I cooked for two days straight and now I'm roux-tired. Stirred and stirred. And again. This Easter Gumbo thing might just become a tradition, but damn. Hot damn. I could eat it for every meal for a week and then some. And the remains of that glorious cake are now traveling across the windy lake to the big city in a sleek little red car navigated by my ancient son. And I've a cat on either side, and they're glaring at each other, sending little death stares to each other. O happy resurrection! O sneeze! Sneeze! (And now the cats have fled.) And sneeze again!