The great thing about celery is that it really holds the jambalaya together. When cooked down and chopped properly — meaning small but not tiny and including the leafy parts — is adds a distinct but not overpowering zestiness combined with a snot-like quality that one expects in pseudo South Louisiana food. Without the fat of andouille to get the skillet good and greasy, celery is muay importante.
As is tomato sauce. Diced tomatoes, canned or fresh, are optional. Tomato sauce is not. The great thing about the tomato sauce is that it seems to seep into the rice while it is cooking. See, with red beans and rice most people will cook the beans and cook the rice and then put the rice on a plate and then put the beans on the plate. With a jambalaya you go ahead and put the uncooked rice in there along side an equal amount of water.
“Wait a second. Wait a doggone second,” you say. “Everybody knows doggone well that you have to use two parts water to one part rice. Otherwise you get very course sand. Sanuk D you have lost your doggone mind.” In the hills of Altamont this may be true, but in the swamps of Lafourche Parish they know that using less water makes the rice draw moisture and flavor from the surrounding vegetables. Or meat, if that is how you roll.
The result is a set of diverse taste experiences happening in one mouth simultaneously and supported by a smooth but not slimy texture (that’s what we have okra for.) Like Dixieland Jazz, where all the instruments seem to solo at once, this experience could overwhelm and sour but is held in check by the balance of each element. The whole is an exposition of the sum of its parts. Held together, of course, by humble celery.