Southern

Editor's note: Use this sauce to make Myron Mixon's Smoked Whiskey Wings . I have heard people eating barbecue at festivals say that "the sauce makes the barbecue." It's not true. The smoke makes the barbecue. The sauce is a finisher. It's what you put on your meat after it cooks to enhance its appeal. It can add a great punch, but I've had plenty of delicious barbecued meat with no sauce at all. I've been around barbecue sauces of different stripes all of my life. My family's sauce recipe, which my parents were just beginning to market when my father suddenly passed away, is what got me into cooking competitive barbecue in the first place. We have always preferred a hickory-style sauce, meant to closely evoke and complement the flavor of hickory-smoked meats. It's world famous and a secret recipe, so the only way you'll taste the original is to order it from me, but if you insist on not giving me your business, here's a reasonable approximation that is still damn delicious.

Brined birds taste better. Here's our all-purpose buttermilk-based recipe, along with four souped-up variations.

Avoid rookie mistakes when it comes to barbecuing. If you apply the sauce too early, it will scorch. And most bottled sauces are too sweet, which is where this vinegary version comes in.

Use a metal cake tester or thin paring knife to check the potatoes; they should still hold their shape but offer no resistance when pierced.

A Confederacy of Dunces (1980)
By John Kennedy Toole Originally handwritten on piles of paper, A Confederacy of Dunces found life only after its author lost his own; John Kennedy Toole committed suicide, his mother found those secret pages, and she began hawking the thing around their home state of Louisiana, claiming it was the next great American novel. (Sorry, guys: sometimes moms are right.) Now a universally adored Pulitzer-winner starring a brilliant New Orleans nut with a heart of odd, this classic goes best with another: the Big Easy's own Sazerac. Raise a glass to the tragically shortchanged Toole—and everything else he might have written.

The key to a tender biscuit is to handle the dough as little as possible.

We love the way this recipe revamps a standard BLT.

This cocktail is from Ashley Christensen's Fox Liquor Bar in Raleigh, North Carolina.

When Snow's BBQ in Lexington was named best barbecue in Texas by Texas Monthly magazine in June 2008, Tootsie Tomanetz became an instant star in the barbecue world. It's odd that her significant skill as a pitmaster was "discovered" only after more than thirty years of tending pits. As one of thee rare female pitmasters in Texas, she says some folks insist on calling her a chef because they don't feel comfortable applying the pitmaster moniker to a woman, but Tootsie is no doubt a master of the many pit types out behind Snow's. Even several years removed from the initial stardom, she still gets asked every Saturday morning to pose for photos. Always humble, this reluctant star says she is just a "plain old country girl" who has lived her entire life in either Lexington or Giddings, just seventeen miles away, and would just as soon keep a low profile. That's going to be tough if she keeps showing up at 2 a.m. every Saturday to cook some of Texas' best pork, and she has no plans to stop, even at age seventy-seven.

Oh, mama! This one's hot. Not in that obnoxious, burns you right off the bat kind of way, but in that slow, didn't see it coming, want to take two more bites to feel the burn just that much longer kind of way. That's a good kind of pain. This seasoning has got three different types of chiles to make it complex and give it some heat, plus white and black pepper to round it out. Use hot or smoked paprika instead of regular to alter the flavor, if you like. We don't call for any salt in our recipe, but you can use as little or as much as you like without making the food overly salty. However, do remember to salt your fish in addition to using the spice in a recipe. And if you're using the blend for blackening, get that exhaust fan going or be prepared to set off every smoke alarm you have. (Better yet, do your blackening outside on the grill in a cast-iron skillet!)

Grunts are a fish you'll probably never see on a menu and will most definitely never see at a fish market, especially on the West Coast. But as Charlie knows, they inhabit every dock, marina, pier, reef, and any other underwater structure in southern Florida. Because they are considered vastly inferior in taste to their snapper relatives, they're targeted for quick and easy meals by the fishermen in the Florida keys, where this breakfast dish originates. Considering grunt is largely unavailable (and truthfully, Charlie says, isn't very good), here we substitute small fillets of snapper or rockfish. This is an incredible dish—full or rich and spicy flavors, with a wild array of textures, from the pillow of creamy grits to searing fish to the crisp bacon. The classic accompaniment to grits and grunts is cheap beer, but coffee works, too.

Putting fatback in the frying oil adds flavor, but we find it's a bit too salty to eat on its own.

"The only thing better than pimiento cheese dip? Melted pimiento cheese dip, laced with chopped pickles for a little zip." —Janet McCracken, deputy food editor

Using the best and freshest crabmeat you can get your hands on makes all the difference in these lightly battered and totally delicious fritters from La Petite Grocery, a new-school NOLA bistro.

Serve spooned over roast chicken, steak, or pan-fried pork chops. And, of course, pancakes.

Boiled peanuts, perhaps more than any other Southern snack, inspire a kind of intense cultural loyalty, one that crosses all lines of class and race. That may be why we missed them so when we moved away from Charleston to colleges in Massachusetts, and it's why, when we began to sell Southern foods by mail order after college (our liberal arts degrees be damned), we used the boiled peanut as the keystone in our little mail-order foods catalogue, which we named "The Lee Bros. Boiled Peanuts Catalogue" (boiledpeanuts.com). Boiled peanuts are associated with the outdoors, and can be purchased in the Charleston area by the side of the road from vendors set up in vacant lots and sandy strips on the way to the beach, adjacent to the ballpark, or at fairgrounds. They are prepared in homes as well, but rarely seen in a restaurant setting (with a few exceptions these days: Hubee-D's, Hominy Grill, The Bar at Husk, and The Wreck). Like the ungainly name, the damp boiled peanut itself presents a few obstacles to universal enjoyment. Not everyone likes their distinctive grassy flavor or the clammy wetness on the fingers as one picks them apart—and they achieve some exclusivity by being challenging in that respect. Judged on flavor alone, with an open mind, they are divine. And the smell of peanuts boiling is, to us, part of the pleasure of the process. Our grandmother's landlady, the late Elizabeth Jenkins Young, once remarked to us (in her sonorous variant of the Charleston accent, with a sea island cadence from an upbringing on Edisto Island) that the smell of our peanuts boiling on Gran's stove reminded her of a "sweet potato gone sour." Not that she didn't like them; she proudly displayed her I BRAKE FOR BOILED PEANUTS bumper sticker in the back window of the blue VW Rabbit she won at the 1983 Spoleto Festival auction. But the earthy quality of the peanut, which grows underground and is full of minerals, and the sweetness of it, does in fact suggest the basic character of a sweet potato. When peanuts are freshly dug, and refrigerated like a fresh vegetable rather than dried, they are called "green" peanuts; and these, when available (usually in the summer months and into the fall), are worth seeking out for their extra tenderness—cut about 4 hours off the boiling time below—and subtlety of flavor. Some green peanuts will be slightly immature, and like a soft-shell crab, may be eaten whole, shell and all.

Frosted with a rich salted caramel icing, this tender caramel cake—a classic Southern dessert—is a fun and delicious baking project worth every minute.

She-crab soup might just be this city's most overworked culinary icon—so much so that in restaurants of quality in Charleston, you can detect more than a few chefs assiduously avoiding it. But an expertly made she-crab soup is a rare pleasure at home, and should be a part of every cook's repertoire. When we were in our teenage years, the soup seemed extra special because it's seasoned with sherry and traditionally served with a cruet of the fortified wine, the latter to pass around the table in case you wanted to add an extra jolt. But she-crab soup isn't about the sherry (and in fact, we've come to realize that too often the sherry overpowers the crab), it's about the roe; and we don't think we'd ever truly reckoned with how important that roe is—coupled with the freshest crab meat you can find, of course—until the recent spring day we picked and cleaned an entire bushel of crabs (eighty, give or take) in a sitting. Since female crabs with roe inside are most prevalent in the spring, we found crab roe inside many of the adult females, called "sooks," as we cleaned them, after cooking. When you remove the carapace (or top shell) from the body of the crab, the crab roe—if it's there—will appear as a mass of bright orange in the middle of the body, and sometimes you may also find more roe tucked in the sharp left and right points of the carapace. The roe has an earthy-briny flavor, and adds a pale orange color to this soup. In our recipe, we blend it into the soup itself and also use a portion to garnish each bowl. Is it possible to buy crab roe alone? Unfortunately, no. So when we make this soup now, we buy picked crab meat and a half-dozen female crabs with roe from our local market. Any fish market that takes the time to sell hard-shell blue crabs will know how to spot a female with crab roe, because the roe makes the underside of the carapace appear light orange. It really is worth going to the trouble to find the real deal; you won't be disappointed! Regarding the sherry: recently we've taken to giving each guest his or her own shot glass full of fino sherry (one of the most delicate expressions of the fortified wine) to drink as a paired beverage, instead of sending a cruet around the table.

These spicy molasses cookies were a popular nineteenth-century New Orleans street food. For years, grocery stores throughout the United States have been selling them prepackaged, and often topped with white or pink icing.