flour, producing the desired toasty-nutty flavor. At long last, I begin to note that the color has changed to a creamy off-white.
Slowly, miraculously, the flour-and-oil mixture takes on a mind of its own and becomes roux. From cream to “barely tan” to tan to cinnamon to dark copper penny, the tones the roux takes on are all beautiful, mimicking the natural browns and russets I begin to see outside the window in autumn. It is, after all, the only time I make roux. It was, after all, when I made my first batch that chilly night in the cabin, and it is always just the right time for my Thanksgiving gathering.
As the roux passes dark tan, about thirty minutes in, its character changes to “feisty.” The bubbling goes from gentle to angry, at which time I turn down the fire a bit. The smoothness gives way to graininess as the roux becomes thicker, the oil separates a bit, and I put my book down- far from the stove and any potential spits of roux lava. At this point, the kids leave the kitchen and my full attention is devoted to the blessed roux. I whisk faster and faster, being certain no scorched flecks develop. I grab my hot pads, watch for the magical moment at which the brown gives way to dark brown, but has no hint of burning.
Heaving the heavy skillet carefully into the air, I pour the liquid flavor into a clean bowl to aerate it, to cool the roux and slow the cooking. As it sits, a layer of oil floats to the top and the roux turns so dark as to look like the melted 85%-cocoa chocolate I love for baking. Once cooled, the roux will taste toasty and nutty, and feel a little chalky as it sits heavy on the back of your tongue. If it tasted burned, well, you’re dedicated to round two; there’s just no edible dish that begins with a burned roux. At this point the magic is complete and I’ve got a nice batch of roux to start five or six pots of gumbo. My treasure can wait in the refrigerator or freezer until I’m ready to spend another afternoon in the kitchen. And it is so worth it.
So tell me; what delicious concoctions will draw you away into the kitchen on a sunny Saturday? Share
