A love letter to New Orleans, one pot at a time.
Every year around Mardi Gras, I fire up the stove and the New Orleans tunes and make a big pot of gumbo. It’s my offering to a city that shaped me and will always occupy a piece of my heart. But before I get to the recipe, let me give you a little backstory.
My Second Gap Year
My first gap year came right after high school — I spent it busking across Europe and digging on an archaeology site in the American Southwest. My second came halfway through college, when I was reassessing my major and trying to figure out what I wanted from my future. That’s when I ended up in New Orleans.
I landed on a Greyhound bus with my guitar, a backpack, and a few hundred bucks in my pocket. The city mesmerized me right away as I camped out at Kaldi’s Coffee on Decatur Street getting my bearings. I surfed couches, campers, and hostels until eventually landing my own place — dubbed “The Good Ship Isabelle.”
I worked at a sandwich shop on Jackson Square, played music in bars and coffee shops. I’d host dinners for my newfound friends and frequent open mics at the Green Lantern Coffeehouse on Magazine and bask in Audubon Park. During the week I’d hit open mics and weekly specials for cheap eats like red beans and rice at Checkpoint Charlie’s on Esplanade, or shoot pool and do laundry at Igor’s on St. Charles. I arrived during Mardi Gras and stuck around, working my way through to Jazz Fest. With friends I’d sit on the banks of the Mississippi watching the riverboats go by, drinking Abitas from the corner store where they’d open and bag it for you.
New Orleans was magic — a city steeped in tradition and unlike anywhere I’d ever been. This strange juxtaposition of styles and cultures and climate that I found hard to reconcile — palm trees and wrought iron balconies, shrines of beads, vampires and voodoo, zydeco and jazz, giant live oaks draped in Spanish moss, hidden alcoves that would open into baroque splendor with cherub fountains and lush tropical gardens, Mardi Gras Indians in full regalia, second line funerals turning grief into celebration, jumping onboard streetcars and joining the party downtown bound.
It was rich in how it appealed to every sense. I’d wake to the smell of chicory coffee on brass band mornings with Mardi Gras floats down neighborhood streets, like French bric-à-brac on wheels — all gilded excess and painted grandeur, evoking a lost world of courts and jesters. The air carried crawfish boils and beignets. I’d find myself tapping my feet to brass bands on the street or stumbling upon Dr. John at a club in the Quarter. Being introduced to the music of the Meters, the Nevilles, the Dirty Dozen Brass Band, and so much more — and the simple pleasure of watching street performers and afternoon thunderstorms from the shelter of my sandwich station along Jackson Square.
Full Circle
Over the past four years, I’ve had a chance to reconnect with the city in a whole new way — watching my daughter make New Orleans her own during her time at Tulane. This spring we’ll have a last hurrah, celebrating this stage of her life down there. But the city will always hold a special place for both of us.
That’s the thing about New Orleans. It doesn’t let go. And if you let it, it keeps showing up in your kitchen.
The Pot
So each year I fire up the tunes and build a gumbo from scratch. For me, it’s all about the ingredients — and this year I made a point to keep it local.
Butcher’s Alley in Bethesda provided the andouille sausage, chicken thighs, and crawfish tails. I picked up the shrimp from O’Donnell’s Market in Potomac — and very much appreciated them deshelling and deveining it for me. The produce, of course, came from Norman’s. I even got to incorporate the Cajun seasoning from my friend Carlos, who visits me each year for hot peppers to make his signature Cajun “Sweetness” spice blend using Norman’s peppers.
A Labor of Love
Gumbo is not a quick weeknight dinner. It’s a project — and that’s the point.
It involves gathering the ingredients. Smoking the andouille with pecan wood. Standing over and whisking the roux until it turns a deep chocolate brick — or, if you’re smart about it, monitoring it in the oven low and slow. There’s a lot of slicing and dicing, and then everything goes into the pot in a sequence as if it were a St Charles Street Car bound for downtown. I’m including my full recipe below — Farmer John’s Second Gap Year Second Line Gumbo, scaled for 8 people. It’s the one I’ve been refining for years. Andouille, chicken, shrimp, crawfish, and okra. Dark roux. The trinity. The whole thing.
It tastes best served over rice or with buttermilk biscuits, music up loud and proud.
Enjoy, and happy Mardi Gras.
— Farmer John
Farmer John’s Second Line Second Gap Gumbo
Serves 8
The Roux (Oven Method)
- 1 cup all-purpose flour
- 1 cup avocado oil
Whisk together in a Dutch oven. Bake uncovered at 350°F for about 1.5 hours, whisking every 20–30 minutes, until it reaches a deep chocolate brown. This is your foundation — don’t rush it.
The Proteins
- 2–2.5 lbs bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs
- 1.5 lbs andouille sausage (smoked with pecan wood if you can)
- 1.5 lbs shrimp, peeled and deveined
- 1.5 lbs crawfish tails
The Trinity + Aromatics
- 3 cups yellow onion, diced
- 2 cups celery, diced
- 1.5 cups green bell pepper, diced
- 8 cloves garlic, minced
Seasoning
- 2 bay leaves
- 1.5 tbsp Cajun seasoning (Carlos’s Sweetness if you can get it)
- 1 tsp dried thyme
- ½–¾ tsp cayenne pepper (to taste)
- Salt and black pepper to taste
The Rest
- 1 lb frozen cut okra
- 8–10 cups warm chicken stock
- 1 bunch green onions, sliced
- Cooked white rice or butter biscuits for serving
Method
Season and brown the chicken thighs in a heavy pot with a little oil. Sear skin-side down until golden, then flip and finish. Remove and set aside. Slice the andouille into coins and brown in the same pot. Set aside.
Build the base. Add the trinity (onion, celery, bell pepper) to the finished roux and cook until softened, about 8–10 minutes. Add the garlic and cook another minute.
Add the stock slowly, about 2 cups at a time, stirring to incorporate the roux. It’ll thicken and then loosen as you add more. Get it to a stew-like consistency.
Add the bay leaves, thyme, Cajun seasoning, and cayenne. Stir well.
Add the frozen okra. Don’t thaw it — drop it in frozen. It’ll help thicken the gumbo and cut the slime. No filé powder needed when you’re using okra.
Return the chicken thighs to the pot. Bring to a simmer and cook for 45–60 minutes, partially covered, stirring occasionally.
Pull the chicken, shred or chop the meat, discard skin and bones, and return the meat to the pot.
Add the andouille and crawfish tails. Simmer 10 minutes.
Add the shrimp last — they only need about 5 minutes. When they’re pink and curled, you’re done.
Finish with green onions. Adjust salt, pepper, and cayenne to taste.
Ladle over rice or serve with warm butter biscuits. Turn up the music.
Farmer John
