On Friday, September 23^rd, Chris had an outpatient surgical procedure that required a weekend of rest, painkillers and quality care by a loving husband. As that loving husband, I was excited about the opportunity to make her feel as comfortable and happy as she does for me every day of my life. I wanted to make sure she had everything she wanted at her fingertips and even bought her a bell she could ring if she needed anything that was not in arms reach of her place on the couch.

 

I was so into my nursing assignment that I even got excited about cooking her dinner.  Alas, a man should know his limitations.

For some reason on Saturday morning I was struck by the inspiration to slow-cook something delicious in the crockpot. I felt that a Meal like this would fill the house with a healing aroma that would not only make her smile but comfort her in her time of physical distress. The right recipe would probably possess healing powers unheard of in the realm of modern medicine… or so I thought.

Instead, I butchered a meal beyond comprehension and it was my darling and understanding patient that scraped herself off the couch to save dinner from the garbage can.

After studying the pages of the Crock Pot Cook Book I selected and then murdered the following meal.  The recipe is in quotes because I have typed it exactly as it was stated in the book I borrowed it from.

“Smoked Sausage Gumbo

1 cup chicken broth

1 14 ½ ounce can diced tomatoes

¼ cup flour

2 tbs olive oil

¾ cup Polish sausage

1 onion, diced

1 green pepper, diced

2 ribs celery, chopped

2 tsp oregano

2 tsp thyme

1/8 tsp Ground Red pepper

1 cup uncooked long-grain white rice”

I started off doing everything right. I used andouille sausage instead of Polish because Chris said it was better. I bought red bell peppers because I know she does not like the green ones.  I added garlic because, well, everything is better with garlic. I bought shrimp because, honestly, who does not want shrimp in their gumbo?

Then I made my fatal mistake. I doubled the recipe. Double the broth, double the tomatoes, double the veggies, double the spices… darn those spices.  For reasons I cannot begin to explain, my brain read all of the spices as “2 tsp”. That meant I needed to add 4 teaspoons of oregano, thyme, and ground red pepper. 

I realized my mathematical oversight after the third teaspoon of red pepper.

Instead of adding ¼ of a teaspoon of red pepper, I added three. For those of you that do not have a calculator handy, this is 12 times the recipe’s suggested amount.  Just to further add to the mess, the thyme I used was older than I am and even though I am positive of the amount I used, Chris insists that I put in too much. The result was that my gumbo tasted like obnoxiously spicy and excessively crunchy hay. 

For lack of a better term, it sucked.

Despite her compromised physical condition and an excess of prescription pain relievers, Chris swooped in to save the day. She knew that A) I was devastated that I ruined a simple meal just for her and more importantly B) we were not throwing uneaten food in the garbage can. Here is what she came up with…

Tomato soup, tomato paste, and more chicken broth to dilute the horribly intense concentration of pepper and thyme

Flour and butter mixture with the sauce to thicken it

Brown sugar, lime juice, and apple cider vinegar to counteract the spice

Bay leaves

¼ cup of coffee – she said this was “for depth” but I am willing to bet her thought process was simply “this is in my hand and it is not like this crap can get any worse.”

Saturday’s meal turned into Sunday’s and Chris had a lot of time to tinker with this abomination. We tasted, we laughed, we added ingredients, and we laughed some more. Most of the laughing was at me, but it was all in good fun (at least that is what I told myself). Chris was in good spirits and despite being tired and sore, she was every bit her normal self once she stepped foot in the kitchen.  Sunday night we sat down for the big tasting.

If you thought this story might end with this meal turning into an unexpected masterpiece, then I offer you my sincerest apologies. This is a true story and not a fairy tale and there is only so much you can do to offset twelve times the intended amount of red pepper. At the end of the day, this gumbo still sucked. 

Each bite offered nothing but heat. The sausage could have been rancid and the shrimp could have been alive and smoking tiny cigars and there was no way for us to know.  All I could taste was cayenne pepper taking over everything from the tip of my tongue to the lower part of my esophagus. I could actually hear an ulcer getting out his toolbox and starting work on his new home. I am certain that he was whistling while he worked.

The victory is in the fact that we ate it.

We did not eat it because we had to… we did not have to. We did not eat it to salvage some inkling of my ego…  I do not have one. We did not eat it because we had no other choice… ok, well, there was not much else in the fridge but that is beside the point…

We ate it because Chris made it edible. She took something that should have been thrown away and saved it from the bottom of a Hefty Trash Bag. She did this because it was a challenge and she knew that it meant as much to me as the meal was supposed to mean to her.  This is what she does when she steps into the kitchen and it is her heart that makes meals special.

The original recipe would not have been anything to brag about. However, I think I was on the right track by adding the shrimp and the garlic. Thyme should have been significantly reduced in any version, whether it was fresh or not. Had I not attempted suicide by ground red pepper, the zing would have come from Big Daddy’s hot sauce which would have introduced an entirely different flavor direction, I believe.  A wise man knows his limitations but I am stubborn and am determined to tackle this meal once again.

We will let you know what Chris does to save it.