November 6th and I’ve still got okra blooming in my garden! Amazing! My Dad always grew okra and tomatoes, back in New Orleans where I grew up, and here I am, 50 years later, doing the same thing in St. Louis. I’ve got several plastic bread bags filled with chopped okra, frozen in my freezer, ready to be thawed and tossed into gumbos during the coming cold weather.
Gumbo is an African word for okra, so, technically, “okra gumbo” is redundant. I assume the dish became known as gumbo because okra was the main ingredient. I was playing Scrabble on the computer last night when my villainous, inanimate opponent, the self-styled “Maven,” played the seven-letter word “bendees,” which, according to him (who, in his dual role as referee, cannot be challenged), means okras. Whatever.
Okra is in the hibiscus family, and I’ve always thought its delicate yellow flower is just about the prettiest thing on earth. My wife once had a dress that color — and looked good enough to eat in it! Unfortunately, the flowers don’t last long once picked; and, if you pick them, you don’t get the okra pod that would have replaced it.