Oh Mon Dieu, Non Pas Gumbo Again!

Well, you'll never hear me complain about gumbo again ... not in my très mal le français, or in my pretty decent Anglais.

I'm writing this last night (time travel is no problem when you have watched as much Star Trek as I have) after a day off due to an appointment with a new dentist.
Here's a little secret about me ... the dentist scares the pants off me. I had a childhood dentist who probably got his training at the Spanish Inquisition Dental School.
The result is, I'd rather wade through a swamp full of moccasins without those fancy snakeproof boots than go to the dentist.


Heck, that may not even be a secret ... I'm getting close to 2000 posts here and I have probably mentioned that before.

Today's appointment was the first introductory check up with a new dentist. Mrs. FC was really impressed with after they had worked together on some community health thang. I was to be the first of us to be seen as we make the switch from our previous dentist (an insurance thing).

I'll spare you the details, but let's just say this lady dentist was pretty incredible in a dental professional sort of way.
I'm feeling better about the next visit.
... but enough about my dentalwussnicity.

When I returned home from my appointment, I started a batch of low fat chicken and sausage gumbo. This gumbo is so low fat that when you put the leftovers in the fridge, there is essentially no fat layer at the top the next day.

We love it alot and it's been on this blog an embarrassing amount of times ... so, once more won't hurt.

Upper left: What the heck? Martian soil? Cocoa? No, flour browned in a 400 degree oven with no oil, no nothin'.
Lower left: bell pepper, onion, celery sauteing in a spray lubed cast iron pot.
Upper right: a spoonful of roux after the flower was added to the celery, pepper, onion mix.
Lower right: bubbling, almost fat free roux.

Below: A bowl of the finished product.


Only the knowledge that I had a zillion Mom baked original recipe Toll House cookies sitting at the end of the table kept me from eating waaaaaay too much gumbo. In fact, when I finish this post, I'm grabbing a glass of milk and a handful of those babies.

But first, I have to tell you about the legend of "Poony".

See the spoon in that last picture?
Nothing special about it, it's just your standard, round, soup spoon. Looks pretty institutional, nothing fancy, just stainless steel.

We don't know where this spoon came from. It seems to have just appeared here years ago. The spoon stands alone and is larger than our other soup spoons.

Somewhere along the way, it became my favorite soup spoon.
... and somewhere along the way, the girls named it "Poony" ... as in, "Stop everything, Dad can't find his wittle Poony and he can't eat his soup without it."


Now, I CAN eat soup without Poony, I just choose not to do so.
It just fits. I can't explain it and I don't mind the ribbing I get from Katie and Emma ... I think they secretly covet it.

As if my attachment to a spoon isn't odd enough, get this ...

Last weekend, I was home helping Mom and Dad with some chores. It was lunch time and Mom had made a big pot of lima beans and ham. If you are a long time reader here, you know my Dad had polio as a kid, broke his leg last year, and generally doesn't get around too well these days.

So, Dad was in his big comfy chair in the living room and I was getting his soup for him, so he would not have to get up.

I had his bowl of beans in one hand and was fishing a spoon out of the kitchen drawer when Mom stopped me.

"No Hon, don't use any of those for your Dad, he has to have his special spoon."


She handed me a spoon that did not match any of the rest.


"Don't ask me why, but you Dad has to have THAT spoon with soup."

I just stared at her ...

What are the odds of that?