Read A Love Affair with Southern Cooking Online
Authors: Jean Anderson,Jean Anderson
¾ cup grits (see Note above)
½ teaspoon black pepper
1 cup boiling water mixed with ¾ teaspoon salt
2 cups milk or 1 cup each milk and half-and-half
2 tablespoons butter
1 cup coarsely grated sharp Cheddar cheese
4 large eggs, separated
EGGPLANT PIE
MAKES
6
TO
8
SERVINGS
This recipe comes from my friend Janet Trent’s mother-in-law, Amy Moore, who grew up on a twenty-acre farm near McClellanville, South Carolina, thirty miles upcountry from Charleston (her family’s lived in the area since the early 1700s). Though the farm was small, there were field crops, a kitchen garden, cows, and chickens, which meant fresh produce, fresh milk,
fresh butter and eggs, fresh poultry. Amy says that her way of cooking has changed little since her childhood: She uses whatever is fresh and available, measuring by eye and preparing enough “to make the table groan.” Now the wife of a physician in Charlotte, North Carolina, Amy’s known for being a good cook. Janet’s husband, Dargan, says that growing up, he remembers his mother making many, many eggplant pies. Janet adds that she’s watched Amy make eggplant pie countless times and that she does it “just a little differently from one time to the next.” Janet has tried substituting fresh celery for celery salt and adding fresh onion, too, but “for whatever reason, Amy’s eggplant pie always seems to be better than mine. Play around with it,” Janet suggests. “I hope you enjoy it as much as our family does.” What follows is my adaptation of Amy’s original recipe.
4 large eggplants (about 4½ pounds), peeled and cut into 1-inch chunks
2 tablespoons salt
2 tablespoons butter
1 medium-large yellow onion, coarsely chopped
1 teaspoon celery salt
½ teaspoon onion salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
2 slices firm-textured whole-wheat bread, toasted and torn into small pieces
2 large eggs well beaten with ¼ cup evaporated milk and 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
4 cups coarsely shredded sharp Cheddar cheese (about 12 ounces)
BAKED PECAN-STUFFED MUSHROOMS
MAKES
6
SERVINGS
Southerners have a penchant for stuffing things—pork chops, tomatoes, bell peppers; you name it. But I am particularly partial to these pecan-stuffed mushrooms. They’re delicious with roast beef or pork, turkey, or chicken. Note:
I often put these mushrooms out as cocktail hors d’oeuvre but cool them first so they’re easy to handle. This recipe makes 3
½
dozen bite-size hors d’oeuvre.
3½ dozen (about 1 pound) uniformly small mushrooms (no more than 1½ inches across)
1 cup finely chopped pecans
2 ounces (¼ cup firmly packed) cream cheese, at room temperature
¼ cup finely chopped parsley
2 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese
1 medium garlic clove, crushed
1 teaspoon finely minced fresh lemon thyme or ¼ teaspoon crumbled dried leaf thyme
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon black pepper
1
/
3
cup half-and-half blended with ¼ cup heavy cream
From the Radley chicken yard tall pecan trees shook their fruit into the schoolyard, but the nuts lay untouched by the children:
Radley pecans would kill you.
—
HARPER LEE
,
TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD
OKRA
A cousin of both cotton and hibiscus, okra is indigenous to Central Africa, probably to Ethiopia. Unfortunately no records exist to tell us exactly where it originated, no documents to note its arrival in Europe or Asia.
What is certain, however, is that okra arrived in the American South with the slave trade in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Some say New Orleans was the port of entry, even that the French—not the African slaves—introduced the finger-shaped pods still known there as
gumbo
or
gombo.
I’m more inclined to believe culinary historian Karen Hess, who writes in
The Carolina Rice Kitchen: The African Connection (1992):
“
Gumbo,
or
gombo…
refers to the patois of the French-speaking Africans of the Diaspora, particularly in Louisiana and the French West Indies…”
Elsewhere in the South, particularly in the Lowcountry, where okra also appeared early on, it is called just that, its name, according to African expert Jessica B. Harris, an Anglicization of
nkruma
—the word for okra in Twi, a Ghanese dialect.
After all these years, okra has never become popular above the Mason-Dixon or west of Louisiana, perhaps because the truly tender, the truly fresh is rarely available. But down south in the Land of Okra, its popularity has never waned.
There would be no gumbos without okra (it’s used to thicken as well as to flavor), no Limpin’ Susan (an okra pilau), no crispy fried rounds dredged in cornmeal.
OKRA PILAU
MAKES
6
SERVINGS
Often called “Limpin’ Susan,” this Lowcountry pilaf is best when made with fresh okra no bigger than your little finger. In researching the recipe, I was startled to discover that some people call red beans and rice “Limpin’ Susan,” also to note that Deep South cooks often add shrimp and tomatoes to this more familiar version. This old Lowcountry dish was created, I suspect, by a good plantation cook back when Carolina rice was king for she, better than anyone else, knew how to accentuate the crisp delicacy of okra and minimize the sliminess. She may have used chopped country ham in her pilau in place of bacon—by all means follow suit if you have it. Then use 2 tablespoons bacon drippings to cook the scallions and okra.
4 slices smoky bacon, cut crosswise into strips ½ inch wide
6 large scallions, trimmed and thinly sliced (include some green tops)
1 pound baby okra, stemmed and sliced about ½ inch thick, or 2 cups solidly frozen sliced okra
1 cup converted or long-grain rice, cooked by package directions
½ teaspoon salt, or to taste
½ teaspoon black pepper, or to taste
AUNT BERTIE’S OKRA CAKES
MAKES
4
TO
6
SERVINGS
Bertie was my brother’s sister-in-law. And from what my nieces, Linda and Kim, tell me, she was a wonderful southern cook. They still prepare okra Aunt Bertie’s way. “You have to watch as you mix in the flour and the water,” Kim cautions. “And mix just till the okra slices hold together.” What my father called “the mucilaginous quality of okra” and what he hated about it is the glue that does the job here. “Slime’s a good thing in this recipe,” Kim says. But miracle of miracles, these okra cakes emerge from the skillet as crisp as can be.
1 pound tender okra pods no bigger than your little finger, washed and sliced
1
/
8
inch thick
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3 to 4 tablespoons cold water
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
1 cup vegetable oil (for frying)
NEW SOUTH OKRA
MAKES
4
SERVINGS
My father used to say, “When I am president, no farmer will be allowed to grow okra and every farmer will be forced to grow one acre of sweet corn.” He was kidding, of course. But it was no joke that he detested okra, not that my equally Midwestern mother had any desire to eat it either. So I grew up down south not eating okra
and it was only when my thoroughly southern nieces taught me to cook it properly that I began to appreciate it. “This is how I do it all the time,” my niece Kim told me recently. Her method is so simple and is equally delicious with grilled fish, chicken, or pork. And you know what? I think that my father might have liked it this way.