A simplistic approach to ice cream. Photo: Sir Mildred Pierce
It's National Ice Cream month, and who -- the lactose-intolerant aside -- doesn't like ice cream?
Well, Southerners. America's favorite dessert is still a third-tier treat below the Mason-Dixon line, where cakes and puddings have a firm hold on the region's collective sweet tooth. Even in the most sweltering of Southern summers, New Englanders out-gorge their Southern neighbors. (Heck, New Englanders hang onto their ice cream eating edge straight through the winter, when their freezers are sometimes warmer than the air outside.)
Nobody's quite sure why Southerners never took to ice cream, although North Carolina food writer Sheri Castle confirms the phenomenon: "It's just not a big thing," she says. She suspects the relative paucity of milk cows might have contributed to ice cream's historical absence from the local food scene.
But a few serious ice cream makers are bent on tweaking the Southern tradition. Shops such as Ultimate Ice Cream in Asheville, N.C., and Morelli's in Atlanta are now providing a gentle -- and delicious -- introduction to the genre.
In this weekly series, home cook Bruce Watson works his way through a decades-old family cookbook, adapting the best recipes exclusively for Slashfood.
When my mother, who had been raised on kosher half-sour pickles, first tried bread-and-butters, she was immediately overwhelmed. For someone who was used to the tart flavor of Northeastern dills and half-sours, the Southern sweetness of the bread-and-butters were an absolute delight.
Through a combination of compliments and guile, she managed to get hold of our friend Millie's recipe. From that year on, we had a huge picklefest every summer, when we'd spend two or three days putting up bread-and-butter pickles.
While these are extremely sweet pickles, I have kept the recipe almost exactly the way my mom made it. This is partly due to the necessities of pickling, and partially due to a sense of tradition. Mostly, though, it's due to the fact that I regularly swap these pickles out for gherkins or sweet pickle relish.
Get the recipe for bread-and-butter pickles after the jump.
Chez Dolley and James Madison. Photo: Mark F. Levisay
There's no telling how Dolley Madison, celebrated for her exceedingly proper social graces, would have felt about folks sifting through her midden.
But that's just what the archaeologists at Montpelier -- the onetime Virginia home of former President James Madison -- have been doing since 2007, when they first uncovered the (very first) First Lady's trash heap. Their findings, many of which pertain to the Madisons' culinary habits, will likely be supplemented this summer by a new excavation of the estate's North Kitchen. According to spokeswoman Beth Morrill, interpreters at the historic site are planning to use their discoveries about how and what the Madisons ate to engage a new generation of hungry visitors.
"We're teaching children about recycling," Morrill says, pointing to a recently unveiled hands-on exhibit that teaches children about the Madisons' penchant for using every part of an animal (every part except, it seems, for the shell: Dolley Madison's midden was well-stocked with discarded oyster shells, the fruit of which likely paired nicely with the Champagne she served her guests.)
Purple peas and those who love to shell them. Photo: Bill Dailey
Don't bother entering the World Cup Purple Hull Pea Shelling Competition this year.
That's because organizers say Doeleta Weaver, who's outshelled her competitors three years running, is planning to defend her crown at the Emerson, Ark., event this Saturday. Weaver is essentially unbeatable, having displaced the informal brigade of older women who for years took turns finishing first.
"She is absolutely phenomenal," says Bill Dailey, spokesperson for the Purple Hull Pea Festival. "She's got a natural knack for it."
More than a dozen ambitious shellers are expected to challenge Weaver this year, but Dailey predicted few of the younger aspirants would have much of a shot: "Adults always, almost inevitably, do the best," he says.
'Lee Bailey's Southern Food & Plantation Houses' Recipes by Lee Bailey and the Pilgrimage Garden Club Photographs by Tom Eckerle Clarkson Potter -- 1989 Buy it at Amazon
Lee Bailey is a Louisiana native, home-furnishings store owner and the author of several books on food and entertaining. So he comes to this, his seventh book, quite naturally: both a compendium of Southern recipes and tour of the plantations in and around Natchez, Miss., it's part "Antiques Roadshow," part Southern Foodways Alliance, part National Lawn & Garden Show.
It's elegant, faintly -- and winningly -- eccentric, and imbued with unaggressive charm. Reading it is like taking a courtly stroll through a vast garden, bottomless mint julep in hand. You can almost smell the clematis -- and the gumbo.
Takeaway Tips: This is as much a celebration of Natchez as its food: the book begins with a self-explanatory section entitled "Natchez Bouquets" (remember, the tome was co-written by the town's Garden Pilgrimage Club) and recipes are organized into menus that are paired with particular plantations. "Informal Dinner at Stanton Hall," for example, provides readers with a brief history of the towering antebellum estate.
See what we tested and whether it's worth buying after the jump.
Lonesome Valley's Canyon Kitchen. Photo courtesy of Lonesome Valley
With the competition to sell exclusive mountain lots becoming increasingly cutthroat, developers have begun using black-eyed peas and collard greens to lure prospective buyers through their gates.
Planned communities in the Southeast have long relied on free rounds of golf, celebrity appearances and swanky wine-and-cheese soirees to show off their properties. But Lonesome Valley, an 800-acre spread in Cashiers, N.C., is perhaps the first development to acknowledge the quickest way to a Southern land hunter's wallet is through his stomach: The development last month unveiled Canyon Kitchen, a weekends-only restaurant helmed by superstar chef John Fleer.
"We have 200 lots here and about 50 that we've sold," explains food and beverage manager Sallie Peterkin. "So we've invited the public. We've got reservations coming out of our ears."
While the recently announced Tabasco Brand Hottest Chef competition is open only to food service professionals and culinary students, many home cooks have already mastered the contest's implicit theme: Use hot sauce to make cheap food taste better.
Contest entrants are being asked to create a "budget-friendly" entrée incorporating one of Tabasco's signature pepper sauces. The winning recipe is worth $10,000, which means this will likely be the last time the winning chef will have to resort to finding flavor in a $3.99 bottle.
For recession-struck eaters, however, hot sauces like Tabasco have become indispensable for enlivening otherwise dreary meals of Ramen noodles, beans and rice and boxed macaroni and cheese.
A culinary trip down to Georgia often includes shrimp and grits, barbecue, crispy flounder and red velvet cake. Now Green Hill, a creamy bloomy rind cow's milk cheese, can be added to that gastronomic list thanks to Sweet Grass Dairy in Thomasville, Ga.
Tasting a piece of Green Hill is like opening a taste bud treasure chest. Its lush creamy texture melts dreamily on the palate, leaving a pleasantly mild tang.
While Green Hill shares many characteristics with its imported French cousin, Camembert, it boasts a uniquely buttery consistency. And whereas most imported Camembert has become industrialized for the United States market, Green Hill remains a standout handmade farmstead cheese.
With Southern chefs sourcing everything from trout to tempeh locally, it seems almost impossible they'd overlook something as basic as beans. But Appalachian food advocates say the region's leading kitchens have inadvertently snubbed one of the mountains' most distinctive crops.
"People who like to eat out should see more beans with local history," asserts Peter Marks of the Appalachian Sustainable Agriculture Program, who's urging western North Carolina produce distributors to help wean local chefs off the standard Florida snap beans they now use for their soups, casseroles and oh-so-fancy green bean almandines.
Marks' organization is championing the neglected greasy bean as an alternative to the ubiquitous (and often flavorless) bush bean, with its puny beans and limp, stringless pod. Greasys are the beans mountaineers have been eating since European settlers first poked their wagons over the Blue Ridge, and -- depending on which scholar you trust -- possibly for many years before that.
"It's a muscular bean," says Ron Caylor, who annually plants four or five rows of greasys on his farm in Jonesborough, Tenn. "When they're ripe, they just burst with delicious vibes."
As eaters who've had the opportunity to stuff themselves silly at a dinner on the ground know, Southern churches can be fine places to dine. Church potlucks, socials and family night suppers are sometimes the most reliable bets for knee-weakeningly good deviled eggs, pimento cheese, tomato salad, ham casserole and caramel cake.
But a recent trend means folks no longer have to monitor bulletins for edible events: Baptist churches throughout the region have lately formalized their role in upholding Southern food traditions by opening full-service cafés on their now sizable campuses. While chefs across Dixie are succumbing to the allure of molecular gastronomy and global cooking techniques, some churches have become important outposts of culinary preservation.
"Our clientele here would rather have a piece of fried chicken than a piece of beef tenderloin any time," says Chris Harwell, a professionally trained chef who helms the kitchen at Immanuel Baptist Church's Solid Roc Café in Lexington, Ky. "It's not the most sophisticated of palates."
When it comes to naming drinks after people -- whether they be real or fictional -- what comes first? Do you decide to honor a personage and then make the appropriate cocktail, or do you mix it up and then go, "Hmmm... who does this remind me of?"
Get prepared. Back from a trip to Key West, I'm ready to revel in all things Cuban, tropical, and rum tasty ... until I whimper for the blue seas again and retreat back into my cave.
Above is the sandwich that almost never got eaten. I went to Key West, indulged in as much rum, seafood, and Cuban food as I could handle, and then got waylayed by a freak snowstorm in Atlanta. During my extra day in the sun, I walked the length of Simonton St. and came upon Ana's Cuban Cafe (1222 White St) -- the place I kept meaning to stop at, but never made it to. I'll never make that mistake again, and I hope you won't either.
The cafe is nestled inside a simple corner store, jam-packed with drinks and food. I walked to the counter and ordered a Cuban sandwich -- ham, pulled pork, lettuce, cheese, and mustard pressed between delicious slices of Cuban bread. It was both simple and delicious -- the sort of dish that doesn't need to rely on fancy ingredients because every single one goes perfectly with the next. But the hero of this sandwich is the bread. Cuban bread is wonderfully soft inside, so getting pressed in a plancha, it crisps up easily on the outside, and condenses into almost nothing on the inside. That way, you get the perfect flavor of bread without the stomach-filling weight of a thicker variety. Divine simplicity, just like the cafe itself.
Add Albertson's to the roll call of companies shutting doors due to the recession. The grocery chain has announced that they will be closing multiple stores in economically slammed locations like Florida, Texas, California and Nevada. Albertson's will still be the second-biggest supermarket chain in the U.S., but a bit of the bloom will be off the rose (or, if you prefer, ripeness off the tomato or mayo off the macaroni salad).
Of course, this means that there are bargains to be had at stores that are being terminated, with discounts of 10-90% off. I myself have picked up bags full of Indian specialties for 75% off (thus, my normally overpriced $4 jaipur vegetables are now a solidly discounted dollar), as well as staples like soup and beans for less than a buck and stacks of disposable foil baking pans for a dime apiece. I also scored some Bumble & Bumble hair products for under $10, but you can't eat those.
If you see an Alberston's with a "Store Closing" sign, it's worth checking out.
The outrageous, irreverent Flora-Bama Lounge and Package straddles the Florida-Alabama border on a thin strip of land called Perdido Key, a few miles of gleaming white sand between the Gulf of Mexico and the Intracoastal Waterway. This part of the country is, for better or worse, also known as the Redneck Riviera, and my family owns a condo there. At any given time, the Flora-Bama sees more action than any other spot on Perdido Key, with the Crab Trap and Shrimp Basket following distantly in the wake.
In the five years we've owned the condo, I ventured into the Flora-Bama for the first time only recently, at the urging of some curious houseguests from up North who were itching for some local color. We'd planned to get appetizers there before heading to supper elsewhere, but the potty-themed lyrics of the live music induced us to stick to the scenery and a round of Coronas with lime.
Corona is Corona, but the scenery is one of a kind. Above a pair of clotheslines on the ceiling weighted down with what must be thousands of seemingly spontaneously donated bras of every shape and color, there is a sign, pictured, listing the Interstate Mullet Toss Age Categories. The Mullet Toss is exactly what it sounds like. Each year, the Flora-Bama holds a competition to see who can throw a dead mullet, a fish native to Gulf waters, farthest across the state line. More on the scenery, including a photo, after the jump.
From my great-grandmother (called MaMa by her descendants), an inimitable Southern cook and hostess, I inherited a wooden spoon and a set of Chantilly silver that she purchased for herself from wages earned on the Singer Sewing Machine sales floor. Recently, I found out that another piece of MaMa's kitchen is still in the family: her West Bend Deep Fryer, which she purchased in the mid-1970s and passed along to my mother when my parents bought their first beach condo.
As an over-active child, I paid no attention to the equipment my parents used to fry the bream and bass that my brother and I caught in a lake near our condo. Fast forward two decades, during which my family indulged in fried foods less and less. The fryer had fallen into disuse until a few weeks ago, when I decided to try my hand at homemade French fries to accompany some rib-eyes that my cousin sent for Christmas. I was spending a week with my family at our current condo on the Florida panhandle, and my mother mentioned that I could use the old deep fryer.
Heirloom silver and an old wooden spoon are one thing, but antique appliances? Between the fryer's advanced age and my complete inexperience with fries, I was apprehensive to say the least. Find a picture of the results after the jump.
We can change the way we make eggs -- scrambled, poached, fried -- but what about changing the eggs themselves? Mix up your scrambling routine with quail eggs.
Second Helping of Slashfood - June 19
Competitive-Eating Contest to Pit Humans Against Elephants
The Backyard Boom - The Hungry Bride
