Goin' Down to Mama's

Recipe Swap: Tomatoes

Tomato pie, tomato soup,tomato gravy—you say tomato, I say 'mater. They make the summer heat worth the sweat. (Though, as we all know, Southern women don't sweat—we glisten.) Tomatoes are starting to appear on plants all over my yard, and I am on the hunt for all kinds of tomato recipes. When we got married six years ago (Dave says it seems like only sixty:), I asked the friends and family who hosted my bridal tea to include a request for recipes in the invitation. And I got a recipe box full of great ones—from our friend Billie Darby's breakfast casserole to my sister-in-law Linda's sweet potato casserole to my cousin Vivian Ann's tomato pie. (Hey, VA, mind if I post it here?) There's no better gift you can share with people who love food. So if you have time to post and share, please do!

Congealed Salads: Just Say No

I've said it before and I'll say it again: there's no such thing as a "good" congealed salad. My mother sees this as an indication of some great failure on her part—the same way she would feel if I waltzed into church wearing shorts, flip-flops, and an "I Slept on Panama City Beach" T-shirt. It's just tacky. It demonstrates a lack of refinement on my part and casts doubt on my qualifications as a Southern hostess. But here are my issues with those salads. They are squishy. They have confusing textures. One minute you're in cream cheese and Cool Whip, the next, you've got pecans or marshmallows or shredded carrots in your mouth. And somewhere in all of that is Jell-O—a perfectly respectable food group on its own, but with raisins? And then there's the color palette. Green food should be crisp and snappy or fried—like lettuce or asparagus or okra. Green food should not jiggle. Ever. And yet, the first congealed salad I remember was lime green. And so Mama knew she had a fight on her hands when she insisted that I try yet another one for Sunday lunch yesterday. I tried to resist, but she hit me with the Raised Eyebrow of Mama Shame and I caved. I have to say, as congealed salads go, it wasn't bad—pretzels and strawberries and Cool Whip, etc. But as long as you're going to the trouble to make a dessert, why not just make a brownie? There. In the immortal words of Holly Hunter in O Brother, Where Art Thou,  "I've said my peace and counted to three." (But back to the brownie idea, check this one out at my friend James Schend's blog. He's a former Southern Living foodie who now works his culinary magic in San Francisco.)  http://www.dairyfreed.com/2011/05/brownies.html

 

Hushpuppies

My husband grew up in the Midwest, but he has fully embraced the Southern obsession with fried catfish and hushpuppies. Or fried shrimp and hushpuppies. Or fried . . . You get the idea. And bless his heart, every time we used to have them in restaurants, he had to endure my rant: "You think these hushpuppies are good? You just don't know. Wait till you have Mama's." Annoying, I'm sure, but absolutely true. I have had hushpuppies from Panama City, Florida, to Greenville, Mississippi. (Yes, I am a world traveler.) And nobody can beat Mama. Hers are light-as-air, crunchy-golden puffs of shut-yo-mouth deliciousness. Just ask my husband. He finally had them. (Actually, he had a whole bunch of them.)

Banana Pudding

We had the best intentions. We really did. We were acting out of Christian love, making a banana pudding for our friend Jennifer, who had just had her first baby. Mama, my cousin's wife, Jenny, and I gathered in the kitchen and set to work. The results were especially fine—a thick, rich pudding, fresh bananas, and a near-perfect, lightly golden meringue. We called Jennifer. Once. She wasn't home. We thought about calling back. Then again, you don't want to disturb a new mother. Jenny looked at me. I looked at Mama. We broke out the spoons and dove in. Doesn't it make you feel good to do something nice for others?

Creamed Corn

When I was a kid, “doing corn” was a major production—300 ears of Silver Queen gathered by Daddy and my uncles just after sunrise, before it got blistering hot outside.  Mama and Aunt Joyce would set up an assembly line of lawn chairs and galvanized washtubs filled with cool water to protect those darn-near-white ears as they were shucked. My cousin Kathy and I eventually graduated from shucking to silking, using a paring knife to remove every last silk. Cutting corn off the cob required a razor-sharp knife, which I was never allowed to use. I can still see Mother and Aunt Joyce, each with a dishpan in her lap and a cob of Silver Queen in hand, slicing in rhythm—up, up, up, down, down, down . . .

Skillet Cornbread

Remember the first line from the song "Do-Rei-Mi"? Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start . . . Well, when you're making cornbread, the very beginning is a Lodge cast iron skillet. Between us, Mama and I have them in four or five different sizes. Nowadays, you can buy them pre-seasoned, and they're sold everywhere from Walmart to Cracker Barrel. You could probably make cornbread in something else. But then if your Memaw found out, you'd be in big trouble. (This recipe makes a small batch, cooked in an 8- or 10-inch skillet.)

Potato Salad

Now who’s bringing what?  That’s how every big gathering begins in our family—with the women huddled around a kitchen table, and Mama or one of my aunts asking that question. We all have our specialties—Aunt Grace’s cornbread dressing, Aunt Patsy’s apple salad, cousins Kathy, Jenny, and Machelle on layered salad, peach ice cream, and sweet tea, respectively. And Mama? Well, she’s the potato salad queen. I know there are all kinds of it—from mustard to German, creamy to chunky. But Mama’s is the best.

Fried Chicken

When I was a child, and my family lived with my maternal grandmother, there was a stump at the end of the clothesline where Mama used to pluck chickens recently laid to rest from Aunt Eva’s chicken yard. She was only in her 30s back then.

At 30, I could barely make cheese toast, and I was so caught up in my job that I rarely cleaned my apartment and didn’t have a clue how to make things grow. But life is different now. I have a husband and a home and a garden to tend. And I am amazed by the farm girl who raised me—by the young mother who could grow flowers and tomatoes, drive any vehicle to her brothers' fields, and sing beautiful alto in the church choir. My mother could do anything—even pluck a chicken and fry it right up. And now she’s teaching me . . .

Chocolate Pie

In the South, recipes are almost always associated with somebody. It's not just a Lemon Cheese Cake—it's Aunt Vivian's Lemon Cheese Cake. And they're not just baked beans—they're Aunt Joyce's baked beans. This chocolate pie recipe is rumored to have come from our friend Billie, who is a legend in my hometown. We have all memorized her bakeware so we can spot her food at church socials. Mama, my cousin's wife, Jenny, and I got a little too anxious for a piece and didn't let it set entirely. That is NOT Miss Billie's fault. She can't help it if we lack self-control. (Special thanks to Jenny for stepping in as photographer so that I could focus on the chocolate. That's her with her husband—the aforementioned cousin—serving my wedding cake a few years back. Jenny and I, it seems, have a history with dessert.)

Stewed Squash

"You know, you've changed the way I think about things," Daddy said to me, over a particularly bountiful Sunday lunch Mama had put on the table. "Really?" I asked. "In what way?" I was expecting some revelation about how my great insight had profoundly affected his view of the world. "Well," he said, taking a bite of his stewed squash, "I didn't used to eat yellow vegetables. But now I do." (That's Daddy above, in the 1950s. Today, at 74, he still has all that hair. Now, I can't prove that eating squash had anything to do with it, but you never know . . .)