Back at the rectory, the gumbo is simmering on the stove, in the battered aluminum stockpot that my mother uses to cook for crowds. It’s the color of the flood and everything is swept up in it. I stir it with a wooden spoon and discover that her arthritis isn’t the only reason the chopping took so long: each piece of celery or onion or bell pepper is exactly the same size, almost supernaturally so. My mother and I are after perfection. We are seeking a particular click in the head. We share the feeling that if we hang a picture or set a sentence down just right, we will instantly and
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