Shrimp Étouffée for Cowards
Is there anything better than shelling a bunch of shrimp on a hot summer afternoon?
Yes. Obviously. Most things are better than that. Especially if you are a tiny bit irrationally afraid that the shrimp might somehow start moving again and skitter up your arms with their little wiggly legs. But if you can muster up enough courage to take on the tiny sea monsters, this recipe for shrimp étouffée is worth it. Especially because you get to sound super fancy calling it étouffée when really it’s basically just stew over rice.
LET’S GET TO IT!
Defrost two pounds of shell-on shrimp. Or, if you decide to go and off a bunch of shrimps yourself because you appreciate fresh seafood (and the THRILL OF THE HUNT), just lop off the heads like Chef Louis from The Little Mermaid and proceed to the next step.
Peel their shells. Try to keep your crying to a minimum as you pull off their little legs. Like some sort of monster.
Cook the shrimp bits in a large pot. Notice how they instantly turn pinkish and puff up as if they are the ghosts of the shrimp. Feed them onions and celery. Let the little spirits gorge themselves on garlic, then wash it all down with eight cups of water. “Don’t drown, little ghosts,” you whisper, until you remember that ghosts are already dead. And also…shrimp live in water.
Add a bay leaf and some parsley from your garden. Feel superior about the home-grown parsley. Go to add some fresh thyme from your windowsill. The thyme is dead. Feel immediately humbled.
While the stock simmers, walk down the street to get ice cream and ivy cuttings from your friend at the ice cream shop. It’s just the thing on this hot afternoon. Meander back home.
Well. I hope you had a pleasant break. Because ICE CREAM TIME is OVER. TIME TO MAKE THE ROUX, KIDDIES. YOU’RE ABOUT TO ROUX THE DAY YOU ATTEMPTED THIS RECIPE, BUCK-O.
Don’t say any of that out loud, unless you want your spouse to pat you on the head and shrug as if to say, “Welp! We’re married!”
Melt an entire stick of butter. Stir in flour and keep stirring until it bubbles into your preferred shade of tan. This happens slowly, slowly…slowly . . . then ALL AT ONCE.
Add celery, onions, and bell peppers. For just an instant, it smells confusingly like the greatest, most artery-clogging mac-and-cheese you’ve ever tasted. You hear someone say, “OHHH YEAAAH,” as if they were the Kool-Aid man bursting into your kitchen. It is you. Glance around to make sure nobody heard. Only the dogs, but they’ve seen you do things far more embarrassing than that.
Ladle the shrimp stock into the roux. At this point you’ll want to make a celebratory exclamation like those TV chefs—but not a gimmicky “Bam!” or a casual “Beautiful” as you toss a tea towel breezily over your shoulder. To express your feelings, you’ll want to use words like, “Vivifying!” and “Celestial!” and “Chartreuse!”
At first the mixture is oddly clumpy, like you’re making a choux pastry. Feel superior for knowing what choux pastry looks like. Keep adding stock and stirring until all the liquid is gone. Re-read the recipe. You were definitely not supposed to put all that stock in. Feel immediately humbled.
Bring the pot to a boil. Cover. Slink away in shame, hoping that it will thicken up if you let it simmer long enough.
Make a deal with yourself: You can check on the étouffée every time you finish writing a hundred words of your book. Either you’ll be super productive, or dinner will be ruined.
You have written twenty-three words, but you can’t wait any longer. When you open the lid, you see that the stock is still worrisomely thin. Go back to your computer and fret.
Look up pictures of what étouffée is supposed to look like. Sigh with relief when you see that it is nearly as watery as yours. HOORAY!
Look up what étouffée actually means in French.
IT MEANS SMOTHERED. Although in Louisiana it means “spicy Cajun stew made with vegetables and seafood.” Either way. Yum-o.
You have written seventy-six words, half of which were the chorus to “No Scrubs.” Good enough! Time to add the shrimp. They cook up rapidly, going from grey to pink like dawn on a spring morning.
Garnish with sliced scallions and serve immediately with white rice.
Forget about your work. Forget about everything but this creamy decadence, the fruit of your labors. Nothing else exists. You are blissfully adrift on a sea of rich crustacean sauce. The ghosts of those two pounds of shrimp swirl around you, singing their little shrimp songs in ringing harmony. You find yourself singing along. You weren’t aware you knew the words. “Merci, vous petites crevettes,” you sing. “Le ventre dit merci!”