 In the Heat of the Southern Summer KitchenbyNicki LeoneThe counters and the tabletop in my kitchen right now are clean, but they are also a mess. They’re currently cluttered with bowls and platters and colanders filled with the stuff I took out of the garden this morning. I have a pile of watermelons—eight of them—that needed picking because I could tell something had gotten to the vines. There’s a large bowl of cucumbers, another of pole beans, a basket full of corn (a gift from my neighbor), and several bowls full of tomatoes of various kinds and sizes. Paprika and cayenne peppers on a rack. Bunches of basil and thyme, mint and lemongrass. Eggplant I foolishly bought at the farmers market only because it just looked so beautiful. A pile of zucchini from my other neighbor, which I felt obligated to wash thoroughly right away because there is just no way he managed to grow so much without the generous use of Sevin Dust and that stuff terrifies me. Did I mention I live alone? It’s just me and the dog and the cat here and neither of them are real fans of tomatoes or zucchini. I’ll spend the next few weeks with various cookbooks cracked open as I try to contend with all this bounty—putting up what I can by freezing, canning, pickling, or making sauce. And since I still have quarts of put-up goods from last year on my shelf, I’ll probably be returning the zucchini and corn the neighbors gave me in the form of relishes and baked goods. It’s maddening that all this bounty comes to fruition right at the time temperatures here in the South climb into the nineties and stay there. When I lived in Boston, I never turned on an oven in the summer—it was just too hot. Apartments in Yankee country do not, as a rule, come equipped with air conditioners. At least, not the ones affordable on bookseller’s salary. I don’t always run the air conditioner down here either, but if there is one thing the South has taught me it’s how to cook in the summer heat. Lee Bros. Simple Fresh Southern by Ted and Matt Lee:
. . . .it calls for making a batch of deviled eggs, and alternating layers of them in a casserole pan, topped up with a milky, roux-thickened cheese sauce studded with whole shrimp and spiked with ketchup, sherry, and Worcestershire sauce. You cover all that with a carpet of butter-soaked bread crumbs, bake it for half an hour and then serve it over ‘canned Chinese noodles that have been heated in a slow oven.’ Frankly, I’m at a loss as to what you could possibly taste after adding in ketchup, sherry, and Worcestershire sauce. “Wild” is the Lee Brothers’ comment. But it didn’t distract them from noticing how well shrimp and deviled eggs would go together once, you know, you got rid of the ketchup. What I like most about the Lees Brothers cookbooks (Simple Fresh Southern, and that modern bible of southern kitchens, Lee Bros. Southern Cooking) is that none of their recipes are scary. I am an impatient cook, not an expert one, and there is not a dish in their book that I don’t think I could make. There are some I wouldn’t want to make—even Ted and Matt’s baby-faced good looks aren’t enough to make me prepare ambrosia salad voluntarily—but if they were holding a gun to my head, I could do it. Under protest. More to the point, theirs are the books I turn to when I have a lot of fresh vegetables I need to do things with very quickly, which is what I’m faced with this week. Simple Fresh Southern was just chosen as the best southern cookbook of the year by the booksellers of the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance (SIBA). I’m rather intimately involved in the SIBA Book Awards since it’s part of my job to help administer the awards process. The way it works is this: Booksellers from independent bookstores in the lower eastern quarter of the country send in their nominations for their favorite southern books of the year. Then SIBA puts every nominated title that is eligible (every now and then someone will make a plea for a favorite book that really is just wonderful, but not eligible since it’s set north of the Mason-Dixon line) into a ballot they call “the long list.” The ballot is sent back out to the booksellers, who all pick their favorites in each category. The books on the ballot that get the most votes become finalists, and those in turn are sent out to a jury of booksellers who judge them according to however judges judge things. The books they judge to be the best, become the winners. It’s a long and rather complicated process that involves much haunting of UPS counters and mailing boxes of judges’ copies back and forth, but I like being involved because it brings me into contact with books that people who make their living on southern literature think are just too good to pass up. I especially like “the long list” because it is unscripted, unprompted, and idiosyncratic. Booksellers have a habit of nominating books that they love, instead of books they think will win. There’s a real difference there. So, stacked up on my counter under the Lee Bros. are some of the other cookbooks that were on the SIBA Book Award long list—that were, in other words, books that someone, somewhere, at some point, said “oh, that’s one of the best cookbooks of the year.” The Lee Bros. are practically a southern institution at this point—I think even Paula Deen is getting jealous. But as it turns out, there is a lot more to southern cooking than reinventing ambrosia salad. My New Orleans: The Cookbook by John Besh:
But the key to this book is in the subtitle—“200 of My Favorite Recipes & Stories from My Hometown.” Note the possessive “my” that shows up twice in that sentence? “My” New Orleans is really that—a very personal account of one man’s love—no, adoration—of food and country. In between all the five-star recipes (which, to his credit, don’t usually require five-star kitchens to recreate) are Besh’s own stories and memories, ruminations and advice. Sometimes, the stories are funny. “. . .he kept a boat,” Besh remembers about his very first shrimping trip “which, at least in my memory, resembled the African Queen.” Sometimes, they are startling and not funny; “The worst thing about combat in the first gulf war was that the smell of toasted almonds meant a chemical attack.” Really, after reading something like that I felt honor bound to try every recipe in the chapter (it’s the one on fishing) just to show my respect. Starting with the Trout Amandine. Parts of this book are agonizing for other reasons. Devoted to the culinary culture of New Orleans, there is naturally an entire section on oysters. Besh writes movingly about the fears that Katrina might have destroyed the oyster beds, and the conflict they felt at his restaurant when, beds not yet recovered, they had to send to Florida to get any. “Our oysters are big and meaty and splendid eaten on the half shell with cold beer and spicy cocktail sauce. They allow preparations that you just can’t do with other oysters, like frying, roasting, and grilling. Those little briny ones from the other coastal states? They’re fine, but they just don’t work for us.” I’m sitting here in North Carolina trying not to take offense, and also wondering if, once again, Besh’s restaurant is being forced to send away for oysters. Hurricanes come and are gone in a few days. Their effects last a few seasons, but nature is remarkably resilient and oysters have been recovering from hurricanes since they have had shells. Oil spills that go on for months and months? Not so easy to brush off. The passion and the stories make Besh’s book feel . . . important. From a cultural perspective. What impressed me most, though, once I got past the awe and intimidation and the teary-eyed reactions to all the stories, was just how useful a book My New Orleans actually is. As a restaurateur Besh is nothing if not pragmatic. “Accept substitutes,” he advises, although he is usually advocating for locally produced products. Apparently, you can make a great gumbo without using Jacob’s andouille sausage. He explains the secrets of making roux (a paste of flour browned in hot oil) in two sentences, where my Times-Picayune reprint cookbook takes nearly two pages and contains alarming phrases like “whisk for 50-70 minutes.” He offers shortcuts and tricks to make life easier in the kitchen, and he has an entire chapter devoted to figs. Since I can never seem to get my figs to make it uneaten from the tree in my back yard to my kitchen counter, I find this rather amazing. So far, I haven’t had a miss trying out recipes—although I admit I’ve been a little timid in my explorations. But some of the corn my neighbor brought over was devoted to his Grilled Corn on the Cob with Crab Fat butter and I have to say I may never be without crab fat butter again in my life. It was a little tedious to make because I don’t like boiling crabs, but oh, mama. Sweet Carolina: Favorite Desserts and Candies from the Old North State by Foy Allen Edelman:
It is one of the quirks of my character that I love to bake, but am not that fond of sweets. Although, it would be more accurate to say that I like sweet things, but a little goes a long way. This is problematic for a baker who lives alone, because as much as I adore the taste of peach pie, I know I will never be able to eat more than a slice or two. Cookie recipes usually makes dozens of cookies, not three or four. And cakes . . . well, cakes in the South can cause cavities just by reading the recipes. So, as I said above, I give away a lot of what I make, because it seems a sad fate never to bake a cake just because you know you can’t finish it off yourself. And my neighbors are, I think, somewhat grateful for my current fascination with Ms. Foy Allen Edelman’s book. Recipes are arranged by type, (cakes, cookies, pies, candies) not by county, which is a mercy. But every recipe is credited and many of them are storied: I think that my family’s tradition of using fresh food from the land began with my great grandfather, a country doctor in Anson County,” Lucie Lea Robeson told me. “It was an era when he was grateful to be paid in fresh eggs, chickens, pecans, or fresh vegetables. Somehow, I’m thinking my health insurance company wouldn’t be so grateful if I sent them a basket of cucumbers instead of my monthly premium. They might go for Lucie Lea Robeson’s Orange Rum Cake, though, which is currently baking in my oven. I’m making it for my neighbor-who-brought-me-the-corn, because bless her heart, she went and did my lawn with her riding mower this morning. I’m pathetically grateful, since the yard is huge, and uphill, and I only have a tiny push mower and did I mention that it just sits in the nineties here in the South in July? I’m making it up to her in fresh bread and baked goods. And that right there is the reason that I love to bake. Baking is neighborly. It’s social. Ted and Matt Lee and Mr. John Besh all know how to lay a good table and put on a great family get-together. But it’s all come-to-dinner food. Baking is pass-it-over-the-fence and drop-it-off-next-door food. It’s not an invitation, it’s a gift. When I first moved South, I used to have these extravagant Christmas parties where I’d bake up a storm and the price to get in the door was an ornament for the tree. I don’t do that anymore (a tree can only hold so many ornaments) but I wish I had something similar now because the pie chapter alone in Sweet Carolina is sending me into insulin shock. And there is an entire chapter on icings and cake fillings. An entire chapter! Because this is as much a book of oral history as it is a cookbook there are some oddities, like Fats Marr’s Potato Candy, which was invented by a guy really named Fats Marr during the Great Depression, when potatoes was all there was to eat. And there are some recipes that, try as I might, just didn’t seem to work. I utterly failed at Imogene Tomberlin’s Never-Fail Candy. I consider this a flaw in myself, however. I am quite a good baker, but absolutely unpredictable when it comes to making candy. This is a source of great distress to me, because I love fudge, but can’t make it with any reliable success. Still, there are over two hundred recipes in this book, and only about five of them are fudge. The Cracker Kitchen by Janis Owens:
At the same time, this is a testament to the author’s own upbringing, her own mama’s cooking. I don’t think Janis Owens would take offense if I said that I think she’s a storyteller first, and a cook second. I actually first came across her name when I read her novel The Schooling of Claybird Catts on the advice of the writer and political cartoonist Doug Marlette. How he discovered Janis, I don’t know. The south is like that—both among writers and cooks. Every recipe has a memory with it, or an explanation, or an apology. The recipe for Mama’s fried chicken, which I’m sure is delicious, calls for two pounds of lard. And her daddy’s directions for making biscuits is simply unrepeatable. You’ll have to look at the book to see it for yourself, but it’s written entirely in capital letters. “I think,” writes the author, “Daddy’s recipe is a good example of what comes when you cross-pollinate extreme fundamentalism and white flour: many directions and exhortations, and in the end, a promise of heaven.” If I had to sum it up, I’d say that Ted and Matt Lee give us good food, and John Besh gives us great food. But Janis Owens gives us comfort food. The recipes are easy, and delicious, and can be made with anything you can get at WalMart or Costco (excepting the rattlesnake and possum). They also have a tendency to clog your arteries if you aren’t careful. But oh, they are full of comfort and comfort is what we most want from any meal. Books mentioned in this column:
Nicki Leone showed her proclivities early when as a young child she asked her parents if she could exchange the jewelry a well-meaning relative had given her for Christmas for a dictionary instead. She supported her college career with a part-time job in a bookstore, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that her college career and attending scholarships and financial aid loans supported her predilection for working as a bookseller. She has been in the book business for over twenty years. Currently she works for the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance, developing marketing and outreach programs for independent bookstores. Nicki has been a book reviewer for several magazines, her local public radio station and local television stations. She was one of the founders of The Cape Fear Crime Festival, currently serves as President of the Board of Trustees of the North Carolina Writers Network, and as Managing Editor of BiblioBuffet. Plus, she blogs at Will Read for Food. She manages all this by the grace of a very patient partner and the loving support of varying numbers of dogs and cats. Contact Nicki.
|
The book that will stay open on the kitchen counter for most of the next couple weeks is Lee Bros. Simple Fresh Southern, which has entire chapters devoted to things like “cold sides”—a category of food that becomes paramount here in the South in July and August. This is the book I use when I’m just cooking for me—which I usually am. Ted and Matt Lee are pure geniuses at taking traditional southern fair and making it work for a modern kitchen and modern tastes that are more concerned about things like additives and red dye no. 5. They are just good at getting at what’s important about a dish—such as their Shrimp and Deviled-Egg Salad Rolls, which they claim was inspired by a casserole dish from a 1964 PTA cookbook that, to my mind anyway, sounds like the cook must have been into the sherry:
I have to admit, Besh’s My New Orleans is about as intimidating as Simple, Fresh Southern is easy-going. Ted and Matt Lee are drinking beer and peeling shrimp on the cover of their book, dressed in jeans and t-shirts. John Besh is staring right at you on the cover of his, and he’s got perfect teeth. Besh is a restaurant chef of the world-class, five-star variety and his book is larger and heavier than my favorite iron skillet. At first, I was afraid to open it.
A couple of years ago Foy Allen Edelman had one of those brainstorm ideas that make you go, “why didn’t I think of doing that?” and perhaps more to the point, “can you get paid to do that?” She decided to explore the food traditions of North Carolina by visiting every county in the state and collecting traditional recipes from each one. Traditional dessert and candy recipes. There are one hundred counties in the state. The book has over two hundred recipes. So I guess Foy Allen Edelman has found a way to have her cake and eat it too.
I saved my favorite book for last. Usually, when I am attempting to convince someone to try Janis Owen’s The Cracker Kitchen I say “Come on, everyone needs a cookbook that tells them how to make possum.” This is not the selling point you’d think it would be. Really there is only one chapter devoted to “critters” (which include, among other things, possum, armadillo, freshwater turtle—she calls it “cooter,”—rattlesnake and squirrel). The rest of the book is a down home delight in down home cooking. A celebration of what they call the “cornbread-fed.” Owens is from the country “cracker” part of Florida, so the book has some really incredible citrus and vegetable recipes—not usually the strong part of your average southern cook book. There are also some unexpected things (and I’m not talking about the possum or the squirrel)—like the Strawberry-Pretzel Salad that is actually much better tasting than it sounds. And there are some amazing seafood and fish recipes which will only get short shrift here because you’ve just finished hearing about John Besh’s Trout Amandine.