Grits, Gravy, and Graciousness: Or I've lived in The South for almost a year

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Roasted Cauliflower Soup on Papa's Trunk

This coming December will mark the first anniversary of my living in The South. As if swimming along the coast with a gash in my thigh, the sharks have been circling, demanding my opinion on whether or not I have enjoyed my 365 days of grits, gravy, and graciousness.

After the third inquiry in one week I finally broke down and asked my boss if my demeanor was beyond my comprehension. Perhaps I was unknowingly pea-cocking a unspoken disdain for my surroundings. Giving off a bad vibe. Scaring small children.

Let's face it, my resting bitch face could take home the blue ribbon. I don't give off the most come hither, welcoming vibe. I really do scare small children. 

But that doesn't mean I don't love my new home, The South. 

The Jew in me is mildly uncomfortable with all the Jesus prayers that are made at public gatherings. But I appreciate the community their faith provides. And the height of hair in correlation to ones closeness to God.

The lover of history in me is daily aroused by the story telling that happens in The South. A meal is almost always paired with a story about some eccentric old timer, some misadventure had in youth, or some hotly debated "whose momma made it best" recipe throw down.

I've gone from wondering how many handguns are concealed while I grocery shop, to accepting that there are more pocket book or calf strapped handguns than I could shake a stick at. I trust that Grandma at the deli counter is a better aim than I am.

I will proudly say my blood has in fact thinned. Fifty-five degrees is cold to me. I don't miss having to carry an extra handkerchief just to wipe down my frost covered beard from walking from the house to the car. And you know what? Your blood would thin too. However, I will say, I do very much miss snow. There best be a white Christmukkah when I go North in December.

"Yes, Ma'am", "No, Ma'am", "Sir", "Have a blessed day", "Might could", "Tighter than Dick's hat band", "Fixin' to", "Cussed out", "Blessed out", "Rode hard and put up wet", "Drunk as Cooter Brown", "Y'all", "All Y'all", and "Y'all ain't right" are phrases I understand, use if needed, and hope to carry with me until I die. 

As we slowly enter into this next year, and the period of hibernation that winter brings let it be known I do not regret my choice to move to The South. It may not be my forever home. But its roots have cracked my foundation and will forever be a part of me. Let's see what happens in year two. 

Soup for a Southern Fall Day (highs in the 60's - I'll be wearing a jacket when I go outside)

CREAMY SPICED CAULIFLOWER SOUP

RECIPE FROM Produce on Parade

Serves 6

Road Trips, Rory Gilmore, and (Future) Rugged Mountain Husband's

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Grit Skillet with Homemade Ginger and Sage Sausage from Over Yonder (Valle Crucis, NC).

Yesterday I found myself riding with the top down, scarf on my head, over-sized sunglasses protecting my baby blues, driving through the beautiful High Country mountains of North Carolina. 

Okay only part of that was true. 

I was on a day trip to some mountain towns in western North Carolina. But I was mildly gassy, my Ray-Bans were smudged and the Nissan top does not come down. And it was more than beautiful. I'm 8 months into my new life here in Winston-Salem and I have only recently begun to travel outside of the city limits. Winston-Salem has enough to offer me (booze and food) that I haven't yet felt the need to break free. However, yesterday I was called upon to travel West like many of my kind before me. 

I landed in Valle Crucis, NC. Home of the locally famous Mast General Store chain found here in North Carolina. And also home to Over Yonder restaurant. Picture any restaurant you would imagine Logan would have taken Rory to on Gilmore Girl's if he wanted her to feel comfortable. Located in the "Hard" Taylor House built in 1861 you can't help but awkwardly tell the waitress you plan to never leave as your grit skillet with homemade ginger and sage sausage is served to you on the back deck overlooking a koi pond that's adjacent to the garden, that's nestled on the hill overlooking the valley that makes you want to leave all your belongings behind and just start life new with nothing but your cast iron skillet and a couple pounds of butter.

After the waitress asked if I wanted my 12th coffee refill I decided it best to just lay down and roll down the drive over to the original Mast General Store. Originally opened in 1883 this general store has sold everything from caskets to the North Face. Plus you can still get a $.05 cup of coffee. Not to forget the entertainment of locals on the back porch singing old mountain songs. 

Added bonus - everyone in the mountains seems to be hot. Not it has been a long time hot, but why hasn't Mode Magazine been up here yet to snag that man behind the counter for future shenanigans with Betty and Mark? Like I said...all I need is my cast iron skillet, a couple pounds of butter, and now my empty ring finger for that rugged mountain husband.

I hope you enjoy the pictures from my day trip below!

 

The Dead Dad's Club

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Dumplings and Bean with Bacon Soup

Dumplings and Bean with Bacon Soup

A NOTE:
Below is a post from awhile back. I find myself reading it once a year on Father's Day. So I am going to share it once again. And you will probably see it next year around this time as well. It's a damn good recipe.

Today’s post is going to be short. It is a holiday for many and I assume there are meats being bought, hot dishes being prepared, and Jell-O salads firming in the ice box.

This is the time of year I steer clear of the card aisles, ignore the barrage of promotional emails that filter in daily and make a concentrated effort to not ask my co-workers what they have planned for the weekend.

Today is Father’s Day and I’m a card carrying member of The Dead Dad’s Club. Though the name of our club sounds harsh it is our way of memorializing our fathers. Most of us in the club agree our fathers had a sense of humor to support our sardonic group name.

We formed innocently enough one night over beers. The Fates had found it necessary to bring together different circles of friends that once seated and stories told realized they formed a human Venn Diagram whose common space was our departed fathers.

That night, though nothing was said, we had our own Hallmark-less, cookout-less, present-less, and fatherless Father’s Day. I will not speak for everyone at that table but I imagine for a split second we all held a mental memorial for the men who were half responsible for making us.

This Father’s Day I will spend time thinking of the men who taught us to make soup, who could play a mean accordion, who proudly served our country, who filled a station wagon full of kids and travelled cross country, who stopped to make history by being photographed on a toilet in the middle of a field, who built a log home, who could light up any room with his electrical skills, who took us to our first psychic reading, who made historical societies cool, and who knew that even after he was gone could make a difference to a medical school.

So this week’s recipe is dedicated to my father, Just J. In my mind this is a family recipe. It very well could have come from Good Housekeeping decades back. But only my father could make it a real family delicacy. It’s a simple soup. From a store bought can. But made to taste homemade because of who taught me to make it.

Just J’s Bean with Bacon Soup (aka Dumps)

Feeds me for about two days. Or a family of four for one meal

Spatchcocked Chicken, Summer Shenanigans, and Sports Bar Pizza

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Herb De Provence Spatchcocked Chicken

With the arrival of summer I have found myself at the pool a few weekends in a row. Now as I am one to only get in a pool on the rarest of occasion, the time spent is pure observational. At the start of the summer I, along with a few select neighbors, could be seen lounging about, cattily chatting about the goings on around our building and tossing back a La Croix or two. With summer now in full swing the pool has become a petri dish of high school coming of age movies. Picture a lovely mash up of Heathers and Mean Girls. Everyone in their places with eyes spying over Hawaiian Tropic smudged knock off Ray-Bans.

So naturally my close knit group have situated ourselves on the deep end in a position to watch absolutely everything. From the pretty gay who surrounds himself with a dozen guests buzzing around to the thump thump of his overly clichéd Pandora playlist. To the wall of silent college linebackers not so stealthy checking out the opposite sex. To the family of four who dares to dip their toddlers in a salt water pool full of marinating humans. Occasionally there is a Step Up-like showdown of whose music can be played loudest. While other times you can’t help but hear the daytime drama emerging from a phone call “accidentally” left on speaker phone.

It is usually at this point I gather up my mumu, straw hat, and waddle my way back to my dorm room four floors up.

As yesterday was no different than the Saturday before I bullied my neighbor, Fitness Instructor, into leaving our Wild Kingdom watering hole early to go re-hydrate with beers alfresco. After we solved all of our problems over Small Batch beers we moved on to a new place in town. I’m not going to bother you with the name of this bar because, other than myself, Fitness Instructor, our dear friend Leasing Agent (who was singing at the bar) and the barkeep, we were the only people there. I could be wrong but there may have been a Nathan’s Hot Dog vendor outside but I think he moved down the block to the new strip club. Because hot dogs naturally go with vinyl lounge chairs and sad men. Needless to say I don’t think this bar will be around long.

However I will say I found my Netflix twin in the barkeep. In fact I was pretty sure we were destined to be best friends forever when after discussing the culinary expertise detailed in the show Hannibal, he offered up some of his cold pizza to share. And if anyone really knows me they know that I would bend over backwards naked behind a Nathan’s Hot Dog cart in front of a strip club to have day old cold pizza. Why it isn’t an option on pizzeria menus I will never understand.

Again all of life’s problems were solved over beers. And then I went to bed.

A few weeks into this summer living I have determined that only one day of pool research is good for the health. With that I have vowed to stay in today and catch up on some much needed housekeeping. And by housekeeping I mean roasting a chicken while binge watching Star Trek: The Next Generation.

As much as I want to just sit on the sofa and lick the carcass clean I plan on using this chicken to feed off of for a few days. You know the Jews love a good roast chicken.

Herb De Provence Lemon Roasted Chicken

  • 1 whole 5 lb chicken
  • 2 Tablespoons Olive Oil – divided
  • Coarse Salt and Ground Black Pepper
  • 1 Tablespoons Herb De Provence
  • 3 Small Lemons – sliced

1. Preheat oven to 425. Start by placing the chicken breast side down on your work surface. Beginning at the thighs remove the back bone using kitchen shears. Discard backbone or save for stock. Flip the chicken over and open like a book. Then press down on the breastbone, firmly to flatten the bird.

2. Rub the chicken with one tablespoon olive oil. Then season with 1 tablespoon of salt, ½ teaspoon of black pepper, and 1 tablespoon of Herb De Provence.

3. Oil the bottom of a rimmed baking sheet with remaining 1 tablespoon of olive oil. Layer half of the sliced lemons on the tray and then place the chicken, breast side up, on top of the lemons.

4. Using your fingers gently separate the skin from the meat of the chicken. Then gently place remaining lemon slices under the skin of the chicken.

5. Roast the chicken for 50-60 minutes. Chicken will be done when a thermometer placed in the thickest part of the breast reads 165 degrees.

6. Remove from oven and let rest 10 minutes before carving up.

Until next time.

Slow Cookers, (Cole) Slaw, and Sexy Whispers from Ryan Gosling

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sandwich photo is thanks to a zesty bite ryan gosling courtesy of my bedroom (dreams)

sandwich photo is thanks to a zesty bite ryan gosling courtesy of my bedroom (dreams)

Pinterest (find my addiction here) is the devil. It's my new porn. When I cannot sleep at night I roll over and more often than not I get a little poke in the back and Ryan Gosling whispers in my ear, "hey I bet something on Pinterest would love to be looked at". After that I have no ability to control myself and soon enough my right hand is cramping from all the swiping and double tapping. Once I have had my fill of 'pinning' like most men I just roll over and fall asleep.

Thankfully I am still hooked on Murder, She Wrote. Sixteen and one half hours of viewing and I wrapped up season one. The last four episodes have had me walking away briefly to stir my slow cooker. Pinterest won out last night when The Fates took my pointer finger on a journey through fall cooking that lead me to this wonderful recipe.  

I brought out my finest slow cooker and got to work. I have multiple. Everyone should. Sometimes I take them out and shine them up like fine china. I'm joking. But one should have options when cooking at a snail's pace.  

Slow Cooker Jalapeno Popper Pulled Chicken 

RECIPE FROM A Zesty Bite BY WAY OF PINTEREST

Now I made some changes and made a classic creamy coleslaw to put on top. I can't imagine eating pulled anything without a slaw.  

This recipe just proves that fall cooking kicks summer cooking's ass.