The deli at our local grocery serves a wonderful vegetable soup that they discontinue for the summer, since “nobody eats soup when the weather is hot.”
Well, you know what? Yes, they do. We’ve enjoyed fresh vegetable soups for centuries in the South, and rightly so, since our gardens are the finest on the planet.
My recipe starts with two quarts diced canned tomatoes and juice. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a talented, industrious gardener who cans, and you will have their red gold in your larder. If not, Contadina will suffice. Sauté one large diced white onion with three or four diced ribs of celery and two cloves minced garlic in just enough vegetable oil to coat. Pour this into the tomato mix.To this add two cups water along with a cup or so of diced, rinsed okra; I like to add a little V-8.
Find something industrious or enlightening to do for a half-hour or until the onions and okra have surrendered to the mélange. This is a savory base for beautiful vegetable soups throughout the season. Fresh peas and beans, even green beans, should be parboiled until tender, but squash can be diced and added raw. I don’t use fresh corn at all, but that makes me an exception.
As to herbs, I’m frugal; a pinch of thyme and a smidgen of basil do just fine. Add salt and pepper with care. And yes, you can serve this warm or chilled.
These spuds are hard to beat for serving with grilled meats. Parboil potatoes until just done, pat dry, and toss in oil with black pepper, minced garlic, and salt. Bake at 350 in a heavy pan, tossing occasionally, until coated and tender through.
Everyone should grow pimentos. These beautiful, thick-walled fruit carry a sting of goodness that works in dishes across the board.
For this recipe, we used both green and red fruit; the unripe peppers have a bit of astringency, but that’s undercut by blanching whole—ripe and unripe—in lightly salted water to cover until they are just soft, maybe 5 minutes.
Halve and seed peppers. If you’re not going to use them immediately, put them in a jar with a salty water. They’ll keep for a week or two like this, or you can put them in a jar with salt water and oil to keep longer.
For 2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese we used about a third of a cup of diced blanched peppers. We used just enough mayonnaise to moisten, but no cream cheese to keep the pimentos’ pinch.
A bit of granulated garlic and salt rounded out this batch, though chopped scallions or shallots wouldn’t be out of place.
According to my buddy Ernest who (God love him) lives in Yazoo City and keeps up with such things, though UFO activity has been suspiciously quiescent lately, crypto-hominoid sightings are on the rise in Mississippi.
Creatures have been reported as far north as Winona and as far south as Mount Olive, where one was caught on cam trying to make off with a dish antenna and a tackle box. Most sightings are very late at night or in the wee hours of the morning, but Ernest claims he has a video of one raiding a Frito-Lay van in Greenwood in broad daylight. I
haven’t seen it, but he says it looks like a bald orangutan in a Saints jersey throwing confetti.
These beings deserve our respect and compassion; let’s not endanger them by alerting law enforcement. We should encourage and support their presence in this world we share.
I keep a six-pack of Bud Light on the back porch, but I won’t have them in the house.
Oil and line a 9″ skillet with parchment paper. Drizzle in 1/4 cup melted butter, and layer with sliced pineapple and cherries. Sprinkle chaotically with light brown sugar. Pour in vanilla-flavored sponge cake batter and bake until sides have pulled a little from the pan. Cool well before inverting; refrigerate before slicing and serving.
The most cherished and versatile element of my batterie de cuisine is a well-seasoned 6” cast iron skillet I inherited from my sister Cindy, who called it her baby skillet.
Now, Cindy called anything of a diminutive nature “baby”; a hand spade was a “baby shovel.” I swear I once heard her call little old Massachusetts the baby state.
“Cindy,” I said, “It’s the Bay State.”
“That’s not what I said,” she replied with a sharp glance. I let it drop; I’d learned a long time ago you can’t win an argument with a big sister.
This skillet is just the thing you need to use for baking in small amounts. This little honey is perfect for good half-dozen (or four catheads). It’s also ideal for a pan of cornbread that will feed at least four easily, and a meat loaf that will feed three. When it comes to baked pasta, I would dearly love to have three more of these skillets to use for a manicotti party, one pan of four for every two people.
They’re also inexpensive, but if you’re lucky, you get one from someone you love.
This text and recipe is from Howard Mitcham’s magical Creole, Gumbo, and All That Jazz.
After gumbo, the most famous Creole-Cajun dish is jambalaya. The word is probably derived from “Jambon,” which means am in both Spanish and French. The “a la ya” is probably an African expletive which can be interpreted as either acclaim or derision. Jambalaya was a well-known dish even before Hank Williams’s Hit Parade song came along and made it nationally famous. Millions have sung the song without knowing anything about what the dish was like. The recipes herewith will give you a chance to really get on the bandwagon. Jambalaya started out as a poor man’s catch-all, utilizing any leftover meats, sausages, shrimp, or fish that might be lying around, and stretching them a long, long way with plenty of rice. If a poor Cajun family had five or six kids, it’s a safe bet they ate jambalaya several times a week. Like red beans and rice, it kept people from starving during depressions and recessions.
But the consummate artistry of Creole and Cajun cooks has lifted jambalaya above its humble beginnings to a higher plateau, and it is now served with pride and joy in the mansions of the wealthy and in high-toned restaurants. This dish is a close cousin of the Spanish paella, and it probably originated down around New Iberia, which, as its name suggests, was originally a Spanish settlement. However, there’s another town with a Spanish name, Gonzales, up near Baton Rouge, that calls itself the Jambalaya Capital of the World. Its citizens hold a jambalaya festival every year. They cook big black iron wash pots full of the stuff, and people come from all over to sample the rich and redolent fare. A real Gonzales jambalaya is so peppery hot, spicy, and rich that the uninitiated can barely cope with it, but an aficionado of the art can consume a half gallon of it and ask for more. The version of Creole Jambalaya here is lighter fare than the Gonzales product.
Melt a half stick butter in a thick-bottomed pot or Dutch oven, cook 1 pound andouille or smoked sausage (or both) until lightly browned. Stir in a heaping quarter cup of plain flour, add 3 medium white onions, chopped finely, 4 minced cloves of garlic, 6 whole scallions, chopped. Cook until onions soft and clear. Add a 16 ounce can diced tomatoes, drained, along with a bay leaf, and a teaspoon each thyme, cayenne, cumin, and black pepper. Add 4 cups broth (chicken or beef), a cup of cooked chicken, and a cup of diced ham. The liquid should cover the ingredients. Bring to a rolling boil and stir in 2 cups raw rice (let me recommend Zatarain’s long grain, jly). Cover, boil for about 5 minutes, then reduce heat and cook until rice is done. Remove lid to cook off excess liquid; “a jambalaya should be moist, but not soupy.” Salt to taste.
Syracuse, New York is hometown to Tom Cruise, Grace Jones, and Jake, who says his ancestors were Greek fishermen. Every now and then he’ll offhandedly mention “Uncle Ari and Aunt Jackie.”
Jake sniffs at my Southern heritage, informing me that his parents contributed to programs for eradicating hookworm, pellagra, and illiteracy in Mississippi. He came to Jackson over two decades ago as the result of a convoluted series of circumstances I’ve long since quit trying to unravel. He stayed because he likes the weather; his recollections of lake-effect snow are unbelievably horrific. Even after twenty-plus years here, people still ask him where he’s from. It drives him nuts.
Generous soul that I am, in an effort to reciprocate his family’s (likely fictitious) charity, I had to learn how to make good Yankee baked beans using the sturdy pots he brought back from Maine last year, which of course had been made by exceedingly sweet people in a religious community near Bangor. (No, I didn’t go; he was meeting his mother to visit an aunt, and I was better off here with beer and cable.)
I breathed deeply and put my gloves on. Then I took a pound of dried navy beans, a cup of diced ham with rind, and a half cup of sorghum molasses and threw it all into the (unquestionably gorgeous) 2 quart pot with a cup of chopped onions and a bay leaf. I covered them with water, seasoned with a teaspoon of black pepper and a heaping tablespoon of dry mustard. I water to the rim , covered the pot, and put it into a 250 oven for four hours.
The beans were rich and buttery, and the mustard cut the molasses enough to let the beans make a statement. Jake credited the results to the pots, so I whacked him with a wooden spoon. Twice.
Heat 2 cups white vinegar with a cup each of sugar and water, and three tablespoons salt and pickling spices. Break 2 heads cauliflower into florets, toss with a sliced lemon, and pack into jars with strips of sweet peppers. Pour hot brine over vegetables, cool, and seal.
