[racheld]

I was just informed on another recipe/food board that there will no longer be a Southern Food Culture category. They also stated in the next one-sentence paragraph that Mississippi has now joined the USA, and would be permanently linked in the Southeastern category. Perhaps they meant ALL the Southern states would be so categorized, but they said Mississippi specifically, and since I'm probably their Loudest voice in the Southern threads, and seem to be the only one actually FROM that much-maligned, under-appreciated state, and this board is so welcoming in general, I thought it and I might find a place here.

I can't seem to find MY South in the hustle-bustle cities of great restaurants, wonderful wineries---though we DID have a local one that produced muscadine wine the exact hue of a Nehi peach soda, with the after-throat-tang of chewing that screechy grapeskin---they were lovely people, locally known as the Redneck Rothschilds, but I don't know if the winery's still there. I had a friend who served it in glasses the size of birdbaths, big globes which made that goldy liquid into magic, if you could get past the Welch's taste.

Also formerly foreign to my ken were cities with lovely places to stroll and see and sidewalk sit and drink in scenery and passersby and general aura, but there IS another sphere to this, where I'm from---the warmth of people and heat of weather, the tastes and scents and accents and whole vistas of rolling fields, flat to the horizon, with treeline encircling wherever you look with a line of darker green, like a child's crayon drawing, sharply outlined. And it's the place where greens are a beloved food, and and blues aren't just colors, but emotion and the music wrung from heartache.

I know a lot of the foods and preparations and restaurants and chefs mentioned here merely from the written page, or from television, and I will try my hand at planting, harvesting, cooking and serving most anything. But there's a whole big world out there, uneducated and unenlightened on the rich home-fare of the South. There are palates which never tasted hushpuppies straight from the big black fishcamp pot, eyes which never beheld a Red Velvet cake enthroned on Aunt Vesta's cut-glass cakestand, or a golden-meringue-topped ‘nanner puddin straight from the oven in its oblong Pyrex, vanilla wafers standing soldier-proud against the sides. There are somewhere, I'm sure, millions of dear souls who think barbecue is those ketchup-coated, oven-baked ribs served in the theme joints with non-sticky floors, plastic menus and not a whiff of woodsmoke in a mile. Those folks don't even KNOW that they're being deprived of the tongue-curling scent of REAL barbecue, the smoke rising from the crusty rungs of that pit like shouts of praise.

Whole nations go through life without biscuits and molasses, or a glimpse of that crust-topped baked corn coming steaming out of the oven in its own black skillet, the same skillet which every day turns out fried chicken and okra and catfish to make an emperor swoon. Lives are lived, inventions patented, work done, educations sought and achieved, music composed and books written, all by people whose own lives would be changed and enhanced by mere introduction to the wonderful, rich heritage which is the Southern Kitchen.

Our Southern roots are ingrained, but we are more and more every day being inundated and saturated with all the wonderful cuisines from all around the world, the sushi and the greens and wok-cooking and tagine-cooking and so many luscious amalgams and mixtures and spices and grains---it seems selfish not to share and keep sharing the glorious table spread by Southern cooks, no matter what their locale.

I've been a member here only a year, and just recently began to post, but Southern tables have a history of being welcoming. Just pull up a chair and make yourself at home.

Julep or mimosa?

[Chad Ward]

Whole nations go through life without biscuits and molasses . . .

This makes me weep openly.

Welcome, Rachel. It's great to see you posting here. The Southern contingent isn't as well represented as other places, but there are a few of us wandering around who understand that the plural of y'all is "all y'all."

Chad

[Jaymes]

I don't know what it is about the south and southern food and southern kitchens that bind its people and their hearts so deeply. But as I read, tears welled in my eyes.

Think I'll cogitate on that for a while.

Rachel - I'm soooo glad you're here.

[joiei]

Hi Racheld, and welcome from a fellow southerner. I grew up outside of Pensacola and everything you wrote about I pretty much know of. The fish camp we went to was owned by family members and it was on stilts over Blackwater bay in an area where a good half of the people who lived there were related to me on one side of the family or the other. A fond memory is of my Granny's cathead biscuits and her homemade alligator pear preserves or her watermelon rind pickles. She wasn't a great cook but Bessie Mae did do a few things very well. I look forward to your postings. One of my good friends here grew up in Hattisburg.

[racheld]

Why, Thank Y'all!!! But I warn you now: I do blather on. I get going about muscadines or persimmons or cathead biscuits, and you just have to shut me up.

I just have so much to say about my raising and outlook and cooking, and who taught me, and all the wonderful Southern cooks and writers and farmers and woodcrafters and just plain good folks who've been such a part of my life and all that I am.

And one question, which always arises: Grits. And people have such a curiosity about G.R.I.T.S Girls---not Magnolia Blossoms or Sweet Potato Queens. G.R.I.T.S.--- acronym for Girls Raised In The South, the down-home, Southern-raised group of women whose company and goodwill have been such a part of life as I've known it. And my own membership is a treasured thing, indeed.

G.R.I.T.S. Girls (and Guys, if they're lucky) are of a Southern State of MIND, not geography. They are be-mannered at birth, born to be gracious, social, tolerant of others' foibles, and just a tad bit short-tempered with foolishness and unkindness. They may be young or old, hair ranging from whalespout wisps to blue once-a-week helmets sprayed into submission at their Standing Appointment. They almost all own pearls, gloves, compacts, and several sturdy purses. Hats are optional, though the G.R.I.T.S set probably own as many feathery sweeps and veiled toques as the Royal Families of Europe, and wear them with more panache, as well.

They can take their French manicures straight home from the salon and plunge right into that bowl of buttermilk chicken, flour it up and fling it in that skillet beside the pot of collards as well as they can sashay their satin-clad selves into a country club, the Opera House or the White House. Dirt under those fancy nails just means they've been in the tomato patch or the rosebed or the horsestall, but they clean up REALLY well.

They have a zest for life, for literature, for Family and Friends; both are legion and necessary. Countless generations are remembered and celebrated; Grandma's necklace is a lovely accent to Granddaughter's wedding dress, and the tiniest new member of the clan is welcomed with her own add-a-pearl and a whispered word of womanly wisdom in her tiny ear. The littlest ones know to say, "Yes, Ma'am" and keep their skirts down and their knees together on their trikes...they aspire to be cheerleaders and doctors, mothers and teachers, writers and world-fixers, and usually achieve any and all of those, and much more.

And G.R.I.T.S. of both genders usually have a home-learned knowledge of Nature and the hows and wherefores of where their food comes from. They see the fields---from Spring, when the tillers are crawling the land, sending out that primal earthy scent of First Turning---to the last plowing-in of the Fall-brown stems shorn of their bounty, ground into the land for enrichment during the long cold days. We know that meat does not spring from the Earth wrapped in plastic, and have witnessed the hard facts of raising and getting those hams and sides of beef into the freezer, have hefted a deer carcass onto the hanger for skinning, and can cook all the above in more ways than Emeril.

Quite a few of the G.R.I.T.S. contingent are proficient at bringing down game for the table, having received their first small rifles when most kids are still clamoring for Elmo or Barbie, and more than a few of the female persuasion can outshoot all the males at any Huntin’ Camp. Tiny girls in the smallest-size camo are proudly loaded into pickups to ride happily out with Daddy for a day at the deer stand or duck blind, taking their own places and turns at very young ages. Nobody messes with a woman holding a 30-aught-six, and many a 12-gauge stands in a closet behind the sweeping skirts of a prom dress. Some with the credentials of breeding and a family older’n dirt get away with owning their own assault rifles.

Martinis and Mystery, Chanel and Chainsaws, Satin and Skillets, White Gloves and Workboots---all are part of a G.R.I.T.S. Girl's makeup, along with good manners, kitchen knowledge, love of animals and the outdoors, luxurious perfume and scandalous underwear and perhaps a good knock of bourbon on occasion.

Florence King is the Queen of writing about G.R.I.T.S. and Belles and all manner of Southern Womanhood; Fannie Flagg is an absolute genius with a golden gift for dialogue and character and scene, as well---her Idgie Threadgoode will live on as long as Scarlett O’Hara in the minds of female readers---just as memorable and smarter, besides.

My friend Klary lives over in Amsterdam, but her picture of a fried drumstick, properly marinated in buttermilk, Tabasco, etc., then cooked to the perfect golden-brown, perfect shattery crust, is worthy of any Below-the-M/D-cook in possession of her Mammaw's black skillet and a leftover cotillion corsage.

And G-girls sure DO say “BUTT,” but most of the ones I know say "Bee-hind." In exigent circumstances, they say "ass"---pronouncing it "ice"---as in "Dayum, Bobby Ray! Get your sorry ice in this house 'fore the neighbors see you!"

It's a soothing, sizzling Sisterhood, and location is no deterrent to membership. It's all in the outlook.

[Liza]

Rachel, please keep writing!
Question number one: speak to me of cathead biscuits, please. My southern cooking touchstone is Edna Lewis & Scott Peacock and I have butter stained that book quite a few times but this is a new expression I'd like to know more about.

[Peter Creasey]

I just have so much to say about my raising and outlook and cooking, and who taught me, and all the wonderful Southern cooks and writers and farmers and woodcrafters and just plain good folks who've been such a part of my life and all that I am.

Rachel, Welcome! We need another voice here that provides evermore evidence of the fabulous virtues of the South, including its cuisine.

[racheld]

Cathead biscuits are the hand-dipped variety, finger-pinched off the big, wobbly mound of good buttermilk biscuit dough. You CAN cut them out with a big round cutter---even a tuna can with both ends cut out (however, Chicken of the Sea ruined that little kitchen convenience by making one end too rounded off to get the can-opener a grip). But the best catheads (named for their hand-patted, knobby wideness resembling the face of an ornery ole barn cat) are rolled between floured palms, placed in a well-greased black skillet, and given a little two-knuckled poomph to the top, the better to hold those pools of melted butter you're gonna brush on as they come golden and crusty out of the oven.

I first learned to make catheads from my first Mother-in-Law---she had a bowl and sifter in the big silver used-to-be-lardcan under the counter, and contrary to my Mother’s fastidious spooning and stirring, made biscuits BY hand and WITH her hand. She put twice-too-much flour into the bowl, made the crater by banking it against the sides with her fingers, and then three-fingered a clop of Crisco out of the three-pound can.

Her busy little soft hands were quick as lightning, working that flour into the handful, fingertips busily rubbing, til the peas stage. I don't think she measured the buttermilk, either, but just poured from the BIG crockery pitcher, lifting it with a big sigh, and then I'd clean the white clotty handprint off the handle with a wet dishrag before replacing it in the refrigerator. She also made the buttermilk in a big crock, which somehow took up most of the left side of the refrigerator, possibly two gallons worth. Dried milk, water, a cup of last week's making, overnight on the kitchen counter with a neat tea-towel cover, and voila!! Good as a fresh-churned batch.

I loved to watch her hand squish that biscuit dough; at first the buttermilk shot through her quick fingers like soapsuds, then as the flour absorbed some of it, the dough became a heavy, pliable mass, with the flour worked in from the sides til it was to her liking---a quite wet dough which would seek to escape from her two hands when she lifted it from the bed of flour like a limp cat.

Onto a flourcloth it went, the cloth homemade from newbought Curity diapers, each sewn double for strength, and covered in a thick layer of flour. Several lifts of the four cloth edges in turn, to even up the dough and give it a thorough coating, then pinches quickly rolled through floury palms, placed gently into a Crisco-rubbed skillet, with a final two-knuckled salute to the top. The cloth also went back into the bin after use, its dusty weight settling into the dark to await its next needing.

All our biscuits were different, all good, all crusty and golden and steamy-soft within. Maw's had a crispy bottom crust, beloved by Paw, who would separate several biscuits, butter them BEFORE we said the blessing, then distribute the dripping top halves to the little ones, while he applied a liberal dousing of sorghum or pear preserves to the cookie-crisp, butter-saturated bottoms. For Paw, life was simple: gravy went on the soft, spongy top halves, syrup on the bottoms. Would that all our paths be so easily chosen.

[racheld]

And thank ALL you lovely folks for the gracious welcomes---every time I come out of my write-it-down haze and post, there's another kind voice of welcome. It's just so WARM and comfortable here.

[joiei]

Rachel, please keep writing!
Question number one: speak to me of cathead biscuits, please. My southern cooking touchstone is Edna Lewis & Scott Peacock and I have butter stained that book quite a few times but this is a new expression I'd like to know more about.

This is a good start. We always called them catheads because they were about the size of a cat's head. And you take butter and molasses and mix them together with a fork and then drag that biscuit through that concoction. Now them's some eatn. THat was dessert after a meal of butter beans, fried pork chops and maybe some greens.

[racheld]

Wooo, Joiei!!! Makes me sorry we're goin' out for Chinese. (But they DO have a pan of fried whack-ems on the buffet---sugar rolled and crisp and warm, called "Biks" by our oldest Granddaughter, who has dined there since we had to carry bib, spoon and sippy-cup).

[rancho_gordo]

Speaking of the south, where do you eat grits and where do you eat hominy grits? I assume it's regional or do you eat them both?

[racheld]

You eat hominy grits when you're lucky enough to find them in a mill store, or a store that sells all sorts of wheat germ/alfalfa/soy products---those are usually a good bet to have REAL hominy grits.

Grits are made from corn, usually steamed to get the husk to let go, then dried and ground into flaky little chips, bigger than cornmeal or polenta. Most of the bags and boxes in the regular grocery stores are plain corn grits, regular or quick. We do not speak of the abomination titled instant.

Hominy grits are processed a step more---the original hominy made with a lye-water solution, to swell and make the kernels; modern hominy grits are processed that step, with a newer, more up-to-date brine, and then dried, and ground.

You seldom hear grits called "hominy grits" any more, though I well remember the term from my growing-up; both kinds are great gift to the culinary arsenal, both take to butter like a hound to ham, and both can be gussied up within an inch of their lives with shrimp sauce, grillades, or any Gucci gravy you like. And don't get between a buncha dove hunters and the ceremonial grits casserole at First Day of Season breakfasts. Southern hostesses keep Kraft Foods afloat on garlic cheese purchases alone.

There are several Grits camps: Plain, buttered, peppered, sugared---on and on, clear down to ketchup (nobody in MY family). And there is a definite ewwwww possibility, if the plain and the sugared persuasions should have to sit across from each other at breakfast. Just warnin' you.


Edited to add: A mighty fine birthday brunch featured grits topped with "red beans" made with those beautiful little cow-beans I saw in one of your posts.

[Jaymes]

There are several Grits camps: Plain, buttered, peppered, sugared---on and on

And, best, served in a lump right next to a couple of eggs fried over-easy, so when you prick the yellows, they ooze into the grits like a can of spilt yellow paint.

[bigbear]

Welcome, racheld.

Where's Tawandaland, exactly?