Southern

This salad is a showcase for fresh figs. They make a brief appearance in most marketplaces, so you’ve got to make the most of their honey-sweet flesh when you can. Slices of richly flavored, smoky-salty Kentucky ham make a fantastic pairing. Kentucky ham is a dry-cured country ham comparable to an Italian prosciutto or Spanish Serrano ham. While you could substitute either, I love both the taste and the homegrown appeal of Kentucky ham. Sweet pecans add a bit of crunch to the salad, and the tangy molasses-mustard vinaigrette enhances its southern vibe.

A trip to New York City wouldn’t be complete without stopping in a Jewish-style deli, and you can’t go to a New York deli without trying a Reuben sandwich piled sky-high with corned beef brisket, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese, and Russian or Thousand Island dressing. This is my southern take on that great sandwich. Lean bison is naturally lower in fat than beef, but its flavor is quite similar and you should feel free to use beef brisket if you can’t find or don’t care for bison. I often dress red cabbage as coleslaw for sandwiches, but cooking it first mellows its bitter note. Hundred Island Dressing is revamped from the original with a substitution of pickled okra for pickle relish. Okra reinforces the southern touch that’s also present in the barbecue sauce.

This fresh and satisfying salad gets its inspiration from two very different locales: the sweet and sour dressing is indebted to the Pennsylvania Dutch, while the fried green tomatoes come straight from the South. The brightly hued dressing is just the thing to enhance the interplay of tart green tomatoes; sweet, earthy beets; buttery fava beans; and tangy, creamy goat cheese. Green tomatoes and fava beans are two crops that I particularly look forward to seeing at the first farmers’ markets of spring, and this salad is a delicious way to celebrate the best of that season. If you can’t find fava beans, lima beans are a fair substitute.

This is an obvious play on the southern pulled pork sandwich, which is typically made with braised pork shoulder. Duck legs are an interesting upgrade. While duck breasts are best cooked quickly and served rare, the legs need to be slow-cooked to make them tender. I believe in employing strong flavors such as fresh ginger, star anise, fennel, and cinnamon to cut through the richness of duck. The pickles and coleslaw are optional, but I can’t imagine having a pulled pork—or, in this case, pulled duck—sandwich without them. That crunchy, vinegary bit of freshness truly rounds out the sandwich.

The Kentucky sandwich. Built on a base of savory French toast, this open-faced sandwich needs no doubling up. Thick slices of turkey breast and juicy tomatoes are topped with a decadent cheese sauce, broiled until bubbly and golden brown, then crowned with crisp slices of bacon. It’s no surprise that this dish, named for its birthplace at the Brown Hotel in Louisville, has become Kentucky Derby lore.

Gumbo—it doesn’t get much more Louisiana style than that. Louisiana is a prototype for the melting pot of cultures that defines this country; this hearty dish alone can count the cuisines of West Africa, France, and Italy among its influences. Both the Creole and Cajun communities have laid claim to this spicy seafood stew, and I’ve appropriated a bit from each in this version: the Creole comes in with the tomatoes—that’s the Italian presence making itself known—and the Cajun of course is present in the spicy pork andouille sausage. Okra is a traditional gumbo component, and it’s usually cooked into the body of the soup. I like the flavor but find that the texture can be a bit slimy. Deep-fried cornmeal-crusted rings of okra solve that problem deliciously.

Bourbon is a truly American product, with Kentucky producing 95 percent of the world’s supply. According to federal law, bourbon must be at least 51 percent corn, distilled to less than 160 proof, and aged for at least two years in new charred-oak barrels. Bourbon also must be made in the United States. In other words, a foreign product that meets all of the other requirements cannot be sold here as bourbon. I love drinking bourbon straight up or on the rocks and using it in both savory and dessert sauces. It is without a doubt my spirit of choice. I also enjoy mixing it on occasion with other ingredients as long as those ingredients don’t mask the slightly woody, slightly floral taste of the bourbon. This drink is an American twist on the French 75, replacing the traditional cognac with bourbon and adding orange juice for freshness.

When I am in Kentucky, there are two things that I drink a lot of: sweet tea and bourbon. So, when we were creating our cocktail menu for brunch, it only made sense that I would pair my two favorite southern specialties in one glass.

Pimm’s No. 1 is a gin-based beverage made from dry gin, liqueur, fruit juices, and spices. When combined with club soda or ginger ale and a cucumber spear, it becomes a Pimm’s Cup. Pimm’s No. 1 was created in the mid–eighteenth century by English oyster bar owner James Pimm. The recipe is still a secret; supposedly, only six people know exactly how it is made. It has a dark golden brown color, a medium body, and a taste of quinine, citrus fruits, and spice. Its low alcohol content—only 20 percent—makes it a perfect lunchtime cocktail. The cocktail found its home in the States in New Orleans in the early twentieth century when an anglophile bartender at Napoleon’s put it on their menu. The addition of lemonade distinguishes the American version from the classically British Pimm’s cup.

The Bloody Mary is probably the most popular brunch cocktail in the United States and with good reason; spiced-up tomato juice and vodka garnished with a stalk of celery—the classic version—is a perfect weekend pick-me-up. There are many variations of the Bloody Mary that contain everything from beer to beef bouillon. My version has a southwestern theme, where roasted tomatillo sauce—spiked with vinegar and pickled horseradish—joins tomato juice to give the drink great body while adding a slightly tart, slightly smoky flavor.

Cooked sweet potato adds body and flavor to these biscuits, but they are more savory than sweet—just right for buttering and sopping up gravy of any kind. Try them with Not Really Son-of-a-Bitch Stew (page 221), Tom Perini’s Chicken-fried Steak (page 227), or Beer-braised Short Ribs (page 222).

For Southerners like me, there’s not a better meal on the planet than cornbread, beans, and greens cooked with lots of bacon. I know a lot of good old ranch cooks who feel the same. There wasn’t much green to eat for cowboys on the range, but beans cooked with salt pork were common. So common, in fact, that cowboy nicknames for beans were many: Mexican strawberries, prairie strawberries, and whistle berries. But the funniest of all, recorded in Ramon F. Adams’s book Come an’ Get It, was “deceitful beans ’cause they talk behind yore back.”

Stuffed quail sizzling on the grill is a common sight at many a West Texas barbecue. A lot of my friends use a shotgun to bag their quail, but I snag mine on the Internet from The Diamond H Ranch in Bandera, Texas (www.texasgourmetquail.com), where they raise the birds and process them, too. They come vacuum-packed and ready for cooking, with the back, breast, and thigh bones removed. All I have to do is stuff them with a spicy chile-cheese mixture, wrap them up with a piece of bacon, and then put ’em on the grill. I finish them off with a jalapeño jelly glaze just before serving. In all, a mighty nice dinner treat to share with friends.

A lifelong praline devotee, I’d never seen a white version until longtime customers and friends Diane and John B. Connally III introduced me to Ginny Marye Sharman. I lamented that I’d been searching in vain for a great, new, party-worthy praline, when Ginny said, “I have the one for you. It’s my daddy’s.” She sent me the recipe with the following note, “Chubby Marye, my daddy, was from Alexandria, Louisiana, and loved to cook! He always made his white pralines on cold winter evenings. I learned to make them watching him. It’s a family tradition that he learned from his mother, Mama Dee.” I tried it immediately. Not only was it the easiest praline recipe I’ve ever encountered, it was also one of the tastiest. My mother’s recipe, for example, demands intensive beating with a wooden spoon. Ginny’s recipe takes a beating, but for only half the time. Chubby’s pralines make a fine finale for any party; or wrap them up in waxed paper, seal with an embossed sticker, pile them in a decorative bowl, and hand them out at the end of the evening as favors. (Pictured on page 164, top tray.)

Those of us who grew up within spittin’ distance of Louisiana know that unsweetened iced tea is practically un-American. Furthermore, a family get-together in Texas just isn’t right without a big, fat, sweating pitcher of sweet iced tea. So here’s my latest, most favorite iced tea recipe, inspired (ironically) by a vendor at New York City’s biggest farmers’ market—the Union Square Greenmarket. I discovered it on a broiling August afternoon after buying a paper-cupful for one dollar. It was beyond refreshing, with a hint of mint, a kiss of citrus, and just the right touch of New England maple syrup. Naturally, I substitute Texas honey for my version. My mother always made iced tea the old-fashioned way, by boiling water, steeping the tea, and cooling it off with loads of ice. But my coauthor’s mother, Patricia Oresman, gave me a better idea. She used to make sun tea by leaving a pitcher full of water and tea bags in the sun for several hours. One day she put the tea bags in a pitcher full of water but never did get around to setting it out on her sunny backyard porch. She returned to the kitchen a few hours later to find perfectly brewed no-sun sun tea. Now she makes kitchen-counter iced tea year-round, no solar energy needed. How long does she let the tea bags steep? “I let it sit until it gets the color I think it should be,” she says.

I first ate syrup cake in the deep, piney woods of East Texas with a boy I once dated. We were visiting his grandma. She served squirrel stew with biscuits and syrup cake. I don’t eat squirrel now and I didn’t then, but I got that recipe for syrup cake. I later found out the simple cake is a Cajun country favorite, typically made with cane syrup. It seems that almost everyone in Louisiana swears by Steen’s brand. If you can’t find cane syrup, substitute molasses, maple syrup, or Lyle’s Golden Syrup.

Last year, my cousin Gloria showed up at our homecoming reunion with a huge pan of baked beans topped with a layer of walnuts. Walnuts? Walnuts are my least favorite nut, and I’ve never seen them paired with baked beans. But Gloria is a fine home cook, so I asked her where she got the idea. “I dreamed it last night,” she said. I tried her beans, and those crispy, toasted walnuts added a lovely crunch to an old standby. By adding walnuts to beans, Gloria has given a delicious new meaning that old maxim: “Live your dreams.” I can’t wait to see what she “dreams up” for next year’s homecoming.

Spoon bread is an old Southern favorite, and it’s beloved in many parts of Texas, too. I’ve heard numerous stories about the origin of its name—some say it is derived from a similar-sounding Indian precursor, others suggest it’s named for the utensil customarily used to eat this softer, smoother version of cornbread. I often bring spoon bread to potlucks, where it can be counted on to stir up old memories. (A version reportedly was served at Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello.) This recipe came from Gangy—the favorite grandmother of one of my oldest and dearest friends, Kristen Ohmstede. Kristen’s grandmother served it often with butter and blackberry jam and to this day, that’s the only way Kristen will eat it.

In these parts, everyone knows that “low and slow is the only way to go” when it comes to making barbecued brisket. Whether prepared in the oven, on the grill, or in an old-fashioned barbecue pit, it takes hours and a gentle heat to transform this tough cut into the tender, flavorful dish that shows up at shindigs throughout Texas—from UT tailgate parties, where on game days folks set up steel-drum barbecues in parking lots during the wee morning hours, to family get-together, ranch weddings, and backyard cookouts. My mom, who adored brisket, took it often to parties and family events, and I’ve recently resurrected the tradition. James De Wolf helped develop this recipe. I carted our brisket halfway across Texas—from Frederickburg’s five hours’ drive east to Long view—to share it with my family at our annual homecoming potluck.