Stirring the Soul: A Gumbo Reflection

Welcome to the pot, y’all. In this reflection, I’m stirring together the soul of New Orleans, the laughter of old porches, the wisdom of Auntie Ro, and a good helping of spiritual seasoning. This ain’t just about gumbo it’s about life, love, and letting things simmer until they’re just right. Pull up a seat, grab a spoon, and let’s take a journey through flavor and faith.

Stirring the Soul: A Gumbo Reflection

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Down in New Orleans, where even the air got rhythm and the potholes tell stories, food ain’t just something you eat it’s something you feel. It’s testimony with a little cayenne. And nothing preaches better than a pot of gumbo.

Now when I say gumbo, I mean that real-deal, kiss-your-fingers, soul-soothing, back-porch-on-a-Sunday kind of gumbo. The kind that’ll make you forget your troubles or at least make you pass the hot sauce and cry happy tears.

And when I think about gumbo, I think about Auntie Ro on Ursuline Street, right there in Treme, a few steps away from the sweet shop what we called the corner store. You know the one: where pickled eggs floated like science experiments, and frozen cups were currency on the playground.

Auntie Ro was the grandmother of my childhood best friend, Corey. And let me tell you, her kitchen was the sanctuary. That woman didn’t just cook she ministered. Her pots had purpose. Her spoons baptized every ingredient. You didn’t walk into her house; you stepped into something sacred.

I can still smell it onions, garlic, bell peppers, and something unnameable that had to be holy. Her roux was so rich and deep it looked like it had a mortgage. And she stirred it like she was praying over every person who would taste it. That gumbo healed arguments, soothed hangovers, and might’ve even brought somebody back from the brink once or twice. I’m not saying it was magic but I’m not saying it wasn’t.

Now one time, Lord have mercy, her children got bold. Tried to modernize tradition. Said they were gonna “switch it up.” Next thing I know, they in there talkin’ about making collard green gumbo. Collard. Green. Gumbo.

Oh. My. God.

You should’ve seen the look on Auntie Ro’s face. She blinked like her lashes were trying to protect her from what she was hearing. She tilted her head, didn’t say a word at first just looked at that pot like it had personally offended her ancestors. Then she whispered, “Baby… you tryin’ to gentrify Jesus.”

We laughed so hard, I nearly dropped my bowl. She shook her head and said, “That ain’t gumbo. That’s confusion.”

See, gumbo’s not just about food it’s about memory. It’s a pot of soul history. You don’t just toss things in because they trendy or on sale. Every piece got a purpose. Every ingredient earned its place. Just like life.

Auntie Ro would say, “Stir slow, baby. You can’t rush flavor and you can’t rush faith.” And wasn’t that the truth?

Life is gumbo. The dark roux moments those struggles, those heartbreaks, those times you didn’t know how you’d get through? They’re the base. They give everything else its depth. You scorch that part, and the whole thing’s bitter. But if you stay with it, stir through the heat, trust the process? Baby, you come out with something divine.

She’d sit in her rocker, wiping sweat off her brow, and say, “You want peace? Learn to season your life. Don’t be afraid to add a little heat. But don’t forget the love. Gumbo without love is just hot soup.”

And let me tell you, she had more proverbs than a Sunday sermon. Like:

“If it don’t stick to your bones, it wasn’t worth the bowl.”

“Don’t ever trust skinny roux or fast friends.”

“Everybody can stir, but not everybody got the patience to wait.”

That woman had the kind of wisdom you don’t Google. You absorb it. Like steam into your pores.

She’d tell us, “Sometimes God puts you in the pot to soften you up. Add some salt. Turn up the heat. But it’s not to hurt you it’s to make you flavorful enough to feed others.”

And whew, didn’t that speak?

Now when I cook gumbo when I really get in that space I hum like her. I pray like her. I remember that a good pot of gumbo is a lot like grace. You don’t always deserve it, but it finds its way to you anyway. And if you let it, it’ll hold you. Comfort you. Remind you that you’re still here, still useful, still simmering with purpose.

So let the world rush. Let it microwave everything. Me? I’mma be in the kitchen, stirring slow. Listening for spirit. Adding a little more seasoning. Letting my life marinate.

And when I serve it up? Trust me it’ll feed more than your stomach.

Closing Note:

Thank y’all for sharing this moment with me. If you ever find yourself overwhelmed by life’s heat just remember Auntie Ro’s wisdom: stir slow, season with love, and trust that something beautiful’s cooking, even when you can’t see it yet. Until next time, keep your soul simmering and your spirit full.