If, like me, you find sweet potatoes just a bit too sugary to accompany most meats—the exceptions being fatty roasts—then this combination of sweet potatoes with regular spuds provides a semi-savory option. You can use any waxy white potato; I use regular red (“Irish”) potatoes, though the ubiquitous Yukon Golds are often recommended. Peel and slice the potatoes on the thinner side, layer in a casserole, gratin, or skillet with sprinklings of salt and pepper, thyme and parsley, add enough whole cream to saturate but not cover. Brush with melted butter and bake at 300 until the top begins to crisp and brown.
Everyone under forty—and a great many over—know that the best pumpkin juice comes from London Pumpkins & Sons, who have been making the beverage since 1837. We also know that this company is in the London of Harry Potter’s Wizarding World, which makes it unavailable to us Muggles. However, I have it on good authority that this recipe comes from the bountiful kitchen of Molly Weasley, who passed it on to her daughter, Ginny Potter, who shared it with her Muggle buddies. Pumpkin juice is served over ice at any meal and at special events. Mix very well 2 cups pumpkin puree and 32 ounces peach nectar with a gallon of apple cider. Stir in 2 teaspoons cinnamon and 1 teaspoon ginger. A dusting of nutmeg before serving is a nice touch.
Cream a stick of softened unsalted butter with a half cup of light brown sugar, beat until fluffy, and mix well with two eggs and a half cup of sorghum molasses. Mix one and a half cups of flour with a half teaspoon of baking soda, a heaping tablespoon of ground ginger, a teaspoon of cinnamon, and a quarter teaspoon each of ground cloves and allspice. Add two teaspoons pure vanilla extract and a half cup buttermilk. Pour batter into a buttered loaf pan and bake at 350 for about an hour, until the loaf pulls from the edges. Cool before slicing.
What became known as Rice Krispy treats were invented by Kellogg home economists Matilda Jensen and Mildred Day in 1939 at the Battle Creek test kitchens. Before long, it became one of the most popular homemade candies in the US and Canada, and sometime in the Seventies, it became the American version of marzipan, a confection easily molded into such things as teddy bears, clowns, and boobs. Halloween being a rich theme for all sorts of cakes, candies, and sweets, Krispy treats are no exception. This clever little innovation is fun to make, and just cute as can be.
For the outer yellow ring use 5 cups Rice Krispies, 5 cups miniature marshmallows, and a quarter stick butter with yellow food coloring; for the middle orange ring, 3 cups Rice Krispies, 3 cups miniature marshmallows, and a quarter stick of butter, with orange food coloring; and for the white center, 2 cups Rice Krispies, 2 cups miniature marshmallows, and a quarter stick of butter.
For each ring, combine marshmallows and butter, and microwave for about 3 minutes, stirring after a minute or so, until blended. Stir in food coloring; you don’t need much, only a few drops of yellow and a couple of yellow and red for the orange. Pour over the cereal, coat your hands with butter and mix the marshmallows into the cereal with your fingers until the color is uniform.
Working quickly, divide each color batch in two, then beginning on the outside of greased 8 in. cake tins, make your rings: yellow first, then orange, then the white center. Keep them an even width. Press the cereal/marshmallow mixture into the pan to ensure they stick together and make them a consistent thickness. Let the rings set for thirty minutes, then turn out on a cutting board and slice first in half, then into quarters, then into eight even wedges. Store with waxed paper between layers.
Here’s a recipe from Linda Bolton, who for many years ran the Good Food Store when it was on Jackson Avenue in Oxford. Linda was a guru of mine, a woman of many parts who cast her bread upon the waters without reservation. Back when I was writing a food column for The Oxford Times, I published a really basic potato soup recipe, and the next day when I was walking towards the Rose, Linda yelled across the street at me: “Let me tell you what all you left out of your `tater soup recipe, Yancy!” So she did, and here’s the modified recipe:
For each serving (@ a cup and a half), take a large starchy potato, wash, peel and dice, making sure to take out all discolorations. Boil in enough water to cover, adding a vegetable bouillon cube. When almost tender through, reduce heat, sauté for each of two servings one small white onion and two cloves of garlic, both finely minced, in about two tablespoons sweet butter. To this, add liquid from the potatoes and boil until onions have broken down. Add this mixture back to the potatoes, simmer and stir until the soup has a creamy consistency with soft chunks of potato. Salt to taste and season with crushed dill seed, rosemary and pepper. You can add a little heavy cream and another tablespoon of butter to make a more substantial soup, in which case you might also want to add a little hard grated cheese. Serve hot.
Sweet potato puree blended with a fool-proof New York-style cheesecake; fun to make, sumptuous results. The cheesecake filling is 16 oz. cream cheese, 2/3 cup sugar, 1 teaspoon vanilla and two large eggs. The sweet potato filling is two cups of “candied” sweet potatoes pureed and mixed with 1/2 cup whole cream, 1/2 cup sugar, two eggs and 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon. The crust is a box of graham cracker crumbs–adding crushed pecans is a nice touch–mixed with a stick and a half of melted butter, a cup of brown sugar, packed into an 8″ spring-form pan and refrigerated until firm. Drop both filling mixtures alternately around the crust, then take a spoon and swirl it around a little bit. Be artistic; contemplate the Pre-Raphaelites. Bake at 350 for about 45 minutes, lower heat and cool for an hour. Refrigerate before slicing.
This silky and salty recipe with a hint of sweetness is a perfect showcase for your favorite Maytag or Stilton. Containers as well as ingredients should be at room temperature, and add the three main ingredients (eggs, oil and vinegar) one at a time in alphabetical order: EOV.
2 eggs, whole
2 cups vegetable oil
2 teaspoons minced garlic
1/2 teaspoon white pepper
1/2 teaspoon dried mustard
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 tablespoon white vinegar
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon white wine
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
6-8 ounces blue cheese, crumbled
Whisk spices and seasonings into the vinegar. Whip the eggs in a blender for a minute, then slowly pour in the vegetable oil, a little at a time, drops to drizzle, until it comes together. Add the vinegar mix and blend until creamy. Remove from blender, add blue cheese, stir and refrigerate before serving.
Here in the deep Mid-South, our cooking is heavily influenced by the distinctive Creole and Cajun cooking of Louisiana. One of the basic building blocks of these cuisines is the roux, a blend of starch, usually flour, and a liquid fat that’s cooked to varying degrees and used to thicken stews and soups, sauces and gravies. Roux are used in most “Continental” (i.e. European) cuisines as well, and the word itself comes from the French for “red” (rouge).
Starch has been used in kitchens to thicken liquids even before kitchens existed, but anyone who has tried to mix raw flour into a soup to thicken it knows it will just bubble and clump into a wet paste that takes forever to blend. When you combine flour with oil, the starch granules become coated with the fat and blend into stock or milk. Heating the flour in the oil cooks out the raw, pasty flour flavor, and though roux means “red”, roux are cooked for varying lengths of time to different colors for different uses.
Plain flour is most often used for a roux, and it’s the best for general use; save that corn starch for Asian dishes (more about that later). The best rule of thumb is one-part flour to one-part oil in a paste. As to what kind of oil, that depends on what you’re cooking. Generally speaking, if you’re making a white roux, use butter (not margarine, dear hearts). Since butter will burn at higher temperatures, use vegetable oil for darker roux as in most meat dishes and seafood, adding a little olive oil (particularly in a gumbo roux) for added flavor. Use lard or bacon drippings for that authentic down-home flavor you need in biscuit gravy.
Most roux are made in a sauce pan on the stove top. Yes, I know you can make a roux in the oven, or even in the microwave, but the stove top gives you much more control over the product. Cooking a roux on the stove top requires constant care and concentration. A lot of people call roux “Cajun napalm” for good reason; it will stick to your skin and burn, so when you’re cooking roux, avoid any distractions, use long-handled utensils, and for heaven’s sake, keep your children under control or out of the kitchen. Use a skillet with flared sides; cast iron is perfect. Never use a non-stick surface. Some people heat the oil first, some mix the oil and flour together before adding it to the pan, and some keep a mixture of oil/butter and flour in the refrigerator to make a roux on the fly.
Do it your way, but unless you’ve had a lot of practice, don’t use a high heat to make a roux. Cook the roux slowly, and scrape the bottom of the pan to achieve an even color throughout the mixture. If black specks appear, you’ve burned the roux, and you have to throw it away and start over. Never, never, never use a scorched roux; your gumbo, etouffee, or what have you will smell (and taste) like an ashtray.
Just like a slice of bread, a roux will toast; the longer you cook the flour, the darker the “toast”. It smells like popcorn cooking; at least, it does to me. Those of you who grill a lot may be familiar with the Maillard reaction, the reactions of proteins and sugars under heat that give meats and vegetables that roasted flavor. The same process is at work here. Cooking roux to different degrees of browning render different flavor and colors. They also thicken to a greater or lesser degree; the longer you cook a roux, the less it will thicken. You’ll find you will need to add more roux to thicken a dark dish such as a gumbo or an etouffee.
For white sauces—béchamel and other dairy sauce variations—cook the roux only long enough for it to stop bubbling, not long enough for it to brown at all. When making a white roux for soups and gravies it’s better to use slightly more butter, but for a thicker, stiffer sauce such as one you might use to hold a casserole together, use more flour. As a general rule, you’ll use lighter roux for dishes involving poultry or fish, darker roux for beef or game as well as most gumbos with the exception of a file gumbo, which traditionally doesn’t involve a roux at all. With experience, you’ll learn to customize your roux to your cooking.
Dirty rice, as is the case with any dish involving what were once called variety meats but are now more often referred to as offal (it’s a hipster retro thing), is one you either love or hate, and I’ve loved it since I first had it when I was a boy. Like any staple recipe and I assure you it is a Cajun standard, dirty rice has as many variations as there are cooks, but the basic combination invariably calls for rice with chicken livers and gizzards. Some people add onions, peppers, even celery, while some others add other meats such as ground pork or chopped cooked game. The one big bone of contention when it comes to dirty rice is between those who cook the rice with the meats and vegetables and those who cook them separately and mix them with seasonings before serving. I belong to the cook-separately-and-mix faction; I do the same with jambalayas, and I’ve been called to the carpet for that more than once, but I like the texture better, and cooking the livers with the rice tends to make them rubbery.
For dirty rice, first cook your gizzards. You can go to the trouble of trimming the membranes if you want, but I’ve found that if you stew gizzards for a very long time they’re going to end up as tender as can be and the resulting broth is a thing of beauty, rich and gelatinous. You will have to trim the livers, since those membranes will not break down. Sauté the livers with a little garlic and minced white onion until just done through; don’t overcook, or they’ll be tough and tasteless. Chop and add the meats to cooked rice with whatever sautéed vegetables you like and a little oil to moisten. Season, keep warm in a covered container and add chopped green onion before plating.
Jacksonians have produced an extraordinary selection of superb cookbooks because its citizens have a long history of commitment to the commonweal, and among those citizens have been not only talented cooks, but writers of surpassing ability. The culinary literature of any given city (or region) reflects the character of its peoples, and taken altogether, this selection, which I submit as the “best of the best”, shows Jackson as a richly cultured city with an exceptional standard of Southern cuisine. And yes, let’s go ahead and admit that (with one notable exception) most of them are rather stuffy, as cookbooks issued by civic organizations tend to be, but still, they include an extraordinary amount of cultural history as well as superb writing.
Allison’s Wells: The Last Mississippi Spa
(Muscadine Press: 1981)
In 1981, proprietor Hosford Fontaine—doubtless at the urgings of countless friends—published Allison’s Wells: The Last Mississippi Spa. The book is a treasure-trove of history, with profiles of the people who kept the resort functioning as well as other unforgettable characters, musicians and artists such as Till Caldwell, Inez Wallace, Ted Faires, Marie Hull and others. Many of these people contributed to the illustrations, which are augmented by dozens of charming vintage photos including a poignant image of Hosford standing amid the charred ruins. Best of all, The Last Mississippi Spa also includes a sprawling section on recipes for almost anything to put on the table: hors d’oeuvres, soups, salads, dressings, breads, meats, seafood, vegetables, breakfast and brunch dishes, desserts, candy and cookies, all “tried and true” from the La Font kitchens. The book includes a warm and heartfelt Forward by Charlotte Capers and a brief introduction by Eudora Welty.
The Jackson Cookbook
(Hederman Brothers: 1971)
This cookbook could well be held up as an archetype of a Southern ladies’ cookbook; it’s stiff with tradition and understated elegance. Indeed, in a note “About the Cover,” the editors explain that Artist Carl Davis translated Welty’s comments about “the era of the Madeira tea napkin,” into a work of art using an heirloom tea napkin “hand embroidered by Miss Irene Anderson,” with Jackson’s monogram “J”. This note follows a short essay by the Women’s Editor of The Clarion-Ledger, Mary Alice Bookheart, “The Aesthetics of Eating,” which states in part, “This is not necessarily a cookbook of old Jackson recipes. … What (the cookbook committee) has attempted to do in compiling this book is to achieve a happy blend of old and new …” This book also includes some restaurant favorites, such as the “Edwards House (King Edward Hotel) Chicken”. The recipes are simple and use familiar ingredients as well as commercial items, and provide items for any occasion, ranging across the menu. The Jackson Cookbook is a wonderful addition to any kitchen library, but what sets it apart, raising it to a level no other cookbook in Mississippi can hope to achieve, is the Forward, “The Flavor of Jackson,” a jewel of exposition by Welty.
The Southern Hospitality Cookbook
Oxmoor House: 1976
Simply put, Winifred’s The Southern Hospitality Cookbook is not only a groaning board of splendid recipes, but as a whole nothing less than an illuminating documentation of upper-class cooking in the mid-20th century South. The recipes are rich and varied, the ingredients often expensive and times for preparation are usually considerable. Indeed, the most frequent critiques of the book involve how “fussy” the recipes are, many calling for minute amounts of several various ingredients and elaborate stage-by-stage instructions on their preparation. But this is the way Winifred and the women of her class and generation cooked; they had plenty of time on their hands, and more often than not enough money to spend on costly and hard-to-find ingredients. Many of the recipes are true heirlooms from Virginia and the Eastern Seaboard. She also includes recipes from dozens and dozens of friends and neighbors. The Southern Hospitality Cookbook is a milestone in the culinary history of Jackson, but what takes it to a higher level is a short essay by her editor at The National Observer, David W. Hacker (“Savoring Miss Welty’s Wit at a Special Seafood Lunch”) and a preface by Eudora herself (“A Note on the Cook”).
Standing Room Only
Hederman Brothers: 1983
“With Narratives by Eudora Welty and Beth Henley,” announces the marquee on New Stage’s truly superb “Cookbook for Entertaining”. Henley’s short essay on theatre parties is quite fun, and Welty’s “A Note about New Stage” is the definitive article on this beloved Jackson institution. The posters and playbills, along with the accompanying texts, that separate the divisions are also marvelous diversions, but the true stars here are the recipes. This is hands-down my favorite Jackson cookbook because the recipes are sumptuous, clearly presented, and a lot of them are just damned fun. Most of them are written for more than four servings and are captioned with “can double”. Also included are the invaluable sections, “Buying Guide for 50 Guests” and “Setting a Bar for 50 for One Hour”. SRO throws in an herb and wine guide as curtain calls.
The most distinguished cookbook in this selection, and winner of the prestigious Southern Living Hall of Fame Award, Southern Sideboards is THE right cookbook for traditional Southern recipes before the “foodie revolution” of the 1980s. These recipes aren’t designed for health or with an eye to fussy ingredients, so if you’re the type of person who wouldn’t be caught dead in a checkout with a can of Cream of Celery soup, then it’s certainly not for you. But if you’re one of those hide-bound traditionalists who want to know EXACTLY how Granny made that Southern Cornbread DRESSING, then this is your book. Sure, the recipes are often complex and some do take a little time, but you know what? Time and preparation are keys to good cooking and good eating. The game recipes are truly superb, as are the desserts, particularly the cakes. Southern Sideboards is distinguished by a splendid, heartfelt essay by Mississippi native Wyatt Cooper, an author, screenwriter, and actor who is better known as the fourth husband of Vanderbilt heiress and socialite Gloria Vanderbilt and the father of journalist Anderson Cooper.
The Sweet Potato Queens’ Big-Ass Cookbook and Funeral Planner
Three Rivers Press: 2003
Despite what you may think, I am not including Jill Connor Browne’s cookbook in this list because I’m afraid that if I didn’t, I’d in the very near future have a magenta sequined bootie up my patootie. No, I honestly think the Big-Ass Cookbook is absolutely fabulous. Not only does it have lots and lots of great—albeit indulgent—recipes, it also has reams of practical advice: “Hormones are serious juju, and if you don’t get them sorted out, you might find that you need money for things like lawyers and bail.” I think it’s Jill’s best book, though I must profess a weakness for cookbooks. Here you’ll find satire without (much) malice or rancor, some of the best writing—flat-out writing—to come out of Mississippi, and humor that’s deliberately earthy without being crass or (too) coarse. Of course, I’ll never be deemed worthy to sew a single sequin on an SPQ outfit, but I’m content to adore them from afar.