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Benjamin Sisko is the son of a chef. His father, Joseph, played by the
great Brock Peters, runs a Creole restaurant in New Orleans, and in the
fourth season we got to go there with Ben and Jake and watch the old man
order everyone around his kitchen. Ben grew up in that kitchen, and out on the
station, light-years from home, he still cooks for his friends with real
ingredients while everyone else gets dinner out of a replicator.
After those episodes I decided that if a Starfleet captain could find the
time, so could I. That was in 1996. Lynda says it has been a long three years.
I am not a cook. I am a chemistry teacher with a stockpot. So I won't give you
recipes; buy a good Louisiana cookbook for that, the way I did. What I can give
you is my lab notebook.
Lab notes
| 1. The roux |
Flour cooked in fat, stirred constantly, until it browns. This is where
everything starts and where everything goes wrong. The longer you cook it, the
darker it gets: pale, then the color of peanut butter, then milk chocolate, then
a deep reddish brown. Here is the chemistry: as the starch browns it breaks down,
so a dark roux has more flavor but less power to thicken than a light one. You
are trading body for taste. A gumbo wants the dark kind.
Results: I burned the first three. If you see black specks, it's over;
throw it out and start again, because nothing will save it and the whole pot
will taste scorched. Do not answer the phone. Do not check on the children. Lynda
bought me a long-handled wooden spoon and a stool to sit on at the stove, and
that is when things improved.
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| 2. The trinity |
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Chopped onion, celery and green bell pepper, which Louisiana cooks call the holy
trinity. You add it to the roux when the roux is the color you want. All that
cold, wet vegetable drops the temperature at once and stops the browning, which is
exactly the point: it's your emergency brake. It also hisses and steams like a
demonstration I do for my sophomores, and my son likes to stand at a safe distance
and watch.
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| 3. Gumbo |
Mine is chicken and andouille sausage, over rice. You can thicken it further
with okra or with filé, which is ground dried sassafras leaves. The filé
goes in at the very end, off the heat. Boil it and it turns stringy. I learned that
one by experiment, too.
Results: attempt number nine is the one I served at the finale party in June,
and it is the best thing I have ever cooked. I am not sure I can do it again.
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| 4. Jambalaya |
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The rice cooks right in the pot with everything else. The Creole kind, from New
Orleans, is red, with tomatoes; the Cajun kind, from the country, is brown and
leaves the tomatoes out. Since the Siskos are a New Orleans family, I make it red.
Once the lid goes on, leave it alone. Stirring breaks the rice and makes it gummy.
This is the hardest instruction I have ever followed.
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| 5. Red beans and rice |
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The New Orleans Monday dinner: in the old days Monday was wash day, so the beans
simmered all day with the bone from Sunday's ham while the laundry got done. I
make them on Sunday night and we eat them Monday after school. The easiest of the
lot, and the one my son asks for.
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| 6. Shrimp Creole |
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Shrimp in a spicy tomato sauce over rice. I am a Marylander, and I put Old Bay in
it the first time, out of habit. Lynda said that made it a Baltimore dish, not a
Creole one, and she was right, and I've done it that way ever since anyway.
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Peer review
| Dish |
Lynda |
My son |
Douglas |
| Gumbo | Very good | Too spicy | Three bowls |
| Jambalaya | Good | OK | Two bowls |
| Red beans | Good | Best one | Not invited |
| Shrimp Creole | Too much Old Bay | Won't eat shrimp | Asked for the leftovers |
For the record, Douglas ate three bowls of gumbo at the finale party and still
maintains that Babylon 5 was the better show. I respect a man who can
hold a position on a full stomach.
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