The story of Damn Yankee Gumbo
What's the difference between a Yankee and a Damn Yankee? That depends a lot on who you ask. For most of my life I was just a Yankee. Even when I planned to steal Julius Sonnier's daughter out of Louisiana, I was still just a Yankee. But when I ran off with not only his daughter but also his secret gumbo recipe, the cursed adjective was added to my title.
It was my first trip to visit my soon-to-be bride's family in Basile, Louisiana; a venture I was looking forward to with both enthusiasm and trepidation. Though I was an upstanding and successful professional, my seemingly Bohemian lifestyle was just a little too unorthodox for a father whose only venture outside Louisiana had been his service as a Marine in Vietnam.
But I had a plan to both impress my new parents and make it out of Louisiana alive. Being an unabashedly great chef, I figured that as soon as I got there, I would take over the family kitchen and prepare a meal that would make any parent proud… or at least too full to fight. When we all gathered in the kitchen, there would be too much activity for direct questions. My ploy would also keep me off the uncomfortably close living room sofa where I've always heard that prospective fathers-in-law grilled their daughter's suitors.
It was a perfect plan. I worked through the details as we drove across the country from California, my newly betrothed bride-to-be next to me, and my nerves on the bitter edge.
In fact, it wasn't the thought of meeting the family that got me so edgy… my lovely Fiancé's single condition to my marriage proposal was that I stop smoking (which I did at that very moment). The nicotine surges kept me wired all the way across country.
As we pulled into town, we stopped (as planned) at the local grocery store for the ingredients to my soon-to-be famous Mary's Cognac Chicken, and then headed for the homestead. As we walked in the door, Mom took Kimberly by the arm and out the door, explaining they had to go to the store. I felt a counter-attack being launched and protested mildly, but without effect.
And of course, as they drove away, Dad (Julius) came through the kitchen door. He looked me up and down and said simply, "Son, I don't approve of you living with my daughter without being married, much less flaunting the fact in my face." Being the consummate salesman, I slipped into the safety of my profession and replied, "I understand how you feel sir however…" and trailed off into something suitably inane that I can't for the life of me remember.
But whatever it was, it must have been good enough, because Julius ended up teaching me his prized gumbo recipe. When our family visit was over a few days later, my Kimberly and I packed up the car and were ready to leave.
Standing by the car door, getting hugs and handshakes from my new kin-folk, I ran down the recipe for gumbo that I'd memorized by having Julius repeat it to me till I was sure he wasn't leaving anything out. I figured this was my opportunity to get in one last friendly shot at the old man. "Julius," I said, "your gumbo is so great that I'm going to make it and you famous, and your daughter and me rich. I'm going to can it and sell it through every grocery store in the world. Even better, I'm going to put your picture riwght on the can. So, all I can say is thank you for both your daughter and your gumbo."
At that, I climbed into the car and began to drive away. As they were waving goodbye to us, I heard Julius utter two words to his wife, "damn Yankee." Thus, Damn Yankee Gumbo was born.