A Southern Gallimaufry
Unless you’re one of those people who will actually cook and shell several dozen quail eggs–and get help you if you are–-then use good canned eggs and hot vinegar water (1:2) with either slit cayennes and sugar or banana peppers. They’re good for a month.
Most serve albondingas as tapas, but I make big ones for an entree. I’m sure a Spanish term exists for this preparation, but I’ll just have to wait until someone admonishes me to learn it; that’s usually the way things work in my world.
Mix pork and beef 1:1; ground pork can be hard to find, so I usually substitute a mild pork sausage. If you’re using plain pork, add salt, pepper, smoky paprika, and a hefty dose of granulated garlic. Moisten a cup of breadcrumbs with milk, and mix in a beaten egg; add this slurry to the meat mixture, and work with your fingers until thoroughly blended. Form into snooker balls, and poach in lightly salted water until firm. Place in a hot oven to brown. Remove, coat lightly with salsa, top with queso, and return to oven until cheese is lightly browned. Serve hot with more salsa and fresh corn tortillas.
Blend a cup of coarsely-chopped pitted dates with a ¾ cup brown sugar and a stick of soft butter. Sift in a cup of all-purpose flour, a teaspoon baking soda, and a teaspoon salt. Add a lightly beaten egg, a teaspoon vanilla, whatever spices fit your groove (clove and ginger are mine), and a cup and a half of quick-cooking oats. Mix until moist through. Spoon onto a lightly oiled baking sheet and bake on the middle rack of a preheated 350 oven for about 20 minutes.
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 (undoubtedly fictitious) charity, I set my hat 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 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. The (topped) pot went into a 250 oven for four hours. The results were rich and smooth, with the the mustard cutting the molasses enough to let the beans make a statement.
Jake credited the pot of course.
If you can use fresh vegetables, by all means do. This recipe is very basic; purists might even leave out the cream and tomato
Cut four or five strips of bacon into one-inch pieces and cook in a heavy skillet over medium heat until crisp. Remove bacon, cool, and crumble. To the drippings, add one large yellow onion, a half sweet pepper diced, and two minced cloves of garlic. Cook until the vegetables are soft.
Add bacon bits, along with 3 cups fresh sweet corn (scrape the juice from the cob) or a 16 oz. sack of frozen sweet corn, and a drained 14 oz. can of petite diced tomatoes. Mix well until heated through, add about a half cup or so of heavy cream, reduce heat, and stir until the vegetables are coated. Salt and pepper to taste; some people like this dish on the sweet side, some like cayenne pepper—or Tony Chachere’s—for a kick.
He was born to wealth, with a wife and children in a mansion on St. Charles, land from Natchez to Memphis, a man of taste and discretion, well-schooled in the ways of the world. She was born in poverty, with a red leather trunk containing everything she owned, a woman/child knowing nothing but footlights.
One night she plucked out his heart and held it in her hand. For an ethereal week, he kept her in an apartment on Ursuline. Then the revue—a musical comedy, ‘In Dahomey’—swept her away to Chicago, Manhattan, London, and Paris, into the arms of others. When he bought 24,000 acres in Boliver County the next year, he named the land for her face, radiant in the lime light, and her body, warm beside his in the morning sun.
Wrapping in foil before baking ensures a steamed potato, which is wonderful and nostalgic, but lesser fare than the crisp skin and fluffy center of dry baked. Wash potatoes, dry thoroughly, and coat with salted oil. A 12 oz. russet will take an hour in a 400F oven.
Over time many dishes have been recklessly and needlessly consigned to specific holidays. How often do you roast a turkey, stuff eggs, or make a fruitcake? What’s sad and paradoxical about this occasional consignment is that many dishes we prepare only for the holidays are those that bring us the most comfort, that make us feel most at home and closest to the heart of our lives.
Gingerbread is an extreme example of this culinary exile, particularly because when gingerbread is prepared even for the holidays it’s most often make into cookies. Instead, let’s make loaves any day of the year, any time of the day. Many recipes employ equal measures of cinnamon, cloves, and allspice as well as ginger–almost as an afterthought–but ginger should shine.
Cream a stick of 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 teaspoon each of cinnamon, ground cloves, and allspice along with a heaping tablespoon of ground ginger. Add two teaspoons vanilla and a half cup buttermilk. Pour batter into a buttered loaf pan and bake at 350 for about an hour. If you can, cool before slicing. I never can.
When I go somewhere to take photographs, I sort of have something in mind, but it has to feel right or speak to me for me to actually make a wet collodion photograph. I may shoot some snapshots on film or take some documentary shots of things I am recording over time, but for the plates it has to be that feeling of connection with time and place, past and present.
This is a scanned copy of an 11×14″ red glass ambrotype I made at Poplar Springs Cemetery in Calhoun County in April of 2012. I had been staying in Bruce at my parent’s and decided to go up to Poplar Springs where my great-grandparents (Starling Monroe and Nancy Ruth) are buried..
After walking around the cemetery for a long while, reading the gravestones and making a few snapshots with a hand-held camera I decided I would not set up the wet collodion. I got in the car to back out of the cemetery entrance for some reason instead of driving through.
That is when I saw this image. It hit me: there it was the old fence I had noticed and not noticed my entire life of visiting there. I could see my relatives’ gravestones in the background but what grabbed me was the fence, the plants, the foliage: that feeling.
I pulled back in and proceeded to set up the portable darkbox, get the chemicals ready, and mount the camera on the tripod. In about 30 minutes I was looking through the camera’s ground glass at this image. In another 15 minutes I was washing the chemicals from the glass and feeling good about the plate.
In 2014 the cemetery caretakers in their infinite wisdom totally removed the fence and cleaned the bank off, destroying some of the visual reminders of 50 plus years of visiting this cemetery. Nothing lasts forever; that is one of the reasons I’m a photographer.
This memoir was originally written in 1996 and emailed to the Fasola – Discussions group. At the time, the worship activity we know as Sacred Harp was in the middle of a nationwide growth & resurgence.
The following is the description of one of the earliest Sacred Harp events that I can remember, even somewhat vividly. It is stored in the corner of my memory and every now and then it sneaks out to refresh my thoughts.
July 1973 – I was but twelve years old. I had been to Sacred Harp singings all my life but this was the first year that I was trying to take in as many of them as I could. Being late summer, the crops were “laid by” and conventions were beginning to occur in North Mississippi. I come from a very active churchgoing family so Saturday singings are at the top of my list. It was the Saturday before the first Sunday in August (last day of July), time for the Webster County (Mississippi) Convention. For many years, this had been a two-day singing but it had been reduced to one like many others that would follow.
I loaded my fence-rail frame into the back of an old Chevelle with Hugh and Henry McGuire, chauffeured proudly by their father, Hugh Bill McGuire. Making our way to the south end of Calhoun County, we turned on to a dusty gravel road just below Derma, Mississippi (go ahead, get out your atlas). It was a typical hot, scalding July day. The vegetation on the roadside was now a dull green from months of the hot sun and covered with layers of dust, put there by ambling autos and numerous farm implements. We crossed Topashaw creek bottom which included a handful of rickety old wooden plank bridges stretched across an almost dry creek bed. As you climb the first hill on the other side, you can look across the creek bottom and see a straight road for about a country mile (and then some) and watch the dust you have left behind settle gently above the road in the late summer heat. We pass through little communities so small that if you blink, you’ve missed them. One barn roof proudly proclaims “Bentley, USA”. Bently is now home to a 4th of July barbecue which is heavily attended in election years.
Somewhere in the woods we leave Calhoun County and enter Webster County. Within a matter of minutes, we enter the sleepy little community of Montevista where the local Baptist church is hosting the convention. Upon entering the church, it didn’t take long to figure out that without us Calhoun County folks, the pickins’ would be kind of slim. Most of the Webster County singers were on tenor, with a few others scattered on the remaining parts.
Here sat a group of folks, mostly senior citizens, who had attended singings most all their life. In their younger days, they had made their way to singings at local churches in wagons pulled by oxen, horses, or mules. On this day they came in vehicles named Fairlane, Galaxy 500, and Impala. They communicated by “yellin’ across the holler” as children but had lived to know that men walked on the moon. Today, they continued the tradition of singing from the Sacred Harp.
I still remember some selections from the day. The day’s singing included “When I am Gone,” “O, Come Away,” “Soft Music,” “Pilgrims Farewell,” “Wells,” “Windham” (led in 4/4 time by Joe Cobb) and “Easter Anthem,” which was traditionally sung in Mississippi at 2:00 in the afternoon. Other favorites were from the 1911 Sacred Harp (J.L. White edition) which were included in the 1958 Deason/Parris revision of the Christian Harmony. “Angel Band” and “Don’t Grieve Your Mother” were among those favorites.
Dinner, served under the oak trees behind the church, was a sight to behold. Plates of fried chicken graced the table alongside fresh butterbeans, tomatoes, corn, & squash. The meal could be topped off with some heavenly coconut cake or homemade chocolate pie topped with fresh calf slobber (meringue). One cook had brewed the ice tea a little strong. When the extra strong tea was poured out by me and John Leigh Vanhorn, it fizzled and made a layer of foam on the hot gravel in the driveway. A tastier batch awaited us in another jug on the table.
The afternoon session concluded with many thank you’s and “’preciate all you folks from other counties comin”.A couple of times someone looked over at Hugh, Henry, and myself and said “it shore is good to see these young fellers takin’ up sangin”. New Hope Baptist Church offered to host the convention the following year. After a song and a prayer, the convention was dismissed until 1974.
Before the long (35 mile) ride home back down the same dusty trail in a non-air conditioned car, Hugh Bill made a stop at the Montevista grocery store. This little cinder block building sat at the bottom of the hill below the church with a Southland Oil sign and kitty cat decals on the gas pumps out front. Once inside, Hugh, Henry and I made our way over to the old fashioned “drank box”. What a selection! Nestled inside the cooler were cold Nehi bellywashers (Peach & Strawberry), along with numerous other fruit drinks. I opted for a cold Grapette which was beside companions Lemonette and Orangette. These had to be the best fruit flavored soft drinks of all time. At least they were on that day. On the dusty car ride home, us boys sang songs we didn’t know from the Christian Harmony. Hugh Bill sang along with us while driving. He didn’t need a book since he knew them all from memory. (Still does, for that matter.)
For the next few years the Webster County Convention convened at New Hope Church, which sat on the main highway (Mississippi 9) between Eupora & Calhoun City. The remaining singers discontinued their visits to Calhoun County due to disability or they passed away. The last attempt at a singing was summer 1983 or 1984, I’m really not sure. The Webster County Convention went the way of many others in our state. They’re gone but not forgotten.
My memory of this was stirred when I read the J-card from a cassette recording from a convention in the north (somewhere in New England, I’m thinking). It included a list of singings begun in recent years. For every singing listed on that cassette, there is a singing in The South (such as the Webster Convention) that no longer exists, somewhere here in The South. I appreciate the efforts of all you folks around the country that have started singing groups, conventions, etc. In your own way, you’re preserving this fine old tradition we fondly know as Sacred Harp.
You may preserve the sound and the music. Unfortunately, you can’t preserve people, places, and time, nor the lost days of youthful boys.
Mark S. Davis Pearl, Mississippi
