I am, by nature, a healthy eater. If given a choice between a hot fudge sundae or a plate of fresh ripe tomatoes, sliced cucumber, and avocado, I would most likely pick the latter. Do not mistake the meaning of this comment to indicate I am a highly disciplined person, for that would be miles from the truth of the matter. It means simply I prefer fresh fruits and veggies to a piece of chocolate fudge cake, which is a matter of taste. For me, savory trumps sweet every time. It's not that I always eat healthy foods, this would be evidenced by the Pringles addiction I labor under, but rather, that I generally do. However, a hamburger wins the race over a bowl of broccoli with miles as far as my stomach is concerned, so I guess I'm a bit of a dichotomy.
Over the course of my lifetime, I have been fortunate to be introduced to a myriad of different foods. I have found myself open to to a wide variety of flavors and many different types of cuisines. When I was with Rick, for example, I sampled a lot of Mediterranean foods, as he originated from Cairo. Mediterranean flavors are intoxicating to me, rich and colorful. Together Rick and I owned an Italian restaurant. During that period of my existence, Italian food was obviously often to be found on my plate, prepared by our talented chefs. Twice during my lifetime, I have also made my home south of the Mason-Dixon Line. The first time in Ashdown, Arkansas, and the second I ended up in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. During those periods I was exposed to and came to really enjoy southern cuisine. Barbecue in the southern states is not just a manner of cooking food, but is revered almost like a religion. They set great stock by being a gifted cook on the grill, and they do enjoy a big cookout as a way of getting together with friends. I remember when we were first in Arkansas, we were invited to such an event by co-workers of my ex-husbands. As I had not one single familiar face living within a thousand miles of me, I thought it to be a great way to get to meet some of the local people as well as an opportunity to taste some good southern recipes. Yum. David, my then husband, was born in Arkansas but grew up in Odessa, Texas. Barbecuing was his favorite pastime on weekends when home, and he had honed his craft very well. When living in Southern California our neighbors would line up outside our door with to-go containers when David threw a brisket on the fire, or on days when he rolled his sleeves up and whipped up a simmering pot of Jambalaya or etouffee. At any rate, at this particular get together in Arkansas, each couple or guest was asked to contribute something from their kitchen. David suggested I be the one to offer up our contribution. Really? Old Northern me? I felt very much a fish out of water down there at first. Since we had moved there, I don't think a day had passed without someone asking me, "you aren't from around here are you"? " Does it show"? Apparently. I wanted to bring something special, so I decided on a favorite recipe I have for spinach salad topped with all manner of summer fruit, feta cheese, toasted pecans, and served with a sesame seed/poppy seed dressing. Truly refreshing and beautiful when put on the table. Oh boy.
Arriving at the home of our hosts, we parked under the huge trees in the yard where the party was being held. There were sat least twenty cars already on the gravel area so it looked to be a good turnout. At the front door there was a note instructing us to head around to the back of the house. Sweat was already forming under my bangs, and it wasn't yet noon. The thermometer had already reached above ninety before we left the house, so we were in for another hot day. In spite of the heat, and unbearable humidity, guests were mingling out back like it was eighty degrees and balmy. David kept telling me I would adjust to the extreme heaviness of the air down by the Gulf, but to be honest, as long as I lived there I suffered with finding peace with the atmosphere. Since it felt about 108 in the shade, I had worn shorts and a tee shirt. I would have come in a bathing suit, but I didn't know these people. As I began to learn people's names and became engaged in conversations, I was told I was very brave to expose my legs with tall grass around as I was liable to pick up a hitchhiker or two during the day. Hitchhiker? Ticks, chiggers, and fleas, unlike little ol Canadian me, adore the hot steamy locale and thrive in unsettling abundance in the long swaying grasses on rural properties. They assured me there would be many lurking out there hoping for a white leg like mine to come along and reveal itself. Oh-oh. That being said I spent a good part of the afternoon inspecting my legs hoping not to find anything there I hadn't shown up at the door with.
As the day progressed, I found people to be very friendly, openly welcoming me in spite of the fact I was literally the only person at that party not speaking with a southern accent. When I said I was Canadian, it seemed to ease the fact that I was a northerner. At least, for them, I wasn't a northerner of these United States. Of course, I have lived in the U.S. since I was nine, but didn't see any reason to bring that up and pop their bubble.
When dinner was about to be served, the women gathered in the kitchen to retrieve their dishes from the refrigerator, or off the counter, and place them with the other offerings on the tables that had been set up outside. Next to my salad, the only one displaying any green at all, there were all manner of macaroni and potato salads, 7 layer salads, coleslaws, ambrosias, macaroni and cheese, seafood salads brimming with fresh local shrimp, and each one after the other chocked full of fattening ooey gooey deliciousness. My spinach looked sort of lost sitting there, like the lonely little petunia in the onion patch. People went down the line, and when they got to my salad would literally look at one another as though I had brought a plate of raw liver to a vegan dinner party. I went home with pretty much the same bowl of greens I arrived with while learning a lot about how to properly provide a side dish for a southern party from that first experience.
This coming weekend we are going to a barbecue near Richards. California barbecues look much different. In the south, grills are usually accompanied by their best friends, the smokers. I do not mean individuals with a bad nicotine addiction, but devices used for smoking smoked meats. David's barbecue, when we were together, was equipped with every imaginable gauge and attachment. It looked like a locomotive without wheels. In California you are more likely to find gas grills and though I've seen smokers here certainly, they are not exactly a must have. In the circles I travel in, you will find healthy offerings as well as the standards such as potato salad et al. Chicken is far more popular here on the coast, where red meat or even game meat more often the stars of the meals in the south. I am not a fan of venison. I've had it prepared many different ways, and still find the meat gamey. I do like quail, and pheasant. Quail are so tiny though, by the time you take the first bite, you've finished the meal.
Redpine 3
Fish, or seafood, is another very popular ingredient in southern kitchens, especially catfish. I do love catfish. I caught one off my deck when living by the water in the Bay Area here in California. My neighbor told me I should throw it back as they were bottom feeders and not fit to eat. David would have laughed at such a statement. Fishing was something we did often while living in Arkansas. I say "we" in the loosest sense of the word. I accompanied him, usually with my sketch pad or a good book in hand. While he cast his line, I would sit under a tree in a comfortable spot and entertain myself while the great white hunter got a bead on dinner. A skilled fisherman, most days there was something in the cooler by the time we were driving home. Catfish are not easy to skin. I tried it once on his urging. By the time I was done the huge fish produced about one and a half fillets fit to eat, with the rest of the demolished flesh sitting in a pile on the cutting board. It was jointly decided after that debacle, the cleaning and skinning would be left to his department. Lesson here, if you do it terribly wrong the first time, you probably won't be asked to do it again. Momma didn't raise no fool. Just sayin. At any rate, he would catch the fish, gut it, skin it, and then fillet it. We would slather the fillets in prepared mustard and them dip them in a mixture of 1/2 yellow cornmeal and 1/2 flour seasoned with spices such as cayenne and black pepper. Next each fillet would be dropped into hot oil left to cook until it floated to the top for 2 minutes before removing it to drain on a paper towel. Sooooooo good. Serve this with hush puppies, little balls of fried cornmeal deliciousness, add some homemade fries and you can't go wrong.
Well, I'm off to lunch with friends today. The temps are moving up. We had the first fire scare of the season last weekend. Hope this isn't a hint of things to come. Makes for a long summer.
Happy hump day!!!
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