The Food of a Younger Land (20 page)

(A Plantation Recipe)

Boil ham in water with tomatoes, pepper and 1 onion. Cook 1 hour if ham has been previously cooked, otherwise cook 2 hours. Do not add salt as ham will usually furnish enough. Add other ingredients and simmer 2 hours. Season to taste. Skim off all fat. This is an excellent way to use the undesirable pieces of ham, and makes a hearty luncheon for the laundress or for anyone who likes it. Serve with corn bread and a slice of pie to make a really traditional Southern meal.

J
. M. Foster of Lexington, one of the noted burgoo cooks of Kentucky, makes it from the following recipe:

“A two pound foreshank soup bone, a two pound pork shank, a breast of a lamb and a fat hen; three large onions, three large potatoes, three raw carrots, four large tomatoes, or two medium sized cans, four ears of green corn, or two cans, two pods of red pepper, two green peppers, half a pint of butter beans, a small bunch of parsley. Cook meat thoroughly, remove from liquor, pour cook water over it in a pan and strip from bones. Chop your meat in an old fashioned chopping bowl. Chop up your vegetables, put meat and vegetables together with water poured over meat, back into the soup kettle and cook till mixture is thick. Four teaspoonfuls of Worcestershire sauce added ten minutes off gives the burgoo tang.”

J. B. COOK

S
ome twenty years ago, the genial Mr. John G. Saunders, City Sergeant of Richmond, Virginia, inaugurated for the benefit of the American Legion his “Sergeant Saunders’ Brunswick Stews,” which have since become legend in Virginia. Selling at 50 cents a quart, enough stew was sold upon this occasion to net the Legion $500.

Since then Sergeant Saunders has made his famous stews for all the churches of all denominations and all the worthy charities that have sought to benefit from his great generosity.

When called upon for some worthy cause, Sergeant Saunders furnishes all the ingredients of the stew so that the price paid by the hundreds and sometimes thousands of people who attend these community events is practically clear profit.

Some idea of what a truly colossal feat of outdoor cooking is involved in the making of one of these stews may be realized from the following description.

In 1930, a Richmond policeman was killed in line of duty. A committee of thirty-five citizens was formed to seek ways and means to materially demonstrate to his widow the appreciation of a grateful city. Sergeant Saunders responded to the call. A large vacant lot was selected for the site, and on the day of the event the great iron cauldrons were placed and the fires started.

Six hundred gallons were to be made and so into the pots Sergeant Saunders and his assistants put 240 veal shins, 12 beef shins, 780 pounds of chicken (live weight), 48 pounds of bacon, 1,800 pounds of Irish potatoes, 18 bushels of celery, 600 pounds of onions, 24 dozen bushels of carrots, 360 pounds of cabbage, 150 gallons of canned tomatoes, 72 gallons of canned corn, 48 pounds of butter, and the whole well seasoned with salt, pepper, and thyme.

For six hours the stew steams and bubbles and is constantly stirred, sending abroad its appetizing aroma that is its own advertisement for gathering the crowds that come at the appointed time to buy by the quart or gallon. It was upon this occasion that the last quart was auctioned off and bid in for $10 dollars by Dr. Bright, who at that time was Mayor of Richmond. More than $1,000 dollars was realized for the policeman’s widow.

A conservative estimate indicates that at least $16,000 has been raised for good causes during the twenty odd years these sales of “Sergeant Saunders’ Brunswick Stews” have been memorable events in Richmond.

Natives of Brunswick County no doubt would take exception to Sergeant Saunders’ recipe, decrying the cabbage, and breathing anathema upon the substitution of bacon for squirrel, but then the little furry public pets in old Capitol Square are carefully guarded. And would it seem fitting for Richmond’s beloved Sergeant to attempt to outwit the Capital Police?

KATHERINE PALMER

M
ehitable Dorsey and her man Doak butchered their hogs on the creek bank last Thursday. The chill of late fall has set in, the new moon is on the rise, so there is no danger of the meat swelling. The chitlins have been soaked in salt water for two days now and ought to be just right for frying in the pan.

By word of mouth the invite has been broadcast to the Negro population of the upper Cape Fear.

“Yall goin to Mehitable’s chitlin strut?”

“Iffen we lives, we is. How ’bout yall?”

“We’s good as there this verisome minute.”

Darkness is falling over the low-lying lands of the river bottom as the guests begin to arrive at the Dorsey cabin.

Doak stands by the door while Mehitable works feverishly in the little lean-to kitchen. Large maroon eyes bulge from Doak’s narrow, long skull. A bright blue serge suit hangs loosely on his spare body.

The unmistakable odor of frying chitlins fills the cabin. Some have declared this scent to be obnoxious, but not so the chitlin lovers, and most country Negroes of the South relish their chitlins.

Doak bids his guests welcome, at the same time transacting business with each comer.

“What you mean, ‘how much?’ Hector Shadwick, you been comin to this chitlin strut long as I can ’member, and you knows the price is two-bits, twenty-five cents.”

“Evenin, Deacon Basswood. And you too, Miss Flossie. Yes suh, Deacon, you and Flossie, chitlins and cider and pickle and cabbage sallet for two, fo’ bits, a half-a-dollar, fifty cents. Thank you, Deacon. Come right in, and make yallselfs t’home.”

Doak does not insist on money payment. He has accepted a can of sorghum molasses, bags of eggs, and canned fruit in lieu of cash. Kinfolk and a few others enter free.

The cabin fills rapidly. The Negroes are wearing their Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, mostly bright of color, inexpensive, and poorly fitting. Chitlin strut is one of the gayest events of the year.

The house is lighted by kerosene lanterns, hung from the low rafters, barely clearing the heads of the guests. They are safer than lamps, which might upset after the strutting gets under way. The cabin contains two rooms besides the kitchen. Each has a fireplace and blazing hearth fire of pine knots. A table improvised by placing planks on wooden horses has been set in the larger room almost filling the space and providing places for twelve persons. A smaller table, seating six, fits snugly into the adjoining room from which bedroom fixtures have been removed. Chairs, benches, and stools of various sizes and descriptions are set around the tables. Unframed pictures, apparently taken from magazines, are tacked on the wall. There is a broken mirror with a Kodak picture of a young Negro woman stuck between the glass and frame. Above the fireplace in the larger room is a card with gold and blue letters: “Feed My Lambs.”

Without preliminary ceremony the guests take places at the tables which have already been set with thick china dishes and wooden handled steel cutlery. There are large bowls of cole slaw and pickles, and molasses in tin cans.

The faded blue curtains separating the kitchen from the larger room part, and Mehitable appears bearing a large platter of fried chitlins in each hand. She is followed by another Negro woman with pans of corn bread. A third carries cups of steaming coffee on a tin serving tray.

Immediately there is a cacophony of talk and laughter.

“Quit yer hollerin a minute,” Mehitable shouts above the din, and when the noise subsides: “Jes help youselfs from the platters. And don’t be ’fraid to eat. They’s more where this come from.”

“Won’t take long to find how much is in the kitchen.”

“Take some of them chitlins and leave some, and don’t be all night.”

Mehitable returns with another platter for the smaller room. Perspiration covers her coffee-colored face. Her heavy, shapeless body is encased in a grey gingham dress; her large spreading feet slide along within broken carpet slippers.

Onto each plate is taken a mound of the chitlins with helpings of the slaw and a mixture of pickled green tomatoes and cucumbers. The corn bread is broken open and eaten with molasses. Swigs of coffee follow mouthfuls of food.

Prodigious quantities of chitlins are consumed as Mehitable and her two helpers move between kitchen and the eating rooms. Several times Mehitable fries up more chitlins.

“Chitlins gettin low, Mehitable.”

“More comin up, Zack.”

Conversation flows without inhibition or restraint. Early efforts to shout across the room have been abandoned, and now only the strongest voiced are able to make themselves understood by their neighbor closest at hand.

For an hour the feasting continues, though a few have previously given up hope of eating any more. At last all have surrendered their plates except Moonstone Peeley, an enormous Negro with a bell-shaped head, spreading nostrils, and huge mouth.

“Put the chitlins to Moonstone.”

“Don’t weaken, Moonstone, else we know you gettin ol.”

“Las time Moonstone done eat six plates smack clean. Betcha six bits he caint do it tonight.”

“I calls you. Jasper, hold the money. Moon, I’s bettin on you for six plates or better.”

Moonstone has but little trouble in polishing off six big helpings, not only of chitlins, but of corn bread and all the trimmings.

As the bets are being paid, Aunt Orianna, an ancient neighborhood Negress, enters the cabin. She pauses on the threshold, and leaning on her persimmon-wood cane, sniffs the air. The brown skin of her wrinkled face is like old parchment. Beady dark eyes peer from sunken sockets. Grey wooly hair is covered with a man’s hat, much the worse for wear. The old woman hobbles to the fireplace, where she sits on a low stool and takes a plate of chitlins brought to her by Doak.

Mehitable joins Aunt Orianna at the fire and settles near her on an overturned orange crate. “Back’s down bad. I’ll res me some while Doak and the others cleans up. Shuckin cawn and cotton-pickin parties all put together don equal chitlin doins,” she says to her old friend. Mehitable’s bulky figure is outlined in the glow from the fireplace. Her black hair is longer than that of most Negroes. She works out the kinks with possum oil.

Aunt Orianna nods assent. The two survey the gay scene before them. Aunt Orianna sucks her toothless gums over her chitlins and corn bread. Shadows flicker across their black, shining faces.

The guests wander restlessly between tables and fireplace, waiting for the banjo boys to finish their supper and tune up for the strut.

Presently the two women on the hearth are joined by Clossie Jones. She is the color of old brass, with thin lips, and resplendent in purple silk and white canvas shoes.

Settling herself by the fire, she addresses her hostess: “Mehitable, I wants to know how does you get these chitlins flavored so tasty? How-come they’s the beatingest chitlins I ever eat?”

“No flavor to it, ’cept natcheral flavor,” Mehitable replies. “It’s jes in the fixin. You got to get yore chitlins clean and sweet.” Going to the fireplace, she throws on more pine knots from the boxful beside the hearth. “Them chitlins been done fussed with right smart. After the hawgs is kilt and scraped and the chitlins took out, I squeezes them chitlins clean as I can with my hands. Then I washes them through two waters. Then I cuts them open lengthwise and washes them two more times, then I scrapes ’em good and plenty with a dull knife. After that I washes them in two more waters and they is ready for the saltwater soakin. After soakin them two days they is boiled three hours ’fore I sets to fryin.”

“Does you fry ’em in deep fat, Mehitable?” asks Clossie, much interested.

“After they soaks in the salt water I rinses ’em good ag’in, and cuts ’em in fo-inch lengths, and rolls ’em in meal, and I fries ’em in medium fat. Hawg lard’s the bestest.”

“And make sure to cook ’em crisp and brown,” puts in Jordan Perdew, the undertaker from town, a bald little man with a nervous twitch to his upper lip. He stands staring into the fire.

“That’s where you wrong, Jordan.” Moonstone Peeley now joins the group. “You misses the good flavor by fryin you chitlins too brown. Jes so’s they’s cooked through makes the choicest chitlin eatin they is. I knows, because I’s a real chitlin eater.”

“Quit you fussin,” Mehitable admonishes. “Some likes ’em brown, some likes ’em medium, and some likes ’em jes warmed through. Now the deacon there is the onliest one I knows what pours vinegar on his chitlins. Seem to me sour would spoil the taste.”

Deacon Basswood, who is the shade of ginger cake, shakes his head. “I’s perticular ’bout my chitlins.”