A Love Affair with Southern Cooking (38 page)

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Authors: Jean Anderson,Jean Anderson

BOOK: A Love Affair with Southern Cooking
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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

  • 1.
    Preheat the oven to 350° F.
  • 2.
    Place the grits and pepper in the top of a medium-size double boiler and whisk in the boiling salted water. Set over simmering water and cook, whisking constantly, for about 5 minutes or until thick.
  • 3.
    Remove from the heat and whisk in the milk. Set the double boiler top directly over moderately low heat and cook, whisking often, for 12 to 15 minutes or until the mixture is the consistency of thin porridge.
  • 4.
    Transfer the grits mixture to a large bowl, add the butter and cheese, and whisk until both melt. Beat the egg yolks lightly, blend about 1 cup of the hot grits mixture into the eggs, then stir back into the bowl.
  • 5.
    Whip the egg whites to soft peaks, fold about 1 cup of the beaten whites into the grits mixture to lighten it, then fold in the remaining whites gently but thoroughly until no streaks of white or yellow remain.
  • 6.
    Pour the mixture into an ungreased 2½-quart soufflé dish, slide onto the middle oven shelf, and bake for 40 to 45 minutes or until puffed, browned, and the soufflé jiggles slightly when you nudge the dish.
  • 7.
    Rush the soufflé to the table and serve as an accompaniment to roast meat, fowl, or fish. Or serve as the centerpiece of a Sunday brunch accompanied by fried country ham or sausages.
    Note:
    If you opt for country ham, don’t forget the red-eye gravy.

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)

  • 1.
    Spread the eggplant chunks one layer deep on four large rimmed baking sheets, sprinkle each pan of eggplant with 1½ teaspoons of the salt, toss well, spread again, and let stand for 30 minutes (this is to rid the eggplant of most of its liquid).
  • 2.
    Take the eggplant up by handfuls, squeeze out as much liquid as possible, drop into a colander, and rinse very well under cool running water; you’ll have to do this in small batches. Squeeze dry again, then spread on several thicknesses of paper toweling. When all of the eggplant has been spread on paper toweling, cover with more paper toweling and press down hard to extract as much remaining moisture as possible.
  • 3.
    Preheat the oven to 350° F. Coat a 13 × 9 × 2-inch heatproof baking dish with nonstick cooking spray and set aside.
  • 4.
    Melt the butter in a broad-bottomed Dutch oven over moderately high heat, add the onion, and sauté, stirring often, for 5 to 7 minutes until lightly browned. Add the eggplant and sauté, stirring often, for about 10 minutes or until touched with brown.
  • 5.
    Mix in the celery salt, onion salt, and pepper, reduce the heat to low, cover, and cook for 20 to 25 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the eggplant is soft. If there is excess liquid in the pot, raise the heat to high and boil uncovered for 1 to 2 minutes, stirring often.
  • 6.
    Set off the heat and mix in the toast, egg mixture, and half of the cheese. Scoop into the
    prepared pan, spreading to the edge, and scatter the remaining cheese evenly on top.
  • 7.
    Bake uncovered on the middle oven shelf for about 30 minutes or until bubbling and brown. Let the eggplant pie stand 15 to 20 minutes at room temperature before serving.
  • 8.
    Serve as an accompaniment to baked ham or roast lamb, beef, turkey, or chicken.

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

  • 1.
    Preheat the oven to 350° F. Remove the mushroom stems, wipe clean, chop fine, and reserve. Also wipe the mushroom caps clean and reserve.
  • 2.
    Combine all remaining ingredients except the half-and-half mixture with the chopped mushroom stems, then pack firmly into the mushroom caps, mounding as needed.
  • 3.
    Arrange the mushrooms one layer deep in an ungreased 13 × 9 × 2-inch baking pan, drizzle the half-and-half mixture over all, then cover the pan with aluminum foil.
  • 4.
    Slide onto the middle oven rack and bake for 40 to 45 minutes or until the mushrooms are tender, basting once or twice with the cream in the pan.
  • 5.
    Remove from the oven, baste once again with the cream, and serve hot as a vegetable. Or, if you prefer, cool to room temperature and serve as an hors d’oeuvre.

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

  • 1.
    Cook the bacon in a large, heavy skillet for 10 to 12 minutes over moderate heat or until the
    drippings cook out, leaving only crisp brown bits; drain these on paper toweling.
  • 2.
    Raise the heat to high, add the scallions and okra to the drippings, and cook for 4 to 5 minutes or until lightly browned; to minimize the sliminess, stir as little as possible.
  • 3.
    Mix in the rice, salt, and pepper and heat 1 to 2 minutes or until the pilau reaches serving temperature. Add the bacon, toss lightly, then taste for salt and pepper and adjust as needed.
  • 4.
    Serve hot as an accompaniment to roast chicken or pork, broiled or fried fish or shellfish.

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)

  • 1.
    Place the okra in a large nonreactive bowl and add the flour, 3 tablespoons of the water, the salt, and pepper. Beat hard until the okra mixture hangs together when taken up on a spoon. If it seems dry, beat in the remaining tablespoon water. Set aside.
  • 2.
    Pour the oil into a heavy, 12-inch nonreactive skillet and set over high heat for about 3 minutes or until almost smoking.
  • 3.
    Drop the okra mixture from rounded tablespoons into the hot oil, spacing well apart and cooking only 4 or 5 cakes at a time. Brown for 2 to 3 minutes on each side or until crisp, then drain on paper toweling. Fry and drain the remaining okra cakes the same way.
  • 4.
    Serve hot as an accompaniment to fried or roast chicken, pork chops or roast pork, or baked ham.

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.

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