Something about the combination stops you mid-sentence. The oak branches overhead thick with Spanish moss that sways even when the breeze is too light to feel.
The dark water of the lake just beyond the patio railing, flat and still as a mirror on most afternoons.
The gumbo arrives in a wide shallow bowl, dark roux the color of creek mud, shrimp curling at the edges, andouille sliced into coins that hold their snap under a fork. Every spoonful tastes like it has been cooking since before you woke up, which it probably has…