Crabs caught just off our dock at Gumbo Cove were perfectly satisfying and reminiscent of my childhood at the beach in Gilchrist, TX.
Category: Gumbo Cove
Musings about why we appreciate sunsets, a recipe for a refreshing Chambord and rosé cocktail, and a haiku.
When a hurricane storm surge happens at Gumbo Cove, the water roars in from the Gulf and goes back out eventually, but leaves behind an unwelcome calling card: canal mud.
Trucks, big, strong, sturdy, beautiful trucks, barrelling down the highway in a convoy, filled with workers loaded for bear and ready to slay the dragons of downed power lines to bring the lights back on for the people.
Remembering storms whose names have spawned headlines and headaches, headstones and heartache, hardships and heroism. And wondering, why do we have to name storms after people? Why not use diseases or the periodic table? Or colors?
Gumbo is a family treasure, seashells elicit childhood memories, and these napkin rings made with shells we found 40 years ago bring echoes of the past into the now.