Pork Jambalaya

Jambalaya is a one-pot testament to making something extraordinary from humble ingredients. This is Cajun jambalaya, the brown kind, no tomatoes. That's how we make it in the bayou country where I grew up. The rice cooks directly in the seasoned stock, absorbing every bit of flavor from the pork, the andouille, and the holy trinity.

My grandmother Evangeline made jambalaya every time company came over because one pot could feed fifteen people without breaking her budget. She taught me that the secret lives in the browning. You sear that pork until it's almost too dark. You render the andouille until the edges crisp. All that fond on the bottom of your pot becomes the soul of the dish when the stock hits it.

At Lagniappe, we serve jambalaya on game days when the Saints are playing. People line up around the block. The thing is, this isn't restaurant food that's fussy or complicated. This is country cooking that anyone can master. Season in layers. Brown your meats properly. Don't lift that lid while the rice cooks. Follow those rules and you'll make jambalaya as good as anything in New Orleans.