When it rained, we sat in Mama’s kitchen and listened to old Tante Zoe. She talked all the time when she was cooking, about what she was making and how she knew how to do it right from the old days. If she was making a big dinner for special guests, she’d say why she was serving this because it was something you’d serve, “To the mayor, not the bishop!” Then she’d sing and talk to herself, look up, smile and coo like the soft old dove she was and make us molasses butter to put on the morning biscuits.
Poppa smoked his pipe in the house, but Zoe said she had better manners than to smell up the furniture cushions and puffed on hers in the swing on the back porch. Zoe ran that house more than he did. Mama was Zoe’s lamb from the manger, to her an icon of love itself, and that was that. He knew that Zoe was listened to outside our house, had the respect of everyone up and down St. Charles. And in those days, that was saying a lot. I don’t think Mama ever knew Zoe the way everyone else did.
Sunday mornings she’d fry rice beignets, the calas. She’d put a little water and a yeast cake in some old rice she had on the back of the stove, cover it and in the morning mix in eggs, flour and sugar into a loose dough and drop by spoonfuls into hot oil. And she’d tell us how they used to sing, the ladies in the Quarter selling their calas, ““Belles calas! Mo gaignin calas, guaranti vous ve bons! Belles calas, belles calas!” and the girls would bring baskets to fill and take them back to the bedrooms where the men were waiting.
Calas (Beignets Riz)
Add two packets of yeast mixed with a cup of warm water and a tablespoon of sugar to two cups well-cooked rice mashed to pulp. Cover and let it work overnight. In the morning, add four beaten eggs, a half cup sugar, a teaspoon pure vanilla and hefty pinches of nutmeg, allspice and cinnamon. Mix in enough plain flour to make a thick batter and drop by spoonful into very hot oil. Dust with powdered sugar while hot, and serve at once. Calas don’t keep.
The Dagwood is a multi-layered sandwich with varying, self-chosen ingredients, usually a towering edifice of cold cuts, veggies, and condiments. It’s sometimes called the “Skyscraper.” The name of course comes from Dagwood Bumstead, who is the silly, bumbling husband in the comic strip, “Blondie,” penned by Murat “Chic” Young.
The Bondie comic strip debuted on September 8, 1930 in the New York American and several other newspapers across North America. Blondie focused on the adventures of Blondie Boopadoop—a girl who spent her days in dance halls with her boyfriend Dagwood Bumstead, heir to an industrial fortune (Bumstead Railroads). Blondie was a flapper, a young “liberated” woman of the 1920’s with short hair who hung out in jazz clubs, smoke cigarettes in long holders, snort cocaine, and sleep around. The name “Boopadoop” derives from the scat singing lyric that was popularized by Helen Kane’s 1928 song, “I Wanna Be Loved by You,” famously sung by Marilyn Monroe in the film Some Like it Hot.
On February 17, 1933, after much fanfare and build-up, Blondie and Dagwood were married. After a month-and-a-half-long hunger strike by Dagwood to get his parents’ blessing, as they strongly disapproved of his marrying beneath his class, they disinherited him. Left only with a check to pay for their honeymoon, the Bumsteads were forced to become a middle-class suburban family. The marriage was a significant media event, given the comic strip’s popularity. After her marriage, Blondie gradually assumed her position as the sensible head of the Bumstead household, and Dagwood took over as the comic strip’s clown. Blondie became the widest read comic strip of its time, appeared in comic books from 1937 until 1976, and Columbia pictures made a string of Blondie films between 1938 and 1950.
The original comic strip, however, showed Dagwood raiding the refrigerator to make a colossal sandwich with whatever he could find, which included such things as sardines, tongue, baked beans, onions, mustard, and horseradish. As the strip went on, his sandwich got bigger and more ridiculous. By 1944, they wouldn’t hold together, so he used an electric drill to make a hole in which he could insert a frankfurter to use as a sort of dowel, sort of like a big meat toothpick. Dagwood’s sandwiches might remind younger audiences of those Scooby-Doo and Shaggy made from those well-stocked refrigerators they always seemed to find in some haunted place or the other.
A Dagwood sandwich, by rights, should be made from whatever you find rummaging around in your refrigerator, but leave it to Alton Brown to nail down an “official” version, which takes (by his watch) 5 minutes to pitch together.
Lay three slices of rye bread out on a cutting board. Smear two of them with a tablespoon each of yellow mustard. Smear the last one with mayonnaise. Top one of the mustard smeared slices of rye bread with 4 slices deli ham, 2 slices American cheese, 2 leaves of iceberg lettuce, and four slices bologna. Top the second mustard-smeared slice of rye with 4 slices salami, a half dozen pickle chips, 3 tomato slices, 4 slices turkey, 2 slices Swiss cheese, and the third slice of rye bread, mayonnaise side down. Stack this unit on top of the first mustard smeared slice. Secure the sandwich with toothpicks skewered through pimento-stuffed green olives. Slice the sandwich in half, if you like. Open wide.
In Florida during the Eighties I worked with a Korean lady named Marie. What with my drawl and her accent it took us weeks before we came to understand each other well, but once we did we became the best of friends. “We’re both December babies,” she explained. “December babies are happy. Not lucky, but happy.”
Marie was a war bride. She moved from Korea with her GI husband in the Fifties to the little town in south Alabama where he had grown up. She literally had a hard row to hoe, raising three children and taking care of her husband’s mother, who was stricken with cancer. She had to bear the opprobrium of being an Asian bride in a rural Southern village. But Marie endured; she nursed her mother-in-law until the day the woman died, tended a spotless home and a productive garden, raised her children well (college grads, all of them) and won the love and respect of her husband’s friends and relatives. Marie became like a second mother to me. When she found out that I was sleeping on the floor, she called up her husband and had him drop a bed outside my back door. When she found out I didn’t have a good coat, she found one that fit me at a rummage sale. When I was sick, she gave me spicy fish-head soup and made me eat the eyes.
When you’re working around food as we did, the temptation to munch is downright irresistible, and Marie and I were world-class munchers. What made our grazing more enjoyable was the kimchee Marie brought to work. Kimchee is fermented with salt, red pepper, garlic and dozens of other ingredients. It’s something like the national dish of Korea, and some of you might remember that on the old t.v. series “M*A*S*H”, one of the running jokes was for them to discover what they thought were landmines but turned out to be jars of kimchee which had been buried to ferment at an even temperature. Kimchee is hot and sour and extremely pungent; some people can’t stand the smell. Kimchee also makes you fart a lot, but I grew to love it. I learned to eat kimchee as a sort of relish, taking a leaf of fresh lettuce (any kind you like), putting a little rice on it, a piece of beef, chicken or fish, a big pinch of kimchee, then you roll up the leaf and eat it: it’s sort of like a Korean taco. In Alabama, Marie discovered that one of the local leaf vegetables made excellent kimchee: turnips.
Wash fresh turnips with greens well, dry them thoroughly, and chop the leaves coarsely. Cut and use stem ends that stick out below the leaf, but don’t bother to remove the stems from the ribs of the leaves. In the meantime, peel your turnips and cut them into rather large chunks. Marie cut hers into oblong slivers. Place in a large glass or ceramic bowl and sprinkle generously with coarse kosher salt. Use enough salt so that each bit of the vegetable is coated. Toss the salt, sliced turnips and chopped greens together. Then take about five cloves of coarsely minced garlic, the whites of a bunch of green onions cut into 1 inch pieces (save the greens for another recipe) and toss them in with the mixture. Let this sit for about half an hour, then mix with a full teaspoon of powdered cayenne pepper, perhaps a bit more: some people use red pepper flakes (a good heaping teaspoon as well), or you can use chopped fresh hot peppers, but I like for the relish to pack a punch. Toss thoroughly.
Now put this mixture into glass jars, topping it off with some of the liquid that has accumulated in the bowl. Seal your jars tightly and set them in a cool dark place. In a few days, check to see if it’s fermenting; look for bubbles. If it is bubbling, open the jar very, very carefully over a sink to let a little bit of the gas escape; if you’re rash about opening the jar, you might just end up with kimchee juice spewed all over you (you might detect the voice of experience here). When the gas has been relieved, reseal the jar and let it sit for another day or so. Then repeat the gas release procedure and refrigerate your kimchee for at least another week before eating.
No matter who you are, or where you go, you’ll find angels on your journey; Marie was one of mine.
Chicken hash is a dish for social luncheons, and corned beef hash is a standard of diner breakfasts, but America’s staple hash is roast beef, served with or without gravy any time of the day. Beard said that in the most perfect hash he’d ever had—somewhere the hell in Minnesota—the meat was “perfectly cubed”, which strikes me as bizarre because my roasts are so tender that the meat shreds easily; I wouldn’t consider slicing at all, I’d just rough it up a bit and set it aside while I browned my potatoes. Sometimes I’ll use the leftover roasted potatoes, but if I’m serving hash as a breakfast dish I’ll cut a fresh red potato into a small dice and cook in oil. Once the potatoes are browned and done through, I’ll throw in an onion and cook until clear; some people will throw a mild pepper in too, but I don’t belong to that school. Then add the meat with your seasonings, which should be basic; salt and pepper, paprika and a little dry mustard. Anyone who tries to gussy up hash needs therapy.
For 3 pounds center-cut short beef ribs, line the bottom of a roasting pan with coarsely-chopped white onion. Coat ribs in a seasoning mixture of pepper, salt, granulated garlic and cumin in equal amounts. Add another layer of sliced onions, cover and place in a medium oven (300) for three hours. Uncover and bake for 30 minutes. Serve with bread, good mustard, slaw and beans.
You asked me about the statue in the cemetery, the one of the dog. The statue is on the Guinn family plot. The Guinns are gone now, but they were well-known. Robert Guinn was an attorney who handled mostly small claims, but made a good enough living to buy a house on President Street. He had a lovely wife named Rose and a little girl, Doris.
All little girls should be pretty, but Doris wasn’t; her face fused improperly in the womb. There’s a name for the condition that I can’t remember, but it’s a cruel assessment of the divine to say that was God’s will, if you ask me. She was never photographed, but there was a portrait painted, and the artist aligned her features. I saw it long ago; she had dark hair and a shy smile.
Doris in all other respects was a normal little girl; she had dolls and dresses and went to school with all the other little girls on the street. She also had a small dog, a spaniel of some kind that she adored. Her father had given her the puppy when she was five years old, so she named it after him and called it Little Bob. The dog would follow her to school, wait afternoons on the corner for her to come home and stayed with her before she died at twelve.
After that, Little Bob would go to the corner every afternoon and wait; at dark he’d go home until one day he couldn’t, and Bob Guinn went and got him. Oh, there was a big stink about putting the statue of a dog in a Christian cemetery, much less physical remains, but Robert Guinn took it to court and won the right, his finest hour before the bench.
So that’s Little Bob, resting at the feet of his mistress. He was a good dog.
Joyce Sexton was proud of her garden. It occupied the edges of her back yard along the fences; broad beds of perennials punctuated by flowering shrubs whose Latin names she had memorized; they sounded like an incantation as she recited them in her mind.
In the southwest corner was a short dead spruce stripped of twigs and leaves whose trimmed branches were adorned with brightly-colored glass bottles. Joyce enjoyed the way the glass caught the morning sun and reflected in the lights from the porch during the evenings. It had taken her months to find just the right bottles for the tree, and this morning she finally found the last one, a bright red bottle on top that seemed to glow from inside. She was admiring its light when she heard the front doorbell. She had invited her friend Sandra over for a drink.
“Well, it is pretty,” Sandra said later as they sat under the porch fans.
“At least you’ve got different bottles. I don’t like those with just one kind, especially those milk of magnesia models. They just send out the wrong signal, if you ask me.”
“I think it’s the best bottle tree in town,” Joyce said. “I know it sounds silly, but a bottle had to really say something to me before I put it on.” Sandra just stared at it with her arms crossed.
“You don’t like it?” Joyce said.
“Oh, like I said, it’s pretty, Joyce. And it looks good right next to the Lady Banks. But do you realize what those things are?’
Joyce laughed and said, “You mean that nonsense about trapping evil spirits? Cassandra June, your fanny hits a pew every time First Prez is open. And besides, you’re over-educated to boot. Surely you don’t believe that voodoo junk. ”
Sandra sipped her gin and tonic and smiled at her old friend. “Oh, you wouldn’t care if I were sacrificing stray cats in my basement, you’d still never get along without me.”
“If you were sacrificing stray cats, I’d bring you a few,” Joyce said.
“They kill the little birds, they yowl all night long and they beat up on poor Lucky.” A little terrier of dubious parentage under the table between them raised his head and thumped a raggedy tail.
“Okay, if you think its all stuff and nonsense, let me break one,” Sandra said. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. Admit you had fun looking for these bottles, and one of them’s bound to break sooner or later.”
Joyce thought about it. “Okay, you old witch,” she said. “But break one of the bottom ones. Use Glen’s putter. It’s over there on the corner.”
Sandra retrieved the putter, walked into the back yard and shattered a small green bottle on a lower branch. At the sound, Lucky jumped up and scrambled under the gate towards the street outside. Before Joyce could gather the breath to summon her dog, she heard the screech of brakes and a choked, mournful howl.
. . . . . . . . . .
“Mother, it was just an accident,” Rachel said. “Sandra shouldn’t blame herself. That’s just silly.”
Joyce looked at her daughter. She and Glen had been surprised when her infant golden hair had not only remained gold, but had also matured into a mane that Rachel merely pretended to complain about. Today she had wrestled it back into a tawny mass that spilled in a shower over the back of her bright blue scrubs.
“I know,” she said. “But you know how Sandra loved Lucky. She brought him liver snaps every time she came over. I think she did it on purpose; they always gave him gas.”
Rachel brought her coffee to the table and sat next to her mother. “Mom, just ride it out. I know you loved Lucky, too. Hell, we all did; except Richard, of course.” They both made a face at each other and laughed. “Cliff Stevens told me he was still wearing an ankle bracelet in Chattanooga,” Rachel said.
Joyce sipped from her cup and wished Richard were much further away. She still ran into his parents at parties, his father formal, his mother always managing to snag Joyce away from the crowd and update his doleful story. (“He didn’t mean anything, Joyce. You know that.”)
Rachel glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go, Mom. Joe Wright told me I could scrub in on a valve replacement this morning.”
Joyce kissed her daughter and took her coffee to the patio. She called Glen at his office, forgot he was in court that day and ended up talking to his secretary Cathy about the upcoming office party.
“Glen’s just a mess about it,” Cathy said. “And I do mean a mess. He can’t decide on a damn thing, and that puts me in charge of everything from food to felonies. Would you please try to sit him down for five minutes and nail something down for me?”
“Oh, just do what you did last year, Cathy. It’s not like he’s going to notice.”
“I know,” Cathy said. “He’s such an airhead.”
Joyce laughed and said goodbye, went and poured another cup and settled back on the porch to admire her garden. The azaleas had exhausted themselves long ago, and the Shastas were now coming into their own, as were the hostas she’d planted last October. Lucky’s grave by the holly was marked with a shaggy little stone dog and a weathered scattering of liver snaps.
The bottle tree glistened in the morning sun. One bottle caught the light extremely well, a beer bottle Joyce found behind the back fence that had a white and blue label. The light it caught dazzled. Joyce laughed, picked a hand spade from her garden shelf, walked up to the tree and shattered the bottle into hundreds of pieces. She was still smiling when she heard the phone ring.
. . . . . . . . . .
Glen knocked gently at the barely open door. Joyce lay on the bed, the golden afternoon light pouring onto the floor and casting shadows upon morning windows.
He moved into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “Honey?”
“How did he get out?”
Glen turned, bowed and rubbed his hands together. “He’s been out.”
Joyce rolled over and looked at her husband’s back.
“It’s been eight years, Joyce. He was convicted as a juvenile. It was not a capital offense. He served five years, and then they put him in a rehabilitation unit. He was clean and sober; he had a job at a Walgreens. He was evaluated twice a month.”
“He just killed our daughter,” Joyce said.
Glen’s shoulders heaved and he began to sob. Joyce reached up and brought him to her and they lay there, crying, while the shadows grew on the wall.
. . . . . . . . . .
The summer office party was never conducted, but as the holidays approached, Glen suggested that the traditional year’s end celebration be held, and to his relief Joyce agreed. The firm had had a very good year, and Glen, as senior partner, always enjoyed giving out bonuses and promotions.
Predictably, it began on a muted note, but as the night progressed, the mood lifted and Joyce found herself enjoying being around friends. As they were driving home, she and Glen found themselves laughing about Cathy’s QVC jewelry and Jerry Wineman’s new toupee.
It was warm for a winter’s evening; wisps of fog were settling into the low places along the road, and the lights from the house glowed as they pulled into their drive.
Glen grabbed Joyce’s hand and said, “Let’s sit out on the back porch and have another drink.”
“No, Glen,” Joyce said, caressing his hand, “I’d rather not. Let’s just sit in the living room.”
Glen looked at her and said, “You used to love the porch. You used to love looking at the garden. What’s the matter?”
Then Joyce told him about the bottle tree, about Lucky, about Rachel. Glen sighed and said, “Oh, honey, you know that’s just ridiculous. What did they call it in college, synchronicity? Come on, let’s build a little fire in the fireplace and huddle up next to it on a blanket with a couple of beers.”
“I’d rather have a martini,” Joyce said.
After they’d changed, Glen settled Joyce in front of the fire with her drink. “Glen, I know it’s just a bunch of nonsense, coincidences, like you said.”
“Of course they were, and I know it, but I don’t believe you believe it.”
“I do,” Joyce said, “And I’ll prove it to you. Is your 12-gage in the hall closet?”
Joyce retrieved the gun from the closet, along with a box of shells. “Show me how to load it again.” Once the gun was loaded, Joyce slung it over her shoulder and headed out the back door.
“If you stand back about ten yards, you ought to be able to get all of ‘em,” Glen shouted. He smiled, took off his shirt and sipped his beer. Then, with a smile, he slicked back his hair and lay down on the couch. A shot echoed from the backyard.
When Joyce came running back in, she said, “Glen, I got them all! And the trunk is in splinters. I’ll have a hell of a time cleaning up all the glass. Glen? GLEN!”
Cut a chicken into quarters and simmer in a gallon of water with carrots, onions, and celery. When tender, remove chicken and bone. Return the bones to the pot and reduce by about a third, then strain and return liquid to simmer. You want a gallon of good, rich broth. Make a stiff biscuit dough with sweet milk; roll it out to about an eighth of an inch, cut into strips and drop into boiling broth. As the liquid thickens, add the chicken, cover and let boil for another minute, then reduce heat and cover. After five minutes, cut the heat, stir and cover. Let the pot sit for about another five minutes or so to cook the dumplings. Salt to taste. I like chicken and dumplings with a good dose of black pepper.
“South Jackson as a place begins at 2155 Terry Road, the address of the city’s oldest home. It is the last remaining plantation house in the area. Today, an anomaly, a handsome Greek revival structure with Doric columns standing near Interstate 20’s cloverleaf, commercial enterprises and the decay of the Highway 80 Corridor.”
So begins One Direction Home: A History of South Jackson, by Dr. Vincent Venturini and former city commissioner Doug Shanks. Shanks recounts that the work began with a question: Were his fond memories of growing up in south Jackson just nostalgia, or was south Jackson truly a special place? The answer is, of course, yes and yes. There’s nothing wrong with nostalgia, particularly that of the sort leading to such a wonderful work as this. At once scholarly and informal, poignant and piercing, One Direction Home entertains and informs on many levels.
U.S. Highway 51 splits in Jackson, ending on South State Street to the east, and starting again on Terry Road some two miles to the west. When Terry Road emerges from the cloverleaf south of Highway 81, atop a broad ridge sits the Carmelite monastery housed in the aforementioned Greek revival home formerly owned by the Myrant family. The Myrant/Lester home is a focus for an early history of south Jackson, which is integral to that of the city and of Hinds County. Terry Road (Hwy. 51) provides an axis for the geography of the area, which Venturini describes as, “somewhat porous, but we largely see south Jackson as beginning at Highway 80 and extending south to Lake Catherine and west to Mississippi Highway 18. The eastern boundary is the Pearl River. We are also including Provine High School from its beginning until 1968. Although Wingfield High School opened in 1966 for students in the city’s southern section, those already enrolled in Provine were allowed to finish there. As pointed out in Doug’s Preface, Shoney’s is included as a south Jackson institution given the role it played in the lives of our contemporaries.”
And the time? While an early history is presented, Shanks claims, “What follows in the coming pages is a largely nostalgic visit to south Jackson as it existed between 1945 and 1975.” All Jacksonians will recall landmarks such as the Alamo Plaza, the “Chuc-Wagun”, the Frost Top, the Green Derby, Leavell Woods Park, Cook Center, Mart 51 and the Zodiac. They will also recall, among the many prominent south Jacksonians mentioned, Farmer Jim Neal of WSLI, Woodie Assaf of WLBT, “Skipper” Dick Miller of WJTV, Andrew Mattiache, and Walter Bivins. The neighborhoods, the churches, the schools, the streets, parks, and other elements that compose a city are part of this wonderful weave. The book has scores of wonderful photographs, and has a reassuringly extensive and detailed bibliography with notes.
One thing, though; Shanks and Venturini spend an inordinate time mentioning the proletarian reputation of south Jackson. This apologia is distracting, superfluous, and, most importantly, unnecessary. Let’s bear in mind that this is not Natchez, nor Vicksburg, but Jackson, Mississippi, a city no less a cosmopolitan than Audubon described in 1823 as “a mean place.” Sure, you’ll find people who will tell you one Jackson neighborhood is “better” than another, but many an outsider has found the entire city déclassé if not to say destitute. While no doubt many former and current south Jacksonians will find flaws and omissions (that assuredly only they could detect) all Jacksonians, even those (such as I) who aren’t natives, can celebrate this loving biography of a time, a place, a people, a portal in time to a backyard barbecue, a high school football game, or a corner soda fountain.
I have before me an article out of one of those upscale magazines devoted to the South as an intellectual and cultural milieu. This magazine is printed on the finest paper, has photographs taken by talented people, and if you put it on your coffee table, you’re liable to impress someone with your je ne sais quoi. Inside, an article on Southern food (ever-so-quaintly called “fixin’s”) targets “a grand grits revival.” The author cites grits pilaf, grits croquettes, stone-ground grits with morels, Southern fried grits, grits crackers, Logan Turnpike grits (God only knows what that is), and sweetbreads with grits as evidence of this renaissance.
People, this is chic commercial jive operating under the auspices of promoting a naturally progressive cuisine. Southern cooking is progressive; as new ingredients become available they’re assimilated into traditional recipes, often with good results, and as far as cultural assimilation is concerned, Southern cooking is a brilliant hodgepodge of distinct cultural influences, Native American, West European, and African, the tripod which forms the basis of the cuisine itself, and as new peoples with different traditions move into the region over time the such basic elements as grits as we know them will reflect these changes in wonderful ways we can’t begin to fathom. But a shotgun wedding with French cuisine (or any other cuisine, for that matter) is much too artificial to be taken seriously. This effort seems more intended to get people to pay exorbitant amounts for a serving of grits than it is to create a compatible blend of ingredients. For better or worse, grits are versatile; they’re essentially starch, as are potatoes, rice or pasta. But can you honestly claim as the author does that adding “innovative twists and fresh accents” such as morels and/or sweetbreads to grits that you have a dish that “reflect(s) the changing nature of the South”?
I think not. For one thing, these recipes are the products of commercial establishments, of upscale restaurants designed to attract diners who have the time and money to eat at high-end tables. Recipes such as these tend to be the brainchildren of down-home boys and girls raised on their mothers’ or grandmothers’ good Southern cooking who travel to France where they stay in Paris or Provençe, sopping up the local hubris, naturalizing their schoolroom French and drinking themselves into a pixilated delusion of fraternity with the local Jaques Bonhommes on the local vin ordinaire. While there, they of course become so enamored of le haute cuisine de la France that they decide to launch a personal crusade bent on transforming the cuisine bourgeoise of the American South into “exciting food.” This is to say, of course, food that people will pay a lot of money for because they are “infused with French accents . . . and render (sic) with some finesse.” For another thing, these commercial recipes are subject to the whims of restaurants, which are notorious for posturing. They have to be. If such recipes reflect the changing nature of the South, then the reflection is of a superficial and ephemeral nature. If foods can indeed be considered a barometer for a region’s or a nation’s changing identity—and they very well can, if examined properly—then foods should reflect such profound and lasting changes as those brought about by shifting demographics and to a somewhat lesser extent technological advances.
To be trendy and fashionable our dishes must be finessed. Is Southern food in, you say? Well, yes, but then it does need sprucing up a bit, doesn’t it? Let’s take that plain fried chicken and serve it on squash waffles with peach salsa. Black-eyed peas? Let’s puree them, pat them out into cakes and fry them in olive oil and serve them with an herb-laden tomato puree. Grits? Yes, with morels, sweetbreads and jalapenos, deep-fried and served with cranberry chutney . . . This cooking is catchy to be sure, but I hardly think it’s significant. Our best foods are narratives embedded in time and place, told by people for whom cooking is a conversation, not the monologues of flim-flam chef manqués.