Southern

Meme always had a tin of bacon drippings adjacent to the stovetop, a sight less and less common in Southern kitchens. It varies from brand to brand, but it takes four to six slices of bacon to produce about two tablespoons of grease. The salty, smoky taste of the bacon complements the sweetness of the corn, which, in a fit of glorious, wretched excess, is finished with a hefty hand of butter.

Edamame is the Japanese word for soybean. Soybeans are somewhat mild in flavor, a cross between a pea and a fava bean. We’re lucky enough to sometimes find them fresh during the summer months, at the farmer’s market or a specialty store, but they are widely available frozen, both in the pod and shelled. Adults and children alike love edamame as a snack. Once the soybeans are cooked or reheated, drain them well, and season with coarse salt or sea salt. Squeeze the seeds directly from the pods into your mouth. Think highbrow boiled peanuts. Edamame may be eaten as a snack or a vegetable, and used in soups or stir-fries. I also like to mash them with potatoes, as in this recipe.

Spoon bread is more like custard than bread, and less like a casserole than a soufflé. As the name suggests, it’s soft enough to eat with a spoon. Spoon bread is more common in Virginia, Maryland, and Kentucky. Berea, Kentucky, in the south central portion of the state, actually boasts a spoon bread festival. The key to this recipe is using very fine cornmeal for a smooth, creamy texture. If you are unable to find fine meal in the supermarket, try Mexican or South American groceries. Also, adding a bit of fresh corn when in season really makes this spoon bread delicious. Some recipes call for baking powder for lift, but in this recipe, with a nod to my French training, I use beaten egg whites.

Only a Southerner, inheritor of the infamous Southern sweet tooth, would add massive quantities of butter and sugar to a dish and still regard it as a vegetable. Add a shot of bourbon? No problem.

This famous New Orleans dish was originally served on Mondays, utilizing the ham bone left over from Sunday supper. Very low maintenance, it simmered on the stove all day while the women washed the family’s laundry and hung it out to dry. Although for the most part, Monday wash day is a thing of the past, red beans and rice is still often served as a lunch or dinner special at many New Orleans restaurants. Dishes of rice and beans are part of rustic country cooking in the Caribbean and all over the world. The inexpensive combination of rice and beans supplies essential amino acids not often found in plant proteins, and more readily found in expensive meat proteins. For the ham bone, traditional recipes now often substitute spicy boudin, smoked sausage, or Cajun andouille. Boudin is a spicy pork sausage with onion, rice, and herbs. Cajun andouille is a highly seasoned smoked sausage made from pork, whereas French andouille is made from the stomach and intestines. The andouille of Guémené, France, is crafted so that the intestines are placed inside one another, giving it the appearance of concentric circles before it is dried and smoked. This is potent stuff. I am always willing to try anything once, including chilled slices of smoked pig’s intestines. Let’s just put it this way, I’d rather have a heaping bowl of Mama’s Red Beans and Rice, and I’m not asking for seconds of French andouille any time soon.

The name “dirty rice” doesn’t sound very appealing, but it is an enjoyable combination of creamy rice, savory vegetables, full-flavored chicken liver, and a heavy hand of intense spice. It’s an odd conglomeration of a Cajun stir-fry and soft, comforting rice. This is, like many other country recipes, a way to make a filling meal out of a potpourri of simple, inexpensive ingredients. The chopped liver is what gives it the dark, “dirty” color. Dirty rice is like many old-school recipes—everyone has a different way to prepare it. However, most versions contain the holy trinity of Cajun cooking: bell pepper, onion, and celery. I am not so fond of green bell peppers. They come back to say “hello” a little too often. I prefer poblano chiles, which are just slightly spicier than a green bell pepper, and I suggest using it here.

I prefer using fresh sweet potatoes over the canned variety. However, not everyone feels this way. Around the fall holidays, towering mountains of canned yams are constructed in grocery stores throughout the South. Truth is, the contents are not yams at all. What is often labeled and sold as yams are actually sweet potatoes. Botanically speaking, yams are tubers and a member of the lily family; sweet potatoes are the root of a member of the morning glory family. Yams originated in Africa, whereas sweet potatoes are New World plants. There are many varieties of both that differ in size, taste, shape, and color. When I doubted Mama about the amount of butter and sugar in this dish for a mere four sweet potatoes, she laughed and said, “Y’all always like it this way.” Feel free to reduce the amount of sugar and butter in the sweet potato base should your conscience (or waistline) see fit.

I once demonstrated this recipe for a fundraiser in my hometown. When I started whisking milk into the grits, rather than stirring in water with a spoon, the influence of French culinary training became obvious. I can pretty much guarantee that Meme never whisked her grits. And years ago, grits were a food of the poor and milk was a luxury reserved for dishes deemed more important than grits. For my family and many Southerners, grits are prepared with water. But, for reasons French or otherwise, I like blending a bit of milk or heavy cream with the water to make them even creamier. Country ham, the South’s version of Spanish Serrano or Italian prosciutto, is brined, smoked, and aged, and can be very salty. In this recipe, it is not necessary to soak the ham to remove the salt; simply add less salt when cooking the mushrooms.

This simple casserole is a familiar dish in the South. It is an absolute standard at potlucks, brunches, weddings, and funerals. Casseroles are the salve that heals a Southerner’s wounded soul. I always call this dish “funeral grits” because it’s the perfect dish to take to the bereaved after the funeral. It can be treated as a side dish, held for hours in a low oven with few ill effects, and the leftovers reheat wonderfully. Funeral food in the South is a category all to itself. The food should be comforting, not too fancy, and even in this day and age, is best if homemade (not a platter of sliced deli meats from the grocery store). When my godfather, Uncle Raymond, died many years ago, I remember the women swarming in the kitchen, each and every one of them taking on a specific chore. Even though I was a professional cook by this time, I was designated for phone duty. I didn’t mind; I may have been a professional cook, but I was still the youngest and lowest on the totem pole. This dish serves six to eight people, more than most of the recipes in this book. Lord knows, a dish serving less people won’t go far at a Southern funeral. Use this recipe as a guide and make it your own. Add more jalapeño to give it some real heat, or switch up the cheeses and try adding freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, Gruyère, or white Cheddar.

In Atlanta, people ask you, “What’s your business?” In Augusta, they ask, “What’s your mother’s maiden name?” In Macon, they ask, “Where do you go to church?” In Savannah, they ask, “What would you like to drink?” That generous hospitality and sense of fun is typical of Savannah style; this dish is very likely to be served at one of Savannah’s legendary cocktail parties. As Georgia’s most valuable seafood crop, between 4 1/2 million and 9 1/2 million pounds of heads-on shrimp are harvested annually by a fleet of more than five hundred boats, the majority owner-operated and based within an hour or so of Savannah. It is common to find fishermen whose families have fished the same grounds for generations. Preserving and pickling seafood in citrus juice, vinegar, and brine is a technique used all over the world—in Spanish ceviche, for example. This combination of ingredients acts as a cooking agent, denaturing the proteins and rendering the raw seafood cooked. Many recipes state shrimp pickled by this technique may be stored for up to ten days, tightly covered in the refrigerator, but I disagree. Even if you weren’t concerned about food-borne illness, why bother? The acid would continue working and you’d wind up with bouncy balls of shrimp-flavored pink rubber. Up to two days in the refrigerator is fine. Serve on a bed of lettuce for a nice cold salad, or as a delightful nibble on a buffet.

This is one of those dishes that is just perfect for breakfast, Sunday dinner, or a weeknight supper. I usually peel and devein the shrimp, but leave on the tails. My dear friend Gena Berry grew up on St. Simons Island, Georgia, in the heart of the fishing and shrimping community. One day, we were in the kitchen getting ready for a party. She jumped in, helpful as always, and offered to peel the shrimp. When she saw my technique of leaving the tails on, she raised her eyebrows perilously high (as only Gena can do), and informed me that coast folks don’t peel shrimp like that. I still think it looks better. I use wild American shrimp, not pond-raised imports, because I am supporting those very shrimpers Gena grew up with. Save the shrimp shells to make shrimp stock (recipe on page 132).

This recipe, a marriage of a recipe I learned while an apprentice to Nathalie Dupree and Meme’s version of traditional oyster dressing, is an excellent side dish for a Thanksgiving feast. The myth about buying oysters only in the months with an R is not quite true, but not completely false either. However, it is best to buy oysters during the fall and winter when they are at their prime. Oysters spawn during the summer months and become soft, milky, and bland rather than firm and sweet. It is true that in the South when the water becomes too warm, the oysters are inferior. I only buy oysters to shuck if I am serving them on the half shell. You can generally find pints of shucked oysters in better grocery stores and seafood markets.

Po’ boy sandwiches are found all along the Gulf Coast and are a New Orleans tradition. There are various tales about the origin of the name: that it’s a slang version of “poor boy” and the sandwich used to be an inexpensive, yet filling meal; that the sandwich was given out to streetcar workers on strike, who were essentially poor boys; or that it is a bastardized version of the French “pour boire.” This last theory holds that the sandwich was a sort of olive branch that men would bring home after a night of drinking and carousing around town. Whatever the name’s origin, it is an excellent sandwich. Although one can find roast beef and gravy po’ boys or fried potato and gravy po’ boys, possibly the most popular version of this iconic Louisiana treat is fried seafood po’ boys made with shrimp and oysters from the Gulf. The key to light and crispy fried food is to use the right oil. Peanut oil is a great choice for frying: it has a mild, pleasant flavor; does not take on the tastes of foods as readily as other oils do; and has a smoke point of about 450°F, meaning you can safely heat it to a very high temperature.

Cornmeal-coated fried fish is a product of modest country living: fish were free and cornmeal was cheap. You will not feel poor at all if you try these crusty fillets with Grits with Corn and Vidalia Onion (page 156) for a satisfying supper. This fried grouper also makes an excellent fish sandwich accompanied by homemade mayonnaise (page 282), lettuce, and tomato. Or you can dress it up by serving the fish on a bed of vegetable slaw (page 38). Fried fish with grits is another Southern classic that is good for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If grouper is unavailable (which is likely, since it is overfished), or you would like to use a more sustainable fish, try mahi-mahi, wild striped bass, or wreckfish.

Mama always loved to order this dish when we went to the beach. But many cooks now avoid serving it since the harvesting methods are not considered ecologically friendly. In many instances, the fish are caught using a trawling method. Imagine a bulldozer scraping along the ocean floor, indiscriminately catching intended as well as unintended species. Even though flounder also suffers from overfishing (it seems too many people appreciate one of the best fish in the Gulf): I am calling for flounder here for old times’ sake. But you can substitute flat fish like English or Dover sole and turbot, which get better ecological marks and whose flavors are similar to that of flounder.

We moved to Louisiana from Evans, Georgia, when I was three years old. I remember the feeling of the winter’s morning we left; it was cold, and still dark outside. Up to that point I had spent every day of my short life with Meme and Dede, and I think our leaving broke my grandfather’s heart, at least for a little while. One benefit of the big move was that Mama started experimenting with Cajun and Creole cooking. This recipe became a family favorite, and one Dede particularly enjoyed when they came to visit. When buying shrimp, look for firm shrimp with a mild, almost sweet scent. If there is any scent of ammonia, it is a sign that the shrimp is no longer fresh.

To quote the regional cookbook Louisiana Entertains, “Good gumbos are like good sunsets: no two are exactly alike, and their delight lies in their variety.” All gumbos use a roux. However, in addition to a roux, some gumbos flavor and thicken with okra and others call for filé powder. Integral to Creole and Cajun cooking, filé powder is made from the dried leaves of the sassafras tree. It is used not only to thicken gumbo but also to impart its mild, lemon flavor. Filé powder should be stirred into gumbo toward the end of cooking or it will become tough and stringy.

A Cajun specialty, étouffée is a succulent, tangy, tomato sauce usually made with crawfish or shrimp. The word étouffée comes from the French étouffer (to smother), and that’s it exactly: rich and tender crawfish tails smothered in a spicy blanket of flavorful sauce. “First, you make a roux” is the start of many Creole and Cajun recipes (it’s also the title of a popular cookbook from Louisiana published by the Lafayette Museum in the early 1960s). Roux is a cooked mixture of fat (butter) and starch (flour) used to thicken many sauces in classic French cooking. A Creole roux is not the classic French butter-flour mixture, but sometimes combines flour with an oil like peanut oil that can hold a high temperature. Unlike a French roux, which can be white to pale golden, Creole and Cajun roux are typically, at the very least, the color of peanut butter and progress to deep, dark brown. This process can take 45 minutes or so of constant stirring. It is dangerous stuff. If any splatters on you, it will be perfectly clear why this fiery, sticky combination of oil and flour is often referred to as “Cajun napalm”!

The fish fry is right up on the list of orchestrated Southern feasts, along with the “pig pull” and “dinner on the grounds.” It’s a great party and wildly different from throwing a few burgers on the grill. And fried fish are just flat-out good. My grandparents met at a fish fry in 1930 and were inseparable through almost 65 years of marriage. They were a great team but there was no doubt who was the boss. For as long as I can remember, they had a motor home. They drove as far south as the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico and to Fairbanks at the far end of the Alaska Highway, where they caught a small plane to the North Pole. I was able to take several long trips with them when I was young. Once the three of us drove north, through Detroit into Canada, east to Nova Scotia, where we caught the ferry to Newfoundland. We were on the one main road in Newfoundland to St. John’s and were about halfway across the island when Meme looked at my grandfather and said, “Sam, pull over in that gas station. I’m ready to go home.” He did, and we did.

When I was young, we spent many weekends at the Indian Creek Recreation Area, about ten miles south of Alexandria, Louisiana. In the spring, at the height of crawfish season, several families would get together and have a crawfish boil. I remember a huge pot practically the size of a bathtub filled with bright red crawfish, halved ears of yellow corn, sweet onions, whole new potatoes in the skin, and thick links of sausage, all bubbling in broth. The picnic tables were covered with newspapers and one of the men would dump a steaming basket of the potent mixture into the center of each. We’d gather around and eat, peeling the meat from the tails and sucking on the heads to get every last bit of the peppery juice. Crawfish are also known as mudbugs, crawdads, and crayfish. These freshwater crustaceans, in season from December to May, range in size from three to six inches and weigh from two to eight ounces. This recipe would be equally delicious made with blue or Dungeness crabs.