Real Macaroni and Cheese Does Not Come in a Blue Box

It is sad, actually it is ghastly, to think that a majority of American children think "Macaroni and Cheese" comes from a Blue Box. I shudder to think. As a southern mother, I am proud to say never has one of those Kraft blue boxes darkened my door or entered my pantry.

My children were brought up eating the real deal. Although from two different schools of thought - both their grandmothers baked excellent macaroni and cheese. However, they were entirely different. Let me explain.

My mother used my grandmother's recipe which was a serious cheesy macaroni dish that had a scrumptious hard cheese crust around the edges. She used an egg base with a bechamel sauce so her dish was easy to cut in pieces to serve.  Left overs could easily be heated up - however, this was not issue, there never being any left over. 

My mother-in-law made this incredible dish that bubbled with all the butter and cheese in it. She, too, used eggs so her dish could be cut and served. Her recipe called for spaghetti noodles in lieu of the traditional macaroni noodles so there was much more "noodle" to the dish.

I have my mother's recipe and have made it several times. Unfortunately, I have not been able to quite replicate my mother-in-law's recipe. It is either not cheesy enough or lacks enough butter. My guess is practice makes perfect and eventually the secret will be unlocked and a (near) perfect dish will be revealed. For now, I just bemoan the absence of her rich cheese dish at every family occasion.

Personally, for me, I have launched off on my own when it comes to macaroni and cheese. I have found that there are recipes that, while are not the same as what I was raised reared on, they are no less enjoyable. In fact mine is richer and cheesier, full of cream and several different types of cheese as well as whole grain noodles. 

My attitude - if you are not going to go rich, creamy, and large, stay home. My family is quite dubious when I bring my dish to the supper table. "It's just not the real thing'" they will say. Well it may not be, but they all seem to enjoy it and rarely does it last more than a day. Maybe it is three different types of cheese or the substitution of heavy creme for the milk.

So, all I can say is - Out, out, Blue Box. And I pity those who know no better.

Bar-B-Que (Food of the Gods)

Continuing on the Bar-B-Que rant -If you ever wanted to know why the North invaded the South in 1861, it is simple, they wanted Bar-B-Que. You can't get it anywhere else. Why do you think they started in South Carolina?

Bar-B-Que in the south is a religious experience. If you are from here, I am not telling you anything new - in fact I'm preaching to the choir. The only question is to which god do you pray: the god of mustard base - that yellow tangy sauce with a slight sweet background or ketchup based - the red sweet flowing goodness with only the slightest taste of tang or (in my humble opinion) the premier - vinegar based -that thin nectar of tang filled with peppers and other spices and just enough mustard to give it some color. 

Whatever your sauce of choice, here the only meat is pork. and that pork must be slow cooked over hickory wood to be done right. There are several other signs to look for to ensure you are about to partake in authentic honest-to-God southern Bar-B-Que:

•     the establishment is only open on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday (it takes them Monday to prepare the meat & get the wood ready for the fire, Tuesday and Wednesday to cook and on Sunday they rest)
•     the sign on the front of the establishment usually has a family name in it
•     it has an old tile, linoleum, or concrete floor (if they have spent a lot of money redoing the place - their priorities should be in question)
•     the chairs at the tables should not necessarily match and better yet there should be picnic tables
•     there should be sweet tea and white bread on each table
•     vinyl table cloths only
•     beware of places that sport a full buffet - they wandered from their mission (green beans and fried chicken maybe, but even that is suspect - after all you came to eat Bar-B-Que)

And some other secrets to those of you first going to the alter of the gods - put the hash on top of the rice (otherwise everyone will know you are not from here) and just don't ask what is in the hash - trust me - it is tasty. We've been eating it for years, and it hasn't killed us yet.

It's not called Barbecue, Stupid, Unless it Really is!

Let me clear one thing up right now. If you are in your backyard and the activity you are engaged in includes cooking some type of beef, hot dogs, or sausage on a grill, be it charcoal (or God forbid gas, imho, real men don't cook on gas grills, but I digress) you are "Cooking Out" not "Barbecuing". To Barbecue you need some form of pork, some type of wood that will provide good smoke flavor, a secret rub, sauce (or both), and a lot of time to make it right. Bottom line, if you have ever had honest to God good southern Barbecue, you know the difference, you'll never forget it, and you'll be trying to figure out how to come back for more.

Up north, they call any cooking out of doors "Barbecuing". Like with a lot of things, as my Aunt Kat would say, "They can't help it, they just don't know any better". We try to explain this to our friends who are not from 'round here. Being a self proclaimed grill-miester is thing of pride with southern men (and women). This is something we take damn seriously. When one says, "Why don't you guys come over tonight? We're going to Barbecue steaks." Any southern cook within ear shot will reply something like this: "You don't Barbecue steaks! You grille steaks. And, for the hundredth time, you are not Barbecuing - you are Cooking Out."

Don't get me wrong, we love our hot dogs, hamburgers, grilled chicken and thick steaks down here. Cooking out is a favorite past time of ours.  Southern men collect grilles like notches on their belts. I grew up grilling steaks every Friday night. I'm not sure where (or when) that tradition started.  Cooking outside is an ingrained part of our lifestyle.

Now maybe to someone not from here this is a trivial argument over semantics. But in the South it is gospel, because Barbecue is a religion. Preparing and eating it is a religious experience. And among the faithful, there are the different denominations. You can worship in the houses of mustard based, ketchup based, or vinegar based. Then there are the hard core "evangelicals" who always want ribs. What ever your belief, in the south, we go hog wild. We rub it, baste it, smoke it, cook it real slow over hickory, then we pull it and, ever so lightly, put sauce on it. Does that sound like throwing steaks on a grille in the backyard to you?

Road Kill

Last spring, the first sign the pandemic was getting bad down here was the disappearing evidence of road kill. Especially prime meat like opossum and squirrel. And deer, now there's a prize if you bring it down with your dad's F150 instead of the 12 gauge - no buck shot to clean. And, the truck's so old no one can tell the dent is new. Everyone 'round here has a yard truck or a fishing car, the old vehicle that has so much sentimental attachment you just couldn't bare to part with it. Besides, it still runs and the duct tape on the front seat matches that darn gray replacement rear fender you never bothered to get painted.The left blinker doesn't work, but that's OK, it's not like it's NASCAR or something, just make right turns instead of left ones. 

I bet women up north don't have jumper cables in their cars (or trucks). When I was old enough to get my driver's license, my father would not let me go down to the highway department (the one next to the Bar-B-Que place) until I could do three things: change a tire, change the oil in my car, and drive a car with a clutch and the gear shift on the column (am I showing my age or what!) He wasn't concerned about my ability to safely maneuver the vehicle. I had been doing that for years on the farm.

I started out with a used blue AMC Gremlin. Remember those classic automobiles? It had no carpet, no AC, an AM radio, and manual transmission. You could safely say it was as bare bones as it got. For some reason my parents wanted to make sure I knew my place in life. And, let me tell you when you drive up to the Country Club every afternoon for tennis team practice in that jewel and park it next to the Mercedes, Buicks, and Cadillacs, let's just say, it makes a statement. It was humbling to say the least.

But, we still try to drive our cars for at least ten years. I'm not one that needs a fancy car to impress the neighbors or have that "itch" some folks have every time the new models come out. (Although I do not deny my passionate desire for a Porsche Carerra. We all can dream.) The idea is to have safe, reliable, comfortable transportation. Of course, it helps if it is well constructed so if you happen to hit that deer for dinner, you can easily throw it across the hood and bring it home. Otherwise your pickings will be limited to opossum, rabbit, squirrel, and the occasional coon. And, that's a lot of work.

It Ain't Fittin'

For God's sake, will someone tell them, it's not "Cheesey Grits". If you want grits with cheese in them, you order, "Cheese Grits".  . .  y'all.

Honestly, you don't have to try to be one of us to get our attention, our affection,or our vote. Come to think of it, we would appreciate it, if you wouldn't try. Some folks can screw up a two car funeral.

Come on down, sit a spell, we'd love to have you. We'll serve you sweet tea, good bourbon, and BBQ that will make a tadpole slap a whale. We'll show you a good time on a Sat'day night at a juke joint down the road with some of the best music you ever heard. You can go with us for fresh oysters on the dock at sunset overlooking the marsh. We'll mosey under a mile long canopy of live oaks dripping with Spanish moss. You can go uptown to the high faluten world renown restaurants, down town to the local dive for collards and hot biscuits, or out back for pulled pork that has been slow cooking over hickory coals all night.

We love company and we don't ask for much. But, a little advice here, "southern" don't fit well unless you're from here. Like Mammy said: "It ain't fittin'... it ain't fittin'. It jes' ain't fittin'... It ain't fittin'."

No Plastic Flowers - Please

On the back window of the car in front of me, in large script letters, read "In Loving Memory of  LaQuaChaniqua Jones, now with Jesus, 1966 -2010." (This is not an unusual sight down here.) It reminded me of some business I need to take care of. Not that I have any plans of going any where any time soon. In the case of my demise, it is very important that someone handle the following:

·   Before my body assumes room temperature, please go to my house and clean out my refrigerator. Short of condiments, just toss it all  and wipe it out. Don't worry, posthumously, I'll take the blame for not having any food in the house.  (Trust me, the church ladies will make sure my family does not starve in their time of grief, it is the south after all.) 

·  For God's sake, make sure there are no plastic flowers or silk arrangements involved. If some should appear, I would appreciate someone just anonymously seeing that they are delivered to some other bereaved family, it's the least I can do.

·   And, no daisies or carnations please, they are the dearth of arrangements. (I have gone out of my way to make sure all the arrangements we have sent over the years have not included them, and I damn well expect  repayment in kind.)

·  Yes, and one last request, needless to say, don't even consider putting my name on the window of your car.

The Food Tells It All

Now, I read the other day that only a true Southerner knows instinctively that the best gesture of solace for a neighbor who’s got trouble is a plate of hot fried chicken and a big bowl of cold potato salad. If the neighbor’s woes are a real crisis, they also know to send over a large batch of banana pudding! Of course our friends in times of bereavement or stress are SOL if they are waiting on the hot fried chicken from my household, seeing that I don't fry chicken, but I do serve up a nice ham and fresh (tiny) butter beans. As for the bananna pudding, I'll put mine up against anyone else's, thank you very much.

But there is always the issue of how high regard you hold the distressed family. And, it's all in the food. This is especially true when there is a death and friends start bringing food to the house. Now you might think that the food is to feed the grieving family. And, true, it does serve that purpose. However, it has always been my theory that the primary motive behind sending food to the family was that we're all southern and that's what you do, but really it's our way of letting everyone know what we think of the family - like a secret code.

If you send a cake, then you think well of the family, as long as the cake is home made, and whole. Sending slices on a tray, just says "this is what we had left over - enjoy." Sending a store bought cake says one of two things, either you don't think much of the family or you're not from here and don't know no better. A basket of bread, shows you are being polite like your Mama taught you, but that's about it. A loaf of white bread is just an insult to the family.

Home made salad means a lot, especially if it is  chicken salad. Of course, if you use dark meat, folks will talk about you for weeks. (Everyone from a nice family knows better than that.) But, the highest compliment is bringing a platter of meat. Sending a ham, a  fried chicken, or platter of BBQ shows that this was 'show 'nugh someone you thought a lot about'. Posthumously, you have arrived when the neighbors start bringing meat. 

Now, the church ladies have a book back in the kitchen where they write down every dish that everyone brings to the family. You can rest assured that when folks come and drop their food off, their eyes are going to glance over that list to see who brought what. "Potato salad. Can you believe that Sally Jane just brought potato salad. I thought their families were pretty close." 

"Well, look here. Margaret brought a ham. Just who do you think she is fooling? You know she never forgave Sam for his little indiscretions."  

"But, that was twenty years ago?" 

"She said he broke up her brother's marriage." 

"Can you believe Linda Sue brought a cake? A bet you a dime she bought it at the Piggly Wiggly?" 

"Well maybe this time she put it in her own container." 

"I don't know. Her mama was a Jenkins. She may not know any better. Bless her heart."

God's Plan

God blessed the south with many things - good food, friendly people, beautiful land. OK, so the rest of the world questions why we put 4 syllables in the words "hound dog" and are amazed at our chemical wizardry of being able to dissolve 1 pound of sugar in 1 gallon of iced tea.  

Folks not from here find it odd that we continue names for generations (William Pinckney Gadsen, William Pinckney Gadsen, Jr, the third, fourth, etc), but yet call them, Pinky, Bo, Trey, and Bub. It is not unusual for young ladies to have double names: Mary Grace, Sarah Kay, Ann Stuart. And, in the more "remote" regions: Bobby Jean, Billy Sue, Johnny Beth.

Children from good southern families (not necessarily always wealthy) have good manners, respect their elders, know how to dance, understand that socks and collards are best only after the first frost, seersucker suits are acceptable for any occasion before six in the evening, and a string of pearls makes any outfit (except a swimsuit). 

There is no such thing as a "grit". Bacon and gravy are staples of the food pyramid, and a good pound cake can cure many ills and make amends for many wrongs. One doesn't make fun of someone who doesn't know how to eat an oyster, wears white shoes after Labor Day, brings store bought potato salad to a church picnic, or wears polyester - they just don't know any better. 

Given all these idiosyncrasies of our culture, we find ourselves under assault by others. Whether they are coming to visit, or God forbid, relocating down here, the Yankees are invading. You can't swing a dead cat without hitting one. But the old man upstairs foresaw this. In his grand plan he had a 3 part strategy in mind for protecting us - no see-ums (gnats), mosquitoes, and August. 

So as we move into the Hades part of our year, fighting the gnats and mosquitoes, I realize it is all God's plan to keep the Yankees away. Unfortunately, it is not working.  

A Southern Belle, Really?

I have been accused of speaking ill of the redneck population of the south. And, I offer an apology to anyone I have offended because there is no offense meant. I came from a family where my Mama aspired for the Deb society and elevated my father from his position as a pharmacist to a member "of the medical profession". Daddy on the other hand was happy to drink either bourbon or Pabst with his friends, depending on the company he was keeping at the time. Daddy always liked to say he loved, "Rednecks, white socks, and Blue Ribbon Beer," as my mother cringed and hoped no one was close enough to hear him.

Looking for a definition of Redneck, I found the following:

"A Redneck is often (but not always) from the southern regions of the U.S. and makes a decision to place less emphasis on education and culture even when it's available, and instead values simpler, more base pursuits like sex, driving, and drinking (in various combinations)."

Not being able to find a definition for Southern Snob, I settled for Southern Belle and found the following, "A delicate woman of Southern birth, prone to fainting spells, mint juleps, and Electra complexes."

Given a choice of these two lifestyles, when you look at this way, I don't think there is any question which one I would prefer. After all, it was Rhett Butler who said, "With enough courage, you can do without a reputation." And, if there was one thing my Daddy instilled in me it was courage. And, Mama will just have to deal with the reputation issue, bless her soul. After all, in the end, aren't reputations are so over rated.

Fry It, You'll Like It

"Fried Pickles"? Should I be surprised? No. We fry everything down here. In fact someone said, "Southerners don't age, they just drop dead". If you look at the list of foods we fry, you would know why. But, we die happy.

Now, I'm not talking about silly things like Snickers candy bars, Twinkie's, Oreo's, or Coca Cola. Yes, there are folks out there who "fry" Coca Cola. Talk about the ultimate oxymoron - Fried Diet Coke! I'm talking about real food, meats and vegetables. And, when it comes to frying, we don't stop with chicken, potatoes, or fish, we go to the next level - chicken livers, gizzards (which are actually giblets), chitlins (the viscera intestines of a pig) (Note here: I don't eat all this.), okra, green tomatoes, hush puppies, sweet potatoes, and the list goes on. - alligator, squash, mushrooms. It's all going to taste better fried.

We like it "deep fried" not just pan fried. Any serious (honest) cook will tell you that the best fried foods are fried in lard (or Crisco, a close 2nd choice) not any kind of healthy oil and in a well cured cast iron skillet. We may die early, but by God when we go, we go out most contented having eaten well during our short life span.

The State Fair of Texas fancies itself as the "Fried Food Capitol of Texas". In my mind, it may have been game, set, match when in 2009 they gave the Big Tex Food Award in creativity to a concessionaire for "Deep Fried Butter" described as "100% pure butter whipped 'til light and fluffy, then specially sweetened with a choice of several flavors. The tantalizing mixture is surrounded by a special dough and quick fried." I don't think this can be topped as the ultimate fried dish - not that I would ever eat it. But then again, in Texas they fry pecan pies.