What do twelve thimbles full of gumbo, three Miller Lites and an eight block walk have in common? Such is the routine that awaited those lucky enough to participate in the 2007 Rehoboth Beach Main Street Gumbo Cookoff.

48 hours before Fat Tuesday geared up way down yonder in New Orleans, in the land of the Cajun queens...12 pots of gumbo sat steeping at 12 local establishments—and the jury was hundreds of locals—all designed to benefit hurricane victims in Louisiana. The irony being that no one in Louisiana ever braved snow flurries and a wicked wind off the boardwalk to consume gumbo. But the yankees did. Thimbles full of gumbo arrived at every stop—and the great okra debate was on at every location.

Now I grew up on the bayou. Long before magnolias were steel and there was a sisterhood of ya ya’s, my mother and her four sisters were the best damn Cajun cooks in the world. One aunt would only "scratch a roux" with a Schlitz beer in her left hand. And she was the most gifted cook of the bunch. Yes, my ya ya’s had ta tas—and I didn’t tell any of the nice yankees feeding me gumbo in Delaware that I had a 21-year master class in this subject before leaving the bayou country. So I withdrew from voting, partly because of this article.

If I were going to suggest any changes, it would simply be to buy 12 Dr. John CDs so that each and every stop would have some New Orleans tunes a blarin’. Those of you fortunate enough to know "Iko Iko" know what I mean. And the other addition should be a bourre (boo ray) tournament—Bourre is much like poker, but—taking my aunt’s advice for roux scratching seriously now, one MUST have a beer in hand to play bourre. I bet we could get James Carville to come out for a bourre tournament. He’ll be stuck between Hillary and Barack and need some time to clear his head.

And despite these minor and completely understandable deficiencies, a tasteful taste of Mardi Gras was in the offing—and a good PG 13 time was had by all. Delaware neither debauches nor devolves into decadence. I didn’t see one body part in exchange for a pair of beads. (Dammit.) There was one "shot" sighting at Cloud 9 by a local media darling and her adorable boyfriend, but it was all quite civil, for people who do shots in broad daylight!

Butthose pots of gumbo were still the little gumbos that could. They could bring life to downtown in the midst of winter. They could build community andmingle the neighbors and new friends again and again—12 times over.

In the end, the folks at Purple Parrot took home the trophy, with Mariachi’s a close second. Over 500 tickets had been sold, and it was a testament to gumbo that hundreds of people would be walking (walking!) around downtown on a very cold and blustery Sunday afternoon. And when did you think you would see Creole or Cajun cooking from the likes of Mexican, Mediterranean, British, Spanish, or Baltimore Seafood restaurants? Diversity lives.

Creole cooking is all about the blending of cultures. Twelve stops with friends and neighbors is too. Gumbo as metaphor. Deep ain’t it?