A writer, a scholar and an artist as well as the first and foremost chef of note from Mississippi, Howard Mitcham was a brilliant, stone-deaf, hard-drinking bohemian, raconteur and bon vivant who knew and corresponded with the great and near-great but who himself remains shadowed today. A name chef during what Anthony Bourdain called “the early happy days before the glamorization of chefs”, a historian and an artist as well, we should remember Mitcham with gusto, with horns, drums and strings. His Creole Gumbo and All That Jazz stands loud, proud and without a smidgeon of pretension alongside any cookbook written in the past century, a robust ragout of recipes, music, art and lore. His Provincetown Seafood Cookbook, written with the same gregarious spirit, surely sates my fellow countrymen in Massachusetts as fully, but as his fellow Mississippian, Creole Gumbo strikes much closer to my heart.
Mitcham nurtured, cultivated and matured his sprawling genius in the rich enclaves of Provincetown and New Orleans. For decades he was a spectacular bird of passage, summering on Cape Cod, wintering in the French Quarter and coming home to Montgomery County, Mississippi at times. His books trumpet a passion for seafood; his eloquence on oysters and clams, shrimp and fish seems to pant with restraint. Mitcham wants you to partake of everything he knows and loves with the same gusto he does in hearty sentences that growl with gruff humor and wry authority. “People think I’m sort of coo-coo to publish my trade secrets and recipes,” he wrote, “but to me good food is like love, it should be given as wide a distribution as possible.”
James Howard Mitcham, Jr. was born in Winona, Mississippi on June 11, 1917. His father, a house painter, died when he was a year old. His mother moved to Vicksburg to find work, leaving the infant Howard with her parents on their watermelon farm on Sawmill Road. At sixteen Mitcham became deaf from nerve damage resulting from spinal meningitis. For the rest of his life, Mitcham spoke with a thick, booming Southern accent, but used sign language and notes to abet his frequent incoherency. He grew up loving jazz, a love silence didn’t kill. “The last song he ever heard was Billie Holiday’s ‘Am I Blue?’”, his daughter Sabina said. “Whenever he’d sing it, it would just break my heart. At his birthdays he would place his hand on the bell of a sax to get the beat.”
Mitcham attended Greenville High School with lifelong friend Shelby Foote as well as Walker Percy. A May 30, 1934 clipping from “The Pica”, the GHS school newspaper, includes a column by Mitcham (“Rigmarole”) and three poems by Foote. A news article in the same issue notes: “Walker Percy, freshman at the University of North Carolina and member of last year’s graduating class, will journey to Germany for a three months’ tour of that country,” adding that “the tour will be made on foot and on bycicles (sic)”. After graduating high school, Mitcham moved to Vicksburg to live with his mother and began attending Louisiana State University. As an art student at LSU in 1940, Mitcham came to the attention of the Baton Rouge Advocate for befriending a Negro janitor on campus, Felton Coleman, who according to the newspaper article Mitcham “forced” to paint. Reading the account of this incident is almost painful, since it is most likely from our perspective that little coercion was involved at all. Instead, Coleman probably expressed an interest in painting while he was sweeping a studio, and Mitcham, far from ordering him to paint, instead gave Coleman a canvas and paint to take home to his “cabin”, where he soon “spent his evenings . . . painting by the light of a kerosene lamp, intent neighbors (crowding) at his elbows.” A year later, one of Coleman’s paintings, the “brilliantly-colored and strongly composed ‘Baptism’, appeared by invitation at the annual exhibition of Louisiana artists at the capitol.” (The painting is now on permanent exhibit at LSU.) “Coleman can be the greatest artist of his race, at least in the South,” Mitcham is quoted as saying. “It’s a pity that the opportunities to learn are not in the reach of more of his people. They all have talent. Painting gives them a way to express themselves, and they’ve got a great deal to say.” It’s worth noting that to advocate more education for blacks in the South in the 40s was progressive, if not radical.
At some point in the late 1940s, Mitcham moved to Greenwich Village in New York City, where he ran an art gallery. During this time, he became the model for “the stone deaf man” in Marguerite Young’s epic work, Miss MacIntosh, My Darling. Sabina said that during Mitcham’s days in New York, Walker Percy would come to stay with him, often sleeping on the floor in Mitcham’s tiny apartment in the Village.
A little over a decade later, Mitcham’s support for civil rights was confirmed in another medium. Among the papers of Dr. James Silver at the University of Mississippi is a letter from Mitcham to Silver dated 1956 written in a strong articulate script thanking him for a letter and clipping from “the Jackson, Tenn. newspaper” and his vigorous support of Silver’s stance against a closed society. “You have certainly flung down the gauntlet in a manner that was badly needed,” Mitcham wrote. “I only hope you don’t get a potshard in the urn with your name on it. To defend freedom of thought and expression in Mississippi these days is almost suicidal, they’re more afraid of truth than any other one thing, just can’t afford to face it, or the house of cards will fall down.” The year before, Howard received a letter from Faulkner thanking him for a painting.
The picture is here. It was all right, not bent but arch-ed a little but the paint did not crack. I flattened it with careful pressure, am trying to get a frame, something solid behind it. I will let the Buie people hang it for a while if they wish.
I like it. I have it propped in a chair at eyelevel across the room from my typewriter where I can look up at now and then.
I don’t know where rumor of illness came from. It’s not mine though. I had measles and such as a child but nothing since. Thank you for condolence though, and many thanks for the painting. I like plenty of dense color.
It’s not known if the painting ever did hang in the Buie Museum, but it is still at Rowan Oak. Fred Smith, owner of Choctaw Books in Jackson, pointing out the date as well as the elements of the painting (a Tokyo newspaper, a bottle of Tabasco sauce and a pipe) said, “Mitcham probably painted this to mark the publication of Faulkner’s New Orleans Sketches by Hokuseido Press in Japan on April 1. Faulkner also traveled to Japan that August on a goodwill tour.”
Mitcham’s first book, Fishing on the Gulf Coast, was published by Hermit Crab Press in 1959. “I don’t know much about fishing,” Mitcham confesses in his preface, but that doesn’t stop him from offering instructions on how to catch dozens of fresh and salt water species using methods anyone on the Gulf would use now. But Fishing on the Gulf Coast, in the final analysis, is a cookbook, Mitcham’s first, and it establishes his life-long love for seafood. Fishing includes many recipes you’ll find in later works (bouillabaisse, court bouillon, pompano en papillote and, of course a gumbo, in this instance from Antoine’s, no less). While the recipes are elaborate (and nowadays quite expensive to make), they’re easy to follow; they make perfect sense to anyone from south of I-10, with procedures for such things as smoking mullet (much beer-drinking seems to be involved) and incredibly detailed maps of the Gulf Coast along Louisiana, Texas, Mississippi and the Florida Panhandle.
What makes Fishing on the Gulf Coast even more of a treasure are Mitcham’s beautiful woodcut prints of fish and marine life. Art (along with a passion for antique clocks and clockworks) provided Mitcham with a fruitful outlet for his talents throughout his life. The 1963 summer and winter issues of The Carolina Quarterly featured two portfolios with six of his woodcuts prints. Like his fellow Mississippi artist Walter Anderson, who also made woodcut prints, much of Mitcham’s work reflects a strong interest in classical mythology. This is nowhere more evident than in his Four Tales from Byzantium (Wattle Grove Press: 1964). Incredulously enough, Wattle Grove Press was a small publishing house founded in Launceston,Tasmania by Professor Rolf Hennequel in 1958. According to a pamphlet issued by the Queen Victoria Museum & Art Gallery in Launceston, Hennequel stated that the purpose of the press was “. . . for printing unusual literature, which could not possibly be launched commercially. This was—and is—our only purpose, which also includes the desire to help young writers.” How Mitcham connected with this small, progressive press in a part of the world that could be considered almost the antipodes of Mississippi is an as-yet unfathomable mystery. Somewhat later, the book was re-issued by Hermit Crab Press in New Orleans.
The quirk of fate or fortune that first took Mitcham from his home in the Deep South to the distant shores of Cape Cod is a matter rich for speculation, but he claims to have made his first visit there as early as 1948. Thereafter for most of his life, Mitcham divided his years between New Orleans and Provincetown. An editor of The Provincetown Advocate described Mitcham as “Artist, block print maker, chef par excellence, pro-beatnik, draughtsman and one of the most talented ‘nuts’ ever to come into Provincetown.” Mitcham maintained an art gallery on the Cape, painted signs and repaired clocks (one correspondent claims he published an article on antique clocks in Gentleman’s Quarterly). In the 1960s, Mitcham wrote a column in the Advocate called the “The Cape Tip Gourmet” and another called “The Cape Curmudgeon”. He wrote that the first place he headed when he first arrived in Provincetown, and most likely from then on, was Town Wharf. “It made my heart jump to see the enormous hauls of herring that the trap boats were bringing in,” Mitcham said. “But my gourmet’s heart was broken when I found out that this wonderful fish was being knocked down for two bucks and fifty cents a barrel and shipped off to the cat food factory.”
His abounding love for Provincetown bore prodigious fruit in 1976 with the publication of The Provincetown Seafood Cookbook, an unsurpassed ode to a food, a place and a people. Bourdain, who worked in Provincetown during the mid-1970s when he was attending (of all places) Vassar, knew Mitcham and in his Kitchen Confidential writes that “Howard was the sole ‘name chef’ in town.”
“To us, Howard was a juju man, an oracle who spoke in tongues,” Bourdain wrote. “He could be seen most nights after work, holding up the fishermen’s bars or lurching about town, shouting incomprehensibly (he liked to sing as well). Though drunk most of the time and difficult to understand, Howard was a revered elder statesman of Cape cod cookery, a respected chef of a very busy restaurant and the author of two very highly regarded cookbooks: The Provincetown Seafood Cookbook and Creole Gumbo and All That Jazz—two volumes I still refer to, and which were hugely influential for me and my budding culinary peers of the time. He had wild, unruly white hair, a gin-blossomed face, a boozer’s gut and he wore the short-sleeved-snap-button shirt of a dishwasher. Totally without pretension, both he and his books were fascinating depositories of recipes, recollections, history, folklore and illustrations, drawing on his abiding love for the humble, working-class ethnic food of the area. His signature dish was haddock amandine, and people would drive for hours from Boston to sample it.”
“We might not have understood Howard, but we understood his books, and while it was hard to reconcile his public behavior with the wry, musical and lovingly informative tone of his writings, we knew enough to respect the man for what he knew and for what he could do. We saw someone who loved food, not just the life of the cook. Howard showed us how to cook for ourselves, for the pure pleasure of eating, not just for the tourist hordes. Howard showed us that there was hope for us as cooks. That food could be a calling. That the stuff itself was something we could actually be proud of, a reason to live.”
In Provincetown, Mitcham bonded strongly with the local Portuguese community, where he made many deep and lasting friendships and his love for them shines from his works. In Fishing on the Gulf Coast, Mitcham claims he contacted the Portuguese Embassy to obtain a recipe, and The Provincetown Seafood Cookbook contains many, many more. “Transplanting the Azores Islanders to Provincetown was a great step forward because they brought with them their beautifully rambunctious cookery, and this husky, euphoric cuisine has quietly worked its way into Cape Cod and New England cookery in general,” he wrote. “I have been observing Portuguese cooks for twenty-five years, and I find that they have the following relative units of measurement: (1) a little, (2) some, (3) a bit more, (4) a lot, (5) plenty, (6) enough.”
Mitcham’s best-known work in my part of the world is Creole Gumbo and All That Jazz (1978), arguably the most embracive and best-written book about the food and people of southern Louisiana. The exuberance of this work needs many readings to encompass. In Creole Gumbo, Mitcham celebrates his love for the kaleidoscopic, carefree world of the Crescent City: its food, its history and, astoundingly, its music. Reading Creole Gumbo, you discover Mitcham the bohemian, a Falstaff in the French Quarter, ebullient in his adoration for life and the bounty of the waters. Creole Gumbo could well serve as a textbook for New Orleans cuisine, since it not only includes the most recognized dishes of the city with authoritative recipes usually garnered from reliable sources but more so, it places the foods of the city within the demographics that shaped them. Like any knowledgeable writer on the subject — Paul Prudhomme, for instance — Mitcham takes great pains to distinguish between Creole and Cajun, two distinct populations often erroneously lumped together by less astute writers and epicures. He also describes other people that combined in the great cauldron: the native Choctaws, the immigrant French, Spanish, Albanian, Sicilian, Chinese and Filipino. Mitcham also offers a “Short Biography of a Creole Building”, that being the Skyscraper on the corner of Royal and St. Peter Streets, where he lived with his friends, artists Johnny Donnels and Maggi Hartnett, noting that the building was also home to Sherwood Anderson and William Faulkner during the 1920s and the site of jam sessions by legendary jazz artists like Kid Thomas, George Lewis, Percy Humphries and Lewis Nelson. Mitcham had an apartment in the 600 block of St. Peter Street in the French Quarter. His longtime friend, photographer Johnny Donnels, lived on the floor below, and on the efficiency stove in Donnels’ apartment was where Mitcham tested his recipes. “If it didn’t kill anybody or make anybody sick,” Donnels said, “we put it in the book.”
In her Sept. 12, 1979 article in The New York Times, “A Library of Creole-Cajun Cooking”, Mimi Sheraton said that Creole Gumbo is “a delightful book with excellent recipes for the gumbo, jambalaya, crab, shrimp, crawfish and other seafood dishes that distinguish both the Creole and Cajun kitchens.” She praises Mitcham’s “beautifully simple recipe for the pungent barbecued shrimp of the type made at Pascal’s Manale restaurant and some unusual folklore dishes such as the Chimney Sweep’s shrimp boil that Mitcham and his Guild of Chimney Sweepers (named in honor of a dinner that Charles Lamb hosted for the London sweeps) hosted yearly for French Quarter bohemians during the 1950s and 1960s.”
“At our last big party we boiled 400 pounds of shrimp and 400 fat crabs for 200 guests and we drank eight thirty-gallon kegs of beer,” Mitcham said. “For music we had Kid Thomas and his Algiers Stompers, the famous old gut-bucket jazz group from Preservation Hall, and the Olympia Funeral Marching Band”.
Sheraton notes that Creole Gumbo, like its predecessor The Provincetown Seafood Cookbook, deals (almost) exclusively with seafood, for which Mitcham had an avowed and lifelong passion, but it’s worth pointing out that with few exceptions (bananas Foster springs to mind) the recipes we associate most with New Orleans are seafood-based: trout amandine meuniere, oysters Rockefeller, seafood gumbo, pompano en papillote, the aforementioned barbecued shrimp (which, it must be said, resembles no other type of Southern barbecue) and many others. This emphasis on seafood provides a convenient point for a brief comparison with The Provincetown Seafood Cookbook. Two points must be emphasized: first, that one city sits on the edge of the North Atlantic, the other at the mouth of the Mississippi River; secondly, the ethnic make-up of places, New Orleans a hodge-podge of race and nationalities, Provincetown a New England enclave with an important Portuguese community. Geography plays an important role in the types of seafood used. Recipes for clams of all sorts and the fish of the North Atlantic (cod, haddock, bluefish, etc.) dominate the Provincetown Seafood Cookbook, while the emphasis in Creole Gumbo is on oysters, shrimp and such fish that thrive in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico (redfish, snapper, speckled trout, etc.) as well as the denizens of the fresh and brackish water environments along the Gulf: alligators, snapping turtles and catfish.
In 1981, The Hermit Crab Press published Maya O Maya! Rambunctious Fables of Yucatan. According to a synopsis by Creighton University, which owns one of the 500 published copies, the book is “a collection of humorous parodies of ancient lore about gods, statues, and rites. The first, ‘The World’s Strongest Cocktail,’ presents Ixnib, the god who invented the drink balche. The woodcut figures are reminiscent of Mayan statues in museums.”
Mitcham’s final, and in many ways his most personal book, is Clams, Mussels, Oysters, Scallops, and Snails: A Cookbook and a Memoir (1990). Were we to judge by this book alone we might well concur that Mitcham’s favorite food among all the denizens of the sea is the clam, since well over half the book is a paean to this bivalve mollusk, it’s biology, its history as a foodstuff (particularly in New England) and recipes from all over the world. Mitcham delves into the American “Chowder War” (New York/Long Island tomatoes vs “Yankee”—New England—cream) and of course offers several Portuguese recipes. In addition, somewhat surprisingly to me because the idea of Mitcham as riveted to a New Orleans/Provincetown axis, he reveals himself as a far-ranging traveler, journeying not only to Portugal itself, but to southern Spain, the Pacific Northwest, Philadelphia and Chicago. He also introduces a cadre of chefs who were very much his fellow celebrities in the culinary world of his day: Joseph Poon, Louis Szathmary and Jeff Smith, among others. Many of his recipes for oysters are repeated from Creole Gumbo, which given their excellence is quite excusable, and he covers scallops, periwinkles and moon snails deftly and with expertise. As always, Mitcham’s style is light, breezy and wry, a delight to read. It’s in this book we also come to know many of the people who make up his world, an off-beat collection of people who clustered around Howard as the cynosure of a starry sky.
Mitcham shared his days between New Orleans and Provincetown, where he worked in local restaurants. He also became very much a fixture in the town; Jan Kelly, who wrote a food column for The Provincetown Advocate with Mitcham for years, described him as “brilliant, a great art lover and so well-read that there wasn’t a literary or mythical reference that he didn’t know. He was an absolute genius, terribly complicated at times, but never boring.” Mitcham died at the age of 79 on August 22, 1996, at Cape Cod Hospital. Mitcham once told Donnels he’d like to be buried in a Truro, Mass., cemetery beside an old clam digger friend of his, but at another time Donnels said, “We were sitting in Pat O’Brien’s, and he said if ever he died, he would like to be cremated and have his ashes scattered through the ventilating fan of the ladies room there.” Mitcham’s ashes were spread over the ocean off Cape Cod.
(My profound and affectionate thanks to Sabina Mitcham Donnamario for her friendship and help in writing this article. Thank you, Sabina.)
Cooking and peeling boiled eggs is a matter of technique and experience. The methods vary; all they have in common are eggs, water and heat. The English eat soft-boiled eggs shell-on, sliced with a little knife and eaten with a little spoon, but Americans want hard-boiled eggs, ones Cool Hand Luke can gulp down in a Louisiana prison where you will find little knives, but not little spoons. I once saw a video of a guy blowing a boiled egg out of its shell; I tried it and got a migraine. Maybe I just suck at blowing eggs, but how much of a bad thing can that be? For expert advice on this matter of technique, these chefs offer their methods. Taken altogether, they offer a chorus of dissent against Emerson’s “There is always a best way of doing everything, if it be to boil an egg.” It ain’t that easy, Waldo.
Vishwesh Bhatt (The Snackbar, Oxford): Let’s get one thing out the way right away. Boiled eggs are my least favorite thing to eat. I’m uncertain where this aversion originated (or maybe I do), but there it is. Now as far as cooking and peeling goes, bring large chicken eggs (fresher the better) to a boil in well salted water. Boil rapidly for exactly 6 minutes. Shock the eggs by submerging them in ice water. Once they have cooled enough to handle, gently tap the air cell (the fatter end) of the egg on a flat hard surface until it cracks. Lay the egg sideways and roll it back and forth while gently applying pressure. The shell will start cracking, and once you have a crack that runs all the way around you can peel it off easily; if necessary you can run some cold water over the cracked shell while peeling to expedite the process.
Dan Blumenthal (Broad Street Bakery, Jackson): Place eggs in a pot and cover with cold water. Add a teaspoon or two of baking soda. This helps in peeling. Turn heat to max and bring to a boil. Cover and turn heat down to medium. Cook for 10-15 minutes. Remove from heat and immediately run cold water over the eggs. Use ice in water if you have it. Once eggs are cool enough to peel, roll them on the counter to crack the shells, and peel them under running water to remove all shell fragments.
John Currence (The City Grocery, Oxford): We start eggs in cold water with a tablespoon of white vinegar. Starting cold will keep eggs from cracking and the vinegar helps the shell from “sticking” to the egg. Bring the pot to a boil over high heat and lower heat to medium. Boil for exactly 8 minutes. Pour off the hot water and cool with ice and cold water immediately. To peel, lightly tap side of egg on a hard surface to crack shell. Roll egg back and forth under palm until egg shell cracks all over. Egg will peel easily after this.
Alex Eaton (The Manship, Jackson): I put eggs in cold water; once eggs start boiling I time them exactly ten minutes. At the ten minute mark I ice them. To peel, I roll them on a flat service cracking them all over. Using a spoon you can peel the shell off with one good scrape.
Derek Emerson (Walker’s Drive-In, Jackson): Start eggs in cold water, put pot on high until it boils (must have bubbles in middle of pot). Once you get bubbles, turn off heat, add 1 cup of white vinegar and cover for 12 mins. Then shock until cool to stop them from cooking anymore. If you peel egg while they are still a little warm they will peel easier.
Martha Foose: (author of Screen Doors and Sweet Tea): Just buy your eggs way ahead of time. Add vinegar to water, cover 1 inch above eggs. If you want yolks to stay toward the middle poke rounded end with a thumbtack. Bring to a boil in non-aluminum pot. When water is boiling, cover, remove from eye and let sit 13 minutes. Run under cold water. Lightly crack; put back in cold water for 5 minutes.
Dixie Grimes (The B.T.C. Old-Fashioned Grocery, Water Valley): Use raw eggs directly from the fridge. Put (do not over-crowd) in a saucepan with about 2 tablespoons table salt and cover completely with water by 1-2 inches. Bring to a hard boil for about 6 minutes. Turn the heat off and let them sit in the hot water for another 6 minutes. Drain and gently crack the shells; re-cover in warm water for 3-4 minutes until cool enough to handle. Peel; more times than not the shell comes off in one whole piece. The key is to peel them while they are still warm.
Gary Hawkins (The Fairview Inn, Jackson): I cover my eggs by 2″ with cold water. Arrange eggs in a single layer, not bunched up all over. Bring to a boil, after it comes to a boil let it go 3 to 5 minutes, turn off heat and cover with lid for about 20 minutes then peel under cold running water.
Dru Jones (Boure, Oxford): In the restaurant, we generally boil 3 or 4 flats (18 eggs each) at a time. Salted cold water to cover the eggs, big splash of white vinegar, and bring to a boil. Hit the timer 10 minutes from the boil and shock in ice water. More than that and the yolks get a gray/green ring around them and it’s a tell-tale sign of over cooking. Peel when completely cooled. More often than not, give them a good roll and the cracked shell comes off in a sheet. If you are using farm fresh/day old eggs, I would probably wait a while to boil them.
Matthew Kajdan (The Parlor Market, Jackson): Place raw eggs gently in an empty pot, and fill the pot with enough cold tap water to cover the eggs by1 inch of water. Cook the eggs on medium heat; if boiling is too intense the eggs can jump and break. Add a pinch of salt to the water. This will make the eggs easier to peel; eggs that are slightly less fresh are also easier to peel. As soon as the water boils, turn off the heat and cover for ten to fifteen minutes. To see if the egg is hard-boiled, whirl it on a table. If it turns fast, it is hard-boiled; if it turns slowly, it is soft boiled. Chill the eggs under cold running water or in a bowl of ice water. When cool enough to handle, roll egg on a flat surface to crack the shell and peel under cold water, starting from the thick end of the egg.
Angelo Mistilis (Mistilis’, Delta Steak Company, Oxford): Add salt to the water. Don’t dump a lot of salt in there, maybe just two or three tablespoons, and bring them to a heavy boil for five minutes. If you’re boiling more than a dozen, take maybe six or seven minutes. To see if the eggs are done, take one out and spin it. If the eggs are hard-boiled, they’ll spin like a top. Cool the eggs down in cold water, crack them all around and peel. A lot of times that shell will come off in two pieces. But adding salt to the water is the key.
Taylor Bowen Ricketts (The Delta Bistro, Greenwood): I boil eggs slow and steady, and I pretty much only boil eggs from my friend Leanne Hines, who raises my chickens. The eggs are darker, richer and have thicker yolks than grocery standard eggs. I usually boil a dozen at a time, using a 4 quart saucepan and 3 quarts water. I simmer these nuggets of light brown goodness for about 20 mins., cool slowly and peel under cold running water.
Mike Roemhild (Table 100, Flowood): I still cook eggs the way my mother and grandmother showed me. It’s always better for hard-boiled eggs to use a bit older eggs, like a week old. Take eggs out of the fridge and poke big end with thin needle. Let the eggs sit at room temperature for 10 minutes. Fill a pot with enough water to cover the eggs, add a pinch of salt and bring to a light boil. With a spoon set eggs one by one in to the boiling water. When water comes back to a boil set your timer on 8-9 minutes for large eggs, keep water at a light boil, not rolling boil. After time is up, drain off the hot water, and cool eggs in very cold water for about 5 minutes. Gently crack the shell on the rim of your pot and peel under running water.
Robert St. John (Purple Parrot Café, Hattiesburg): When cooking hard-boiled eggs, the key is to cook the perfect yolk. Once you’ve mastered the yolk, everything else falls in place. There are probably a hundred ways to cook the perfect hard-boiled egg, here’s mine: Gently place the eggs in a single layer in a saucepot. Don’t crowd. Cover with cold water by an inch or so. Bring the pot to a rigorous boil. Cook 1-2 minutes. Remove heat, cover, and let sit 9-10 minutes. Drain and cover with cold water. Remove the eggs and gently crack the shells. Peel the eggs starting on the large end making sure to get under the clear plastic-like membrane.
Nick Wallace (The Palette, Mississippi Museum of Art, Jackson): If you want hard-boiled eggs that are easy to peel, make sure they are several days old. Buy your eggs 5 days in advance; hard boiling farm fresh eggs will lead to eggs that are difficult to peel. If you have boiled a batch that is difficult to peel, try putting them in the refrigerator for a few days; they should be easier to peel then. If you need to hard cook fresh eggs, steaming works well. Even fresh eggs steamed for 20 minutes will be easy to peel.
Finally, a reminder that an imperfectly peeled egg is why God created egg salad.
Mix chopped boiled eggs, finely chopped celery, red onion and black olives with mayonnaise; season with salt, dill, cayenne and serve as a spread on good dark bread.
The first (and still foremost) chef of note from Mississippi was a brilliant, stone-deaf, hard-drinking bohemian from Winona named Howard Mitcham. A name chef during what Anthony Bourdain (of all people) called “the early happy days before the glamorization of chefs”, a writer, scholar and an artist, we should remember Mitcham well. His Provincetown Seafood Cookbook (1976), written with a cheerful, gregarious spirit, surely sates my fellow countrymen in Massachusetts, but as his brother Mississippian, Mitcham’s Creole Gumbo and All That Jazz (1978) strikes much closer to my heart, a work that stands loud, proud and without a smidgeon of pretention alongside any cookbook written in the past century, a robust ragout of recipes, music, art and lore.
Creole Gumbo is arguably the most embracive and best-written book about the food and people of southern Louisiana. The exuberance of this work needs many readings to encompass. In this book, Mitcham celebrates his love for the kaleidoscopic, carefree world of the Crescent City: its food, its history and, astoundingly, given that Mitcham himself became deaf when he was 16, its music. Reading Creole Gumbo, you encounter Mitcham the bohemian, the Falstaff of the French Quarter, ebullient in his adoration for the bounty of life. The work could well serve as a textbook for New Orleans cuisine, since it not only includes the most recognized dishes of the city with authoritative recipes garnered from reliable sources, but more so it places the foods of the city within the demographics that shaped them. Like any knowledgeable writer on the subject — Paul Prudhomme, for instance — Mitcham takes great pains to distinguish between Creole and Cajun, two distinct populations often erroneously lumped together by less astute writers and epicures. He also describes other people whose foods melded in the great cauldron at the mouth of the Father of Waters: the native Choctaw peoples, the French,the Spanish, British, Albanians, Sicilians, Chinese and Filipinos. Mitcham also offers a “Short Biography of a Creole Building”, that being the Skyscraper on the corner of Royal and St. Peter Streets, where he lived with his friends, artists Johnny Donnels and Maggi Hartnett, noting that the building was also home to Sherwood Anderson and William Faulkner during the 1920s and the site of jam sessions by legendary jazz artists like Kid Thomas, George Lewis, Percy Humphries and Lewis Nelson.
In her Sept. 12, 1979 article in The New York Times, “A Library of Creole-Cajun Cooking”, Mimi Sheraton said that Creole Gumbo is “a delightful book with excellent recipes for the gumbo, jambalaya, crab, shrimp, crawfish and other seafood dishes that distinguish both the Creole and Cajun kitchens.” She praises Mitcham’s “beautifully simple recipe for the pungent barbecued shrimp of the type made at Pascal’s Manale restaurant” as well as “unusual folklore dishes” such as the Chimney Sweep’s shrimp boil that Mitcham and his Guild of Chimney Sweepers (named in honor of a dinner that Charles Lamb hosted for the London sweeps) hosted yearly for French Quarter bohemians during the 1950s and 1960s. “At our last big party,” Howard writes, “we boiled 400 pounds of shrimp and 400 fat crabs for 200 guests and we drank eight thirty-gallon kegs of beer,” Mitcham said. “For music we had Kid Thomas and his Algiers Stompers, the famous old gut-bucket jazz group from Preservation Hall, and the Olympia Funeral Marching Band”. Howard couldn’t hear the music, but he saw the people laugh and dance, watched them eat and be happy together. He was in his element. “People think I’m sort of coo-coo to publish my trade secrets and recipes,” he wrote, “but to me good food is like love, it should be given as wide a distribution as possible.”
In Kitchen Confidential, Bourdain writes, “We might not have understood Howard, but we understood his books, and while it was hard to reconcile his public behavior with the wry, musical and lovingly informative tone of his writings, we knew enough to respect the man for what he knew and for what he could do. We saw someone who loved food, not just the life of the cook. Howard showed us how to cook for ourselves, for the pure pleasure of eating, not just for the tourist hordes. Howard showed us that there was hope for us as cooks. That food could be a calling. That the stuff itself was something we could actually be proud of, a reason to live.”