A Chicken Ain’t Nothing But a Bird

Posted on by
1

Sigh. There may be something to be said for the abundance of civilian restaurant reviewers typing away online these days, but then there are moments like this: A woman writing about Wendell Smith’s epic Meat & Three in Nashville, trying her best to like well-cooked greens and waitresses who call you “Honey,” nevertheless feels compelled to warn–that’s right, WARN–her readers that the fried chicken comes WITH THE SKIN ON!!!!
You’re not from around here, are you, Honey?

And now, a little musical reminder of whence that dinner comes:

Foggy Mountain Elegy

Posted on by
4

Earl Scrugg’s role as a pioneer will not be overstated these next few days, no matter how much hyperbole is heaped on it. What should also be acknowledged is his eagerness to continue forging into the future and the legacy it created for a whole generation after him. While other originators fretted and fumed, Earl joined up with his sons to explore new territory, allowed his curiosity to lead him to the edge where he then anchored and created a new center—unshakeable, glistening, open—for others to dance around. You can hear it here in the simple brilliance of Dawgy Mountain Breakdown with Tony Rice, David Grisman, Darol Anger and Rob Wasserman. We were all lucky to have Earl in the flesh as long as we did, in the ether now, forever.

Love Among the Creases

Posted on by
6

“I Brake for Creases.”

Maybe if I’d had that bumper sticker the driver right behind me wouldn’t have been so surprised to see my lights go on and my van make a u-turn smack in the middle of US 70 outside of Marshall, North Carolina.

“We’ve got Creasy Greens,” is the sign I’d read, perched in front of a small, glass-fronted produce market by the side of the road. I was in a hurry and for a second thought of just keeping on down the road, but then I heard my mother’s voice in my head, the almost reverent whisper she used to say “creases” and the way her eyes would sparkle at the memory of foraging for them with her grandma, Maw.

“No, not watercress,” she’d say when I pressed her for a description. “They don’t grow in water,” and her voice was almost dismissive, as if dipping their toes in a mountain stream might be a frivolous thing for such greens to do. And she was almost scornful when I said I’d read someone saying they tasted pretty much like their aquatic kin. “Creases are better,” she’d sniffed.

But the fact is I’d not tasted them to judge myself, and so I executed a quick driving hazard, apologized to Gracie, my dog, for the sudden lurch and pulled in. The market was spic and span clean and so were the owner’s creases. She grinned when I told her why I was there and owned as how she’d picked them just that very dawn. In fact, we walked back out to her pick-up to get the box they were still in, she having just arrived and opened moments before I got there. Serendipity, indeed.

She pulled a clump, still attached to their root stem, out of the orange crate and examined it. “The girl who cleaned ‘em done right by ya,” she judged, and I agreed. There wasn’t a speck of silt or sand to be seen, the bane of crease lovers everywhere, worse than cleaning field-fresh spinach, I am told. I popped a couple of leaves straight in my mouth and, as I have so many times in my life, thought, “Mama was right.” Yes, there’s a kinship to watercress, but the land crease is so much fuller, more intense, in both flavor and texture. You wouldn’t make a crustless tea sandwich out of these, but they could pepper up a real country ham sammich just fine, and would be grand in a hefty supper salad. And the creases were going to be great cooked, I could tell.

The proprietor told me she cultivated her creases in a nearby field now, not enough to be found searching the woods, as she had as a child. I wondered why more hip southern Appalachian farm-to-table restaurants weren’t putting them on the menu, then realized why when I got home, trimmed them and threw them in a big skillet with some olive oil and a splash of Spanish paprika for bacon essence. I covered the creases and left them to steam in the little water I’d used to rinse them while I quick-fried a big buttermilk corn pone. When I got back to my “mess” it had become just a dollop, barely enough to satisfy my tongue, not enough at all to sate my soul. But, oh, what a glory of purifying, sanctifying taste!

Next time I’ll buy the whole crate.

For more on the mystery of southern greens, see “Sallet Days, Sallet Ways” on page 70 of the spring issue of TheZenchilada.com.

Trader Joe’s Thursday Tip

Posted on by
Reply

First let me say up front that I know not everyone has a Trader Joe’s in the neighborhood, and believe me, I feel your pain. We have therapists standing by.

The only thing worse than living in a town without TJ’s, though, is living in a town without Mardi Gras. If you have Carnival and no TJ’s, who cares? If you have TJ’s and no Carnival, well here’s a little quick supper solace. This recipe makes no claim to authenticity, but it’s fast and incredibly good.

TJ’s Joe-mbalaya

1 package Trader Joe’s Chicken Andouille Sausage

olive oil

2 pkgs TJ’s frozen Chimmichurri Rice

1 can TJ’s roasted diced tomatoes with green chile

hot sauce to taste

Slice sausages in rounds about 1/2 inch wide. In a big wide pot (a deep skillet will do just fine) heat  olive oil, and brown sausage. Add frozen rice and water according to package directions. When the rice begins to heat up, add the tomatoes with green chile. Stir some so nothing sticks to the pan. Let it all come to a soft bubbling roil, then turn off the heat and cover, letting the flavors mingle, for about five minutes. Serve with loaves of French bread and cold beer. Try to pretend like yo’ mama would have put peas in her jambalaya if it tasted this good. Try not to eat too much.

The Redneck Riviera Cocktail

Posted on by
2

Before we get down to the meat of the matters, how about a little appetizer and drink first? How about a Redneck Riviera?

This divine cocktail was devised, as many of the South’s best new food ideas have been, at the annual symposium of the Southern Foodways Alliance. Much erudition takes place onstage in the formal presentations, but invention seems to pair up even better with the sweet sips of bourbon that accompany conversation around the dinner plate.

The Riviera impulse came on the coolish Saturday night after awards and presentations as several of us were standing in the BBQ and fixings line. Nobody was in a hurry, especially not me as someone was sharing generously from a container of Pappy Van Winkle the size of a country ham. I do so believe it was Craig Rogers of Border Springs Farm Lamb in Virginia, but Lord knows, I’d had my share and so I could be wrong about this. I was wrong in my first recollection that it was Sean Brock of McCrady’s in Charleston that made up the rest of our Trinity. It was in fact the beautiful and brilliant Jay Pierce, executive chef at Lucky32 in Greensboro, NC. Sean came later when we were gleefully distributing shells among the masses. And where did those shells come from? Just across the way from us, Ed Lee of 610 Magnolia was passing out fat and smacking fresh Virginia oysters on the half shell as fast as folks could eat them.

Knowing we needed a little something to tide us over for the next five minutes in line, I slipped off to Ed’s table and filled my arm, diner-waitress style, with as many oysters as I could juggle. It was an artful ballet to get them back to my companions as each shell was swimming with a delicately herbed mignonette and a smug, plump little mollusk bathing in it. Being my Mama’s girl, I shared all but one, slipping that tangy, salty, musky critter delicately into my mouth with delight.

And there it was, Mother of Invention, indeed: A briny, herby pool of goodness remained in a perfectly shaped oyster shell. “Pour a little of that Pappy Van Winkle in here,” I said. If I’d been with a crowd of engineers, at a convention of Star Wars buffs or a Mary Kay retreat, I might have encountered a dubious look or two. Instead my pals looked game and curious. “You go first,” was the only hint of hesitation I heard, but it could have been Southern Gentlemanliness just as well.

I sipped, I slurped, I sighed and grinned. We rushed the oyster table and the party truly began. The sweetness of the bourbon sidles right up to the bite of the brine and then the mignonette sprinkles benediction over all. In other words, it’s a damned good drink.

“What are we gonna call this thing?” one of my companions finally said. I won’t take claim to inspiration. I am sure it was the Pappy, or maybe the gods of the ocean that responded. I was just the mouthpiece. “Redneck Riviera,” I answered. “It’s what happens when Kentuckians go to Destin.”