Trace told me a funny story the other day about a comment Ted Nugent made about the French. It was hilarious at the time, but upon further reflection... My great grandfather was a Fourroux. I don't think he was from around here!

I don't know a ton about "Pop" but I know that he made prosthetics and that his son George (my grandmother's brother) and his son Marvin still do. Check it out here.

Wow, a lot of long-forgotten memories come flooding back.
Pop always sat in the same place on the couch.
Granny always sat in the chair
Their house was like a mansion to a small boy.
The hearth of their fireplace was marble and was even with the floor (sound familiar?). We kids used to lay on it because it was cold.
Granny had a closet in the hall that was full of mothball-smelling dolls.
I spent a week at the lake with Granny, Pop, and Aunt Day (Granny's Sister). None of the three of them could hear a lick, so I yelled alot. I got stung by about 10 yellowjackets, and Pop drove like an Indy car racer.
Granny taught me to say I Love you in French.
Pop liked to fish.
I have a few little things that belonged to Pop. They still smell like him.

Henry Garner (my grandmother's sister's husband) died a little while back, and I got to see some of the Fourrouxs that I hadn't seen since Granny died ( in early the 80's)...

Anyway, on to tonight's adventure. You would think someone with a name like Fourroux in his family could make great gumbo, right?-----Wrong. I love gumbo. I can remember as a child going to Granny Fourroux's house and eating gumbo. It was really good.

Fast foward: I made the roux ( flour cooked in oil) which is the basis for gumbo, and I did a pretty good job, but... To make a long story short, I got the ingredients all wrong, and it took a gracious wife and a lot of creative spices to recover.

No great spiritual lesson. It's great to have a history. If I invite you to dinner, ask if we're having gumbo.