July 2016 Newsletter
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July’s Enduring Joys As I so often do in this newsletter, I’m going to take the opportunity, once again, to indulge in reminiscence and rumination. Many of you seem to share my affinity for these longing looks backward to a world which we have, sadly, in all too many ways lost. Maybe it’s just my age, but it’s going to take a heap of convincing to get me to admit that those simpler days and simpler ways of a half century or so ago weren’t better times. I know for sure that growing up in a home without a television, with a party line phone shared by three other families, lacking a freezer, and even having a wood-burning cook stove until about the time I reached by teens was a blessing. Similarly, I don’t think my character development was harmed by the occasional dose of “hickory tea,” and there’s no doubt that mowing grass with a push mower, hoeing endless rows of corn with Grandpa Joe, helping him slop the hogs and feed the chickens, or listening to old men tell tales at the local gathering place known as Loafer’s Glory enriched my life as opposed to leaving me overworked or oppressed. My allowance started out at a dime a week and went up to a quarter at the age of twelve, but it wasn’t an automatic thing. I was expected to lay kindling and paper in the wood-burning stove each night so it would be ready to light the next day, and helping with the dishes was another “given” indoor chore. Outside Daddy saw to it that I started mowing our lawn at an early age, and Momma expected (in truth, demanded) help with the flower beds she so loved. Any extra chores, such as caddying for Daddy when he played golf on Sunday afternoons or picking blackberries when they were in season, did earn some extra pocket money. I never had much of it but a little went a long way. Any time I had a dollar bill in my pocket I considered myself temporarily rich. After all, I could watch a fine Western matinee at the local theater on a Saturday afternoon for a dime, and for another dime buy a fountain drink and either popcorn or a candy bar. If I was especially flush with funds a quarter would allow me to go to one of several local establishments and purchase a milkshake made with real ice cream, a hamburger with all the fixings, or a warm fried pie with two scoops of ice cream. A dime would get you a double-scoop ice cream cone or a fountain drink at any of the local drug stores (there were three of them even though the town’s population wasn’t too much over a thousand) was a nickel. A bottled coke cost the same for my early years but in my teens it went to seven cents and then a dime. I can’t say that I was especially frugal with what little money I had, although certain goals could find me penurious for a time. Among them were saving enough money to buy a whole box of shotgun shells at the start of the fall squirrel season, putting aside enough to buy a dozen trout flies (although I must shamefacedly admit I was mighty bad to filch from Daddy’s vest any time he had made a trip to the home of the local fly-tying wizards, Fred and Allene Hall, to stock up on these frauds of fur and feather). Interestingly, I never realized we as a family were comparatively poor until I went off to college. There was always plenty of food on the table, adequate clothing (and until I was well into high school being spiffily attired didn’t matter to me one way or the other), and pretty much everyone I knew was in circumstances more or less similar to those of my family. Only when I went off to college and was around some students who had money, a car, and could seemingly buy something whenever the spirit moved them, did I realize my family was lower middle class. Once in a while, maybe twice a semester, I’d get a letter from Mom with two or three dollars and on rare occasions there would be a five dollar bill tucked inside. Talk about thinking I was in high cotton! What is noteworthy about all of this is that it never troubled me in any way and I was certainly shaped by aspects of my parents’ characters related to money. Both were very frugal, although Mom more so than Dad (and he never threw anything away, always figuring there would sooner or later be a use for scraps of wood, metal, or whatever). Both had grown to adulthood just as the Great Depression rocked the country, and on top of that both came from very poor families. They endowed me with a strong belief in the sanctity of hard work, the importance of watching my pennies (something I’ve never actually been particularly good at), making do with what you’ve got rather than detesting or envying those who had more, and as they might have put it, never getting above my raising. One other thing that was really important to them was education. Daddy had realized this before he was married and did a good deal to help put two of his younger sisters through college. Mom, despite losing her mother when she was an infant and being raised by relatives in what was a traumatically peripatetic childhood, loved books and everything about learning. Having had such a fractured childhood she also knew the value of home and when she and Daddy bought a house shortly after getting married she expressed her thoughts quite simply: “I never want to move again.” Her fervent wish was fulfilled and that house is still in the family, today the home of my brother and his wife. That home provided so many summer memories, and after wandering down side paths on family background, as I am wont to do, I’d like to resurrect some of the more meaningful of them. Here’s a sampling.
There was more, much more. I played lots of golf, messed around the river as a sort of river rat in training, and from the time I was about fourteen always had some type of summer job. Among the things I did were bag groceries, work on the golf course mowing fairways and dragging greens (the “greens” were actually sand and had to be smoothed with a drag on a regular basis), mow lawns, and work in gift shops and a motel in nearby Cherokee. It says a world about the time of my boyhood that I regularly thumbed to the jobs in Cherokee, which was ten miles away, although I had a ride home in the evening. Today the simple thought of a teenager thumbing would scare the bejeebers out of parents, yet never once did I fail to catch a ride to work and never once was there so much as a hint of danger. Tell me those weren’t better times and I think I’ve got a sound argument to counter any such statement. I reckon that’s enough musing for this month, so I’ll finish with a sampling of recipes. FRIED CORN What Momma called fried corn wasn’t really fried at all although it was prepared in a frying pan. She would fry fatback in the pan she was going to use for the corn and save some of the grease. She would then introduce corn she had cut from the cob, possibly with a bit of milk if the corn had gotten a bit too big and was past roasting ear stage, and let it simmer until done. The grease from the streaked meat gave it a magical flavor, and I liked a big slice or two of tomato atop my hefty helping of corn. WATERMELON SALAD Most of this month’s recipes come straight from Momma’s kitchen, but this one is my own invention. Cube a portion of a good watermelon and remove the seeds (a good watermelon, to me, is going to have seeds and not be one of the modern sissy seedless pretenders that sacrifice taste in order to get rid of seeds). Add some torn spinach, lettuce, or arugula along with a chopped mint leaf or two and some sunflower seeds. Dress with just a bit of oil and vinegar and, if you wish, add a few thin slices of fresh pineapple. WATERMELON RIND PICKLES Grandma Minnie was a dedicated disciple of the “waste not, want not” school of thinking. That doubtless came from a combination of circumstances including having had a hard life from the time she was a child right through marriage and indeed to the end of her life, the responsibilities of raising a large brood of children with too few resources, living through the Great Depression when she was middle aged, and thanks to her Scotch-Irish heritage. Jim Webb’s first-rate book on the role of the Scotch-Irish in American history carries the title Born Fighting, but the title “Born Frugal” would have been equally appropriate. A fine example of Grandma’s frugality came with watermelon rinds. Thanks to Grandpa having a passionate culinary love affair with watermelons, there were always plenty of rinds available for pickling. One of the enduring images from my childhood is going to the refrigerator at Grandma and Grandpa’s home in the summer and opening the door to paradise. On the top left shelf you could always find three things that suited me to a “T.” Those were a big glass jug full of water, a quart jar holding pickled peaches, and another quart jar holding watermelon rind pickles. The water was so cold it set your teeth on edge and so sweet it was almost like liquid dessert (the town of Bryson City where I grew up has always had exceptionally fine water, and it has always come from mountain streams), while the pickles were to me a perfect between meals treat. I don’t have Grandma’s watermelon rind pickles recipe, and in fact I don’t ever recall her consulting any recipe card or printed material when she cooked. She cooked by pinch, dash, a “touch of this,” and lengthy experience. That being said, this recipe comes close.
8 pounds watermelon rind Prepare the rind for pickling by cutting away the hard outer green of the rind, leaving white flesh and a quarter inch or so of pink watermelon meat. Cut the pink-and-white rind into one-inch cubes and then mix with the pickling salt in a large bowl or porcelain churn and refrigerate for at least 12 hours. After the rinds have marinated in the pickling salt rinse thoroughly and set aside momentarily. In a large soup pot, stock pot, or stew pot mix the remaining ingredients (vinegar, sugar, and cloves) and bring to a boil, stirring constantly to be sure the sugar dissolves completely. Add the rind to the resulting brine mixture and bring back to a boil before reducing the heat to a low boil. Cook uncovered until the rind becomes translucent (20-25 minutes). If necessary, add a bit of water. Next fill quart jars that have been washed and sterilized for canning to within a half to three-quarters of an inch of the top with the rinds and liquid (a funnel and tongs help with this process). Once the jars are full carefully wipe their edges clean then seal them with lids. Place the jars in a canner, being careful to keep them vertical at all times, and then cover with hot water to at least an inch above the jar lids. Bring the water to a rolling boil and process for five to seven minutes. Allow to cool undisturbed for several hours before checking to see that all the jars are sealed. If a jar or two fails to seal, place them in a refrigerator and eat in the next week or two. The sealed jars will last many months but pickles should be consumed within a year. MOMMA’S FRIED CHICKEN I’ll acknowledge at the outset that try as I may I’ve never quite been able to match Momma’s fried chicken, and I don’t think anyone else has either. Grandma Minnie was a wizard in the kitchen, but when it came to frying chicken Mom had her beat. My brother Don fries first-rate chicken as well, but somehow it’s never quite as succulent or melt-in-your mouth tender as Momma’s was.
1 or 2 whole chickens, cut into pieces (legs, thighs, wings, and
breasts) with skin left on Drench each piece in the egg wash and then coat thoroughly with flour (mix your salt and pepper in with the flour) before placing in piping hot oil in a cast iron spider. (I think cooking in cast iron makes a difference, but don’t ask me to prove it.) Cook slowly until thoroughly brown. All of this seems normal enough, but it is Mom’s final step that made all the difference. Once she had all the chicken fried and placed atop paper towels to drain a bit, she would clean the cast iron skillet and put the fried chicken back in it. She would then turn the oven on at low heat (200 degrees or maybe a bit less) and put the skillet in the oven. She normally did this just before heading off to church on Sunday. After church she would pop the skillet out of the oven once she had readied the rest of the meal. I don’t recommend leaving it for a couple of hours the way she did, or at least not until you figure out the right timing and temperature of the oven. Being in the oven seemed to do two things—cook away some of the surplus grease and make the chicken so tender it almost fell from the bones and melted in your mouth. Mercy was it fine! VENISON BURGER GRAVY This variation on Mom’s hamburger gravy is the essence of simplicity, and the only difference is that I substitute ground venison for ground beef. Incidentally, I like the gravy atop crumbled cornbread even better than over a cathead biscuit or sliced bread. Brown ground venison in a large cast iron skillet, adding a bit of olive oil if it did not have any suet included when processed. Add flour to the meat just as the browning is completed and stir steadily while alternating adding milk and more flour until you get the desired consistency. Just remember that the gravy will thicken quickly once you remove it from the pan, and a mixture that seems a bit thin will actually be just right by the time you get it to the table. FRIED STREAKED MEAT AND CORNBREAD I’ve shared my cornbread recipe in the past and if you can’t fry streaked meat you best not fool with something complicated like boiling eggs. The key to frying streaked meat is simple—fry it until the fat streaks are fully cooked and crispy. At that point it’s a salt-laden, cholesterol-laced slab of pure sinful delight, and a big piece fried until it’s so crisp you could crumble it with your hands and placed in a piece of cornbread will flat-out bring tears of joy to a glass eye. STUFFED SQUASH
1 or 2 yellow crookneck squash or one small zucchini per person Cook squash in oven or microwave just long enough to get them done completely through. Remove and allow to cool before scooping out the small seeds and interior flesh. Mix the scooped material with crumbled cornbread, bacon bits, and maybe a spoon full of grease from fried bacon. Stuff the squash with the cornbread mix, and top with cheddar cheese. Bake briefly in oven until the cheese melts and maybe just begins to brown. Serve piping hot. This is my favorite way to eat squash. Thank you for subscribing to the
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Right
on time (in fact a week early), my fifth anthology of Archibald
Rutledge material has been delivered. Entitled Bird Dog Days,
Wingshooting Ways: Archibald Rutledge’s Upland Game Stories,
the book brings together almost two dozen of his timeless pieces
on bird hunting and bird dogs along with one delightful short
story, “The Odyssey of Bodio.” An earlier version of the book
appeared years ago but has long been out of print. I also made a
big mistake with my original choice of a publisher. Fortunately
that is now rectified and the current edition, which includes
some changes in my editorial material and other contributions to
the work, comes from the same folks who have published the other
Rutledge anthologies, the University of South Carolina Press.
They’ve been consistently good to work with and produce nice
books at a reasonable price.