American

For the longest time, I might have been the only person in the tristate area completely oblivious to the beautiful oversize black-and-white cookies found in every bodega from Brooklyn to the Bronx. Have you had one? Me, I was never allowed because of my food sensitivities, of course. So when I went to the kitchen and started brainstorming ideas for iconic cookies, this was one of the first ones I tackled. Prepare to be bathed in the sweet comfort of vanilla-chocolate overload.

I’m a lady who unabashedly prefers her cookies thin, chewy, and intoxicatingly buttery. If I want a hunk of cake, I go for the cake section. This isn’t to say, however, that the preeminent cookie of my youth was not the mighty and comparatively meaty Chips Ahoy! And not those late-issue, M&M–flecked monstrosities, either. I’m talking the real-deal original flavor, in all their dry and crumbly wonder. This is my version of that wonderfully named cookie.

When you round the curve on Black Hawk Road in hilly Carroll County, you will see it on the left. In four-foot letters the name “Cox” is spelled out in boxwoods. About twenty years ago Mr. Cox started cutting his hedges into all manner of fanciful shapes. He has had a life-size cowboy wearing a Stetson and riding a horse, an alligator, a bird in a cage, and an elephant two times life-size. One of my favorites is a rabbit eating a carrot. Mr. Cox kind of has the temperament of Mr. McGregor in The Tale of Peter Rabbit. He has even snipped a self-portrait out of his hedgerow. It looks just like him, with a long beard and a farmer’s straw hat perched on his head. I love to go out and visit with him. He is a spirited old gent and he lets you know pretty quickly if he is in the mood for company or not. If I bring him a carrot cake, he seems more amiable.

I try to keep my carbon footprint in check and buy local and all, but every now and then I throw caution to the wind and buy a fresh pineapple from a long way away. Recently I was talking to some fourth-grade kids in the town closest to the farm. Not one out of the fifteen or so kids had ever seen a fresh pineapple other than the one SpongeBob lives in; they just knew they came from a long way away or in a can.

Miss Moina Michael was born in 1869 in Good Hope, Georgia. She was educated at Lucy Cobb Institute, Georgia State Teachers College, and Columbia University in New York City, quite an accomplishment for a woman of her times. She went on to work as a professor at the University of Georgia. When World War One broke out she left her teaching position to volunteer in the war effort. When the war was over Miss Moina returned to the University of Georgia, where she taught continuing education classes for disabled servicemen. She conceived a fundraising idea to help the veterans: selling small silk poppies inspired by John McCrae’s memorial poem “In Flanders Fields.” (“In Flanders fields the poppies blow/Between the crosses row on row.”) Miss Moina from then on wore a red poppy to bring attention to the cause of disabled veterans. By 1921 the American Legion had adopted her red poppy as a symbol of remembrance for fallen soldiers. To me this delicious cake, decorated with red poppies, is as fitting for a patriotic celebration as anything red, white, and blue. Memorial Day is the perfect occasion to serve these poppy seed petits fours.

Satsuma mandarins are a hardy little citrus grown all along the Gulf Coast areas south of I-10 from Satsuma, Texas, on through Satsuma, Alabama, to Satsuma, Florida. The juice is very sweet and low in acid and the fruit easy to strain, with only a seed or two found in each one. Look for satsumas along roadside stands.

To me egg custard pie is an exemplary Southern dessert. Simple vanilla-flavored custard graced with a dusting of grated nutmeg atop a crisp crust is just what I would have served Miss Welty if I had ever had the chance to thank her for how much her stories have meant to me. I would have also thanked her for a gift that I have begun to appreciate, now that I am—for lack of a better term—grown up: the idea that you don’t have to leave the place you love and know, that it is not a prerequisite that to understand home you must exile yourself to gain perspective. No, she led by example and temperament. I hope she would have enjoyed this gratitude pie. I think she might have, with her keenness for custards and all.

The week of July 9, 1955, “Rock Around the Clock” bumped “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White” off the top of the charts. That was the week rock and roll became king. This combination of Granny Smiths and cherries rocks.

This can be cooked in a slow cooker, in a Dutch oven on top of the stove, or in a roasting pan in a 375°F. oven. Pick the way that suits you. Any way you cook it, you will find that the sweet pickle relish and barbecue sauce flavor the meat through and through.

Plump country pigeons roost on local grain silos fattening themselves up on the wheat or corn that has spilled. My father is a crack shot and regularly shoots doubles at skeeting events. He occasionally does some practice shooting around the silos, bringing home a batch of fat little birds. In town look for pigeon in the market, not on statuary. Pigeons at the market are called squab. The biggest difference between the two is those squabs have never flown.

Freshwater prawns farmed in Mississippi are hatched in the nursery and kept in brackish water for three weeks. After that they are moved to fresh artesian well water in the nursery for thirty more days and then are stocked in ponds when the water temperature reaches the mid-sixties. After about four months they have grown large enough to bring to market. When the prawns are harvested in the fall from the artesian waters I always make a batch of this dirty rice. It is Southern through and through and well seasoned.

Back when I was in high school we hung out at Estella’s Tavern on Moonbeam Street. It had Formica tables, walls covered halfway with variegated shag carpet and then mirrored the rest of the way up, low lighting, and a hell of a jukebox that had the Nat King Cole song “Sweet Lorraine” on it. I remember some very-late-night meals of pan trout (which was most likely whiting) doused with hot sauce, fried, crisp, and served on slices of white bread—completed, of course, by cold beer in a can. Man, oh man, were those delicious! Pan trout are what we call just about any fish small enough to fit in a little skillet. Giving the fish fillets a coating of white bread crumbs and a good shot of hot sauce whisks me back in time and has me humming “Sweet Lorraine.”

A mirliton is a chayote squash or a vegetable pear. It is also the name for instruments in which a voice resonates over a membrane, as in a kazoo. The Carolina Chocolate Drops are bringing the kazoo back in style with their unique take on traditional jug-band music. I am mounting a campaign to bring the squash back too.

My friend Cindy Nix Sturdivant lives on the Countiss Place near Swan Lake, Mississippi. She has a nice plot of tomatoes, herbs, and peppers out the back door of her kitchen. This hot and spicy dish is inspired by her. She is so much fun because she can always get folks fired up for a party, like her epic dove hunt party, which grows every year, on Labor Day weekend. She needs to plant a bigger plot.

When Ernestine Williams, mother of Ole Miss Colonel Reb and NFL football great Gentle Ben Williams, was teaching me how to make skillet fried corn, the top of the black pepper shaker fell off and a ton of pepper fell in the skillet. She scooped out as much as she could but there was still a whole lot that got left in. We liked it. Now when I make it I add a good bit of black pepper and a whole lot of garlic. You have to use fresh corn in this dish; frozen just won’t do if you want it to really fry up nice.

I was a boy-crazy preteen when I went on a trip to visit my friend’s grandmother Beauxma in Saint Martinville, Louisiana, in the sugarcane-growing region of the state. I was so taken by the story of the Evangeline Oak. In 1907, St. Martinville author Felix Voorhies wrote Acadian Reminiscences: With the True Story of Evangeline, inspired by tales told to him by his grandmother. The account of Emmeline Labiche and Louis Arceneaux is said to be about the real people behind Longfellow’s tragically romantic poem “Evangeline,” about a woman looking for her lost love, Gabriel. In 1929, Hollywood came to town and filmed the movie Evangeline, starring Dolores Del Rio in the title role. After the filming, a statue of Evangeline (looking a lot like Dolores Del Rio) was erected on the spot marking the alleged burial place of Emmeline Labiche. As a whole, Southerners have never let the truth stand in the way of a good story; and now the stories of Emmeline and Louis and Evangeline and Gabriel have fused into one story told time and again beneath the spreading branches of the Evangeline Oak. In fact, Louisianans have taken the story so to heart that the Evangeline variety of sweet potato is fast becoming one of the state’s most popular sweet potatoes.

Spring is a short-lived but well-loved season in the Mississippi Delta. All is verdant and lush with the scent of fresh-tilled earth in the air. When spears of asparagus are combined with farm-fresh eggs, to me, it all signals spring. I particularly enjoy this dish for breakfast with sourdough bread for sopping up the luxuriant, velvety cream sauce.

“Alligator pears” is what we call the big pale-skinned midwinter varieties of avocados. They’re also known as Florida avocados (as opposed to the more familiar California Hass variety, which has dark, pebbly skin). One type has the name Bacon and that is a great coincidence since they work so wonderfully together.

Thanksgiving Thursday starts off before dawn with Donald tiptoeing out of the house dressed in camouflage and with me making Aunt Mary’s congealed salad of ground cranberries, apples, and navel oranges that I should have done the day before. (It’s the recipe from the Tchula Garden Club Cookbook—except you would have to go across the road and get Mary’s penciled-in revisions.) Instead, I sat by the fire drinking wine, catching up with extended family, and watched the kids pick up pecans. Now I’m hoping this sets before two o’clock dinnertime, which, thankfully, it does real nice.

Every year in early June Biloxi, Mississippi, holds the Blessing of the Fleet. Shrimp boats festooned with pennants, flags, as well as images of Jesus and animated shrimp form a procession out in the Mississippi Sound and file past the anchored “blessing boat.” There stands the officiating priest, who sprinkles holy water on the boats and gives the blessing for each one. St. Michael’s Catholic Church, with its stained-glass windows of Christ’s twelve apostles depicted as fishermen and its scalloped roof, has been the central sponsor of the ceremony for more than eighty years. An evergreen wreath is dropped into the gulf in remembrance of those lost at sea, and prayers are offered up for a safe and prosperous fishing season. This year, with the oil spill, more than ever the fishermen could use a blessing. This traditional coastal dish is perfect to serve for a Sunday brunch.