Month: December 2024

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Ruby’s Roadhouse Omelet

While I worked in west Florida during the 1980s, I came to know people from all over the world. Then there was Ruby Ruth Reese, a down-home girl who grew up in what she called “the woargrass (wiregrass)” region of south Alabama.

Ruby Ruth (“Call me ‘Roo’”) had a heart of gold, but she was just as mean as she could be to all those displaced Yankees we worked with in Florida. She liked me because, as she once put it, “You’re just tryin’ to do right and make a place for yourself.” She even claimed to have relatives in Tupelo, but I think she just said that because she knew I was homesick all the time.

Roo told me she worked in a truck stop in Geneva County, Alabama during the Sixties, and if they knew you well enough, and you ordered something “to go”, you’d pay five dollars more, and they’d slip you a bottle of whiskey under the counter before you left. They also made what they called ham and egg pie that most of their customers would order to eat by themselves. Roo often made these for us to share on our lunch, which we took around two in the afternoon when we’d had a busy day. I’ve fancied it up a little bit with the cheddar cheese (she used American slices). She’d fuss at me for that.

For two people, beat very well four large eggs with  a half cup of milk. Stir in diced onion, cooked potatoes, ham, and grated cheddar. Heat an 6-in. skillet, add a big lump of butter. Once butter is sizzling, add half the egg mixture, shaking the pan as you do. Once eggs begin to set, top with a little more grated cheese and pop into a hot (400) oven until firm and lightly brown.

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Noon in Oxford

When the courthouse clock struck the first toll of the noon hour, the complexion of the village changed. Shopkeepers and clerks hurried their over-the-counter trade so as not to be late for mealtime; little old ladies in their shawls and bonnets scurried home along side streets to their salads and tea-cakes; doctors and lawyers put aside the healing of the sick and matters at the bar to congregate in the public inn for a plate of the noon-day fare; farmers found a shadier side of the square and rested under tall oak trees while they took their dinner of canned meat and yellow wedges of cheese. It was a time for idle chit-chat, political forum, witty repartee, and peaceful rumination with a temperance and protocol like no other time of day.

–L.W. Thomas
Written for the menu of The Warehouse Restaurant, 1984

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French Market Bean Soup

Somewhere among the cuneiform tablets found scattered around Ur are bound to be recipes for bean soup, likely even soups using many types of dried beans. This particular recipe is far more recent—it’s only been around about as long as I have, which dates it to around the time Sputnik was launched—and its connection to the French Market in New Orleans is speculative at best. Having said that, it’s a rich, hearty soup, good hot or cold.

No small degree of this recipe’s appeal is that you can easily make custom combinations of dried beans and parcel them out as gifts. A typical commercial mix contains calls for equal parts navy beans, pinto beans, split green and yellow peas, black-eyed peas, lentils, both baby and large limas, black beans, red beans, Great Northerns, soybeans, and barley pearls, but you can use whatever combination you like in a somewhat similar measure and call it whatever you like.

My buddy Dan Vimes sends me a mix he calls Pelahatchie Peas Pot every year on the anniversary of Nixon’s resignation; Dan puts his bean blend in Kevlar packets. You can put yours in whichever moves your zen, just be sure to throw in a bouquet garni with each package. You’ll also want to include a good recipe like this one:

Place in a heavy pot a pound of beans and seasoning with 2 quarts water, a ham joint/hock or smoked turkey neck/tail, a cup each chopped onion and celery, and a couple of cayenne pods. Bring to a boil for about 10 minutes, reduce heat and simmer until beans are soft, adding water if needed. At this point, you can remove meat from bone, chop and throw it back in the pot back to the pot. Sure, it’s a pain to do, but it’s a nice touch, it really is.

Now is when you add canned tomatoes, either small dice or crushed, with a judicious amount of juice. Throw in two very finely minced toes of garlic, and simmer to melding, about another hour. Thicken or thin to your liking, salt and pepper to taste.