[3]

[4]

[5]

[7]

[9]

"Let me handle the dinners of a nation, and I won't care who makes its laws." Women, if they only realized it, might well rephrase this famous saying. Proper dinners are incredibly important—good nutrition, good health, good judgment, good behavior. This highlights a tragic truth that is often overlooked: bad cooking can ruin even the best raw ingredients, while no amount of culinary skill can truly improve things that are stale, tasteless, and worthless. Buying such items is a waste, not a way to save money. Food needs to please the palate; otherwise, it will never fully satisfy the stomach.[10] An unsatisfied stomach, or one forced to deal with food that has more bulk than flavor, often retaliates with digestive issues. It's said that undercooked mutton caused Napoleon to lose the battle of Leipsic, and eventually his crown. I sometimes wonder if the rise in divorce rates is linked to the decline of home cooking.

A huge difference, and controversial, you might say, gentle reader? Not so much after all—these are sociological times. I’m just building up to the theory with facts to support it: it was because we in the South were the best-fed people in the world that we managed to put up the best fight in history, and after the devastation and destruction of the Civil War, get back on our feet. We could have been completely defeated if not for our proud and well-fed stomachs, which in turn provided the strength, intelligence, and energy for the victories of peace. So here's to our Mammys—God bless them! God rest them! This imperfect account of the care with which they nurtured us is written with love to their memory.[11]

Almost my earliest memory is of Mammy's kitchen. Being allowed to hang out there was like earning a badge of honor—a sort of domestic Victoria Cross. If, when guests came to visit, I behaved nicely, I might get to enjoy the lively chaos of dinner cooking. My seat was the biscuit block, a piece of tree trunk at least three feet wide and waist-high. Mammy lifted me onto it but first covered it with her clean apron—it was pretty much the only time she ever used the apron. The block was well out of the way—next to the meal barrel in the corner behind the door and right by the Short Shelf, dedicated to cake and pie-making, while the Long Shelf under the window held the three water buckets—cedar with brass hoops always shining like gold—the piggin, also made of cedar, the corn-bread tray, and the cup-noggin. Above, the log wall was lined with all kinds of knives stuck in the cracks; with nails where flesh-forks, spoons, ladles, and skimmers hung. Most of these were handmade by the local blacksmith. The forks in particular had a classic elegance—so much so that when I stumbled upon a picture of Neptune with his trident in my big sister's mythology book, I called it his flesh-fork and asked if he was about to eat something with it from the waves crashing around his feet.[12]

The kitchen would give today's Domestic Science experts a heart attack, but it must have been completely sanitary. Nothing in it was tight enough to host a decent germ. It was a spacious 20 square feet, built solidly from hewn logs, with a sharply pitched wooden roof, a movable loft, a plank floor with cracks about an inch wide, a door, two windows, and a fireplace that took up half of one end. In front of the fireplace was a rough stone hearth, a yard deep. Various cranes swung against the chimney. When fully operational, they could hold enough pots to cook for a whole regiment. The pots, made of cast iron with snug-fitting lids, ranged from two to ten gallons in capacity, had rounded bottoms with[13] three prominently extending legs, and ears on either side for the iron pot-hooks, which varied in size just like the pots.

Additionally, there were ovens, both deep and shallow, spiders, skillets, a couple of tea kettles, a stew pot, a broiler with a long spider-legged trivet to rest on, a hoe-baker, a biscuit baker, and waffle irons with legs like tongs. Each piece of hollow cookware had its lid, with a handle on top for lifting off with hooks. Live coals spread on the hearth and lids did the cooking. To manage them, there was a wrought iron shovel so big and heavy that only Mammy could use it properly. Empty containers were turned upside down on the floor under the Long Shelf—grease kept them from rusting. But before any was used, it had to be scrubbed with soap and sand rock, rinsed, and scalded. Periodically, every item was burned out—turned upside down over a roaring fire and left there until it was red hot, then slowly cooled. This burning left a fine smooth surface after scouring. Cast[14] iron, being somewhat porous, inevitably absorbed traces of food after being used for cooking for about a month.

Ah me! What aromas, what flavors came out of those pots! For years, I was mocked for insisting that nothing beats cooking over an open fire. But it took paper bags to finally prove my point without a doubt. Even though paper-bag cooking doesn’t quite match the open-hearth method, it shares the same secret of excellence: cooking food in its own essence using hot air. The sealed bag must be placed on a grate in a hot oven—contact with solid hot iron is disastrous for it.

Iron pots placed over evenly spread coals got hot, but not red-hot—red heat was for the lids. They were swung over the fire and heated before being set in place—then the layer of coals and embers kept the heat in, radiating downwards to ensure even cooking. Burning was definitely a risk unless the cook knew what she was doing and paid close attention[15]. Our Mammys not only knew their craft but loved it—often with a dedication that elevated it to the level of Art. Mix in the taste of a born gourmet, a generous hand with the fats, sweeteners, strong spirits, and bold flavors—it's no surprise that we envied those they fed!

My individual Mammy was shaped like an oblate spheroid—she was five feet, one inch tall, weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, had a head so flat that buckets could sit on it without falling off, and was as light on her feet, in size twelve shoes, as the slimmest of her children and foster kids. She could outlift the strongest man on the place with a hand-stick or completely outchop him if her axe was just right. She loved her job, her employer, her children—both black and white—including me, even though I could be a bit of a handful—her garden, and her God. She served all of these with affection, loyalty, great humor, and excellent judgment. May rain and snow fall gently upon her! May sunshine and green grass always brighten the slope where she rests!

She put on a clean white dress every[16] morning—by breakfast time it was a dirty gray along the front—the mess from dinner was splattered all over it in black smudges. She herself explained: "I’m not that dirty—it's just that I’m so big, dirt catches me coming and going." She wanted fresh air no matter the weather. The big board window had its shutter open all day long—the glass window was frustrating since it only opened halfway. By evening, bits of the wall had fallen out of at least half the cracks between the logs as sure as Easter came—not to be replaced until the week before Christmas. I doubt they would have been fixed even then, but Mammy feared criticism from maids and carriage drivers visiting family. Big gaping cracks in cold weather were like a mark of poor-white cabins. It would have nearly broken Mammy's heart to let anyone think she belonged to anything less than real quality.

She was bossy; a kind but strict ruler. If I annoyed her by meddling, sticking my tiny dirty fingers into things I shouldn’t, she made me shell black-eyed peas—a task I absolutely hated, just like those meddlesome fingers. Still, I knew better than to sulk or complain about it. If I did, I would have been sent back inside. The kitchen was thirty yards away from the back door, with a leafy oak tree in front of it, and another, even bushier one, shading the worn path between. The house only had adult conversations, which rarely interested me. In the kitchen, I picked up bits of Brer Rabbit's stories, shared with flair, bits of songs—Mammy always “gave out” the words to herself before singing them—proverbs and sayings like “A cow wants her tail back in fly season” used for an ungrateful person, or: “That’s a high kick for a low horse,” used to call out a pretender.

Best of all, I got the latest news from the countryside for ten miles around. Wireless doesn’t compare to how information spread among the plantations. It was a matter of pride among the black men to have wives or sweethearts who lived away from home. This meant they were out and about at night—leading to so much gossip that even the most sensational newspapers would be jealous. Mammy felt a bit embarrassed about having a husband who lived so close, just next door. To make up for it, though, the husbands who visited her lived three to five miles away—and one of them worked at the mill, making him a real source of news. So, Mammy could hold her head high in front of Susan, her sister, who worked as a milker and washer.

Susan might have been called a widow of sorts—she had three husbands, but only two were alive. The last farewell always had the potential to turn into another meeting—still, that didn't stop her home from being the go-to spot for all the most suitable guys nearby. Naturally, she had stories to share—worth hearing whether they were true or not. Phoebe, who was a kind of servant, brought in firewood and water, collected vegetables, and helped with the chickens, scrubbed everything from the big pot to the floor. Shelves were cleaned daily, and the floor got a good scrub three times a week. This had to be taken on faith after a while—it definitely didn’t look like it. Sweeping, done three times a day, was mostly just for show. Phoebe diligently swept the clear areas and even got the end of her broom between pots and ovens, but only the big bits of trash collected in front of the broom—all the rest fell through the cracks. [19]

Mammy said Phoebe's news could be trusted. "The girl doesn't know any more than to just say what she's heard." She really was slow-minded and spoke slowly, but Isham, her stepfather, was the cook for the Gresham brothers, who were the eligible bachelors in the area and lived together. His mother had been their Mammy—so he had the special advantage of knowing more about his young bosses than they knew about themselves.

Little kids are great listeners. Credit goes to the Black community for always valuing the innocence of children.[20] Scandals were only whispered about—never hinted at in a way that sparked curiosity. I never heard any foul language or a trace of profanity from them. What I did hear was a well-rounded education in the humanities—over time, I appreciate more and more the values it instilled in a young mind. I think it’s because our mothers saw everything from a basic perspective; they were insightful critics of manners and morals.

Here ends the reflection, written in the hope that it might inspire understanding. All I truly learned from Mammy and her cooking was how things should taste. This is essential. It has been the guiding star of my cooking career. Following it faithfully along the Path of Many Failures, through a Land of Challenges, it has led me to the safe harbor of absolute knowledge. If the evidence of empty plates and happy guests can prove a point, then I'm a good cook—though limited. I only claim to cook the things I want to cook well. Therefore, I’ve put together this, a real cookbook. Most cookbooks[21] are written by people who cook based on hearsay—the actual number of true cooks who can write in a way that doesn’t confuse the average person is very small. The majority of what follows has a traditional Southern foundation, with some enhancements approved by experience. Additionally, there will be some Creole recipes I’ve learned and tested here in New York, thanks to Milly, the queen of New Orleans cooks, who has temporarily moved here. Also included are various delicious dishes from different origins—some made in France or Germany, others from the distant Philippines—but all tested before being recorded. In each case, the source is indicated in the title. I will also mark dishes that are distinctly my own, developed from my personal insights and my environment.

Lastly, but definitely not least, I want to express my disapproval of overdoing things, both in food and its presentation. The best way to decorate a table is to have good food on the plates. This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t aim to please the eye as much as the taste buds. But putting ribbons on sandwiches[22] is outdated—just like all the fancy stuff like silk, lace, doilies, and knick-knacks that often confuse us. They undermine the food, making it as tough to appreciate as anyone's fancy blue china. I still smile, remembering my husband's laughter after we came home from eating deli chicken off expensive plates, using antique silver. Somehow, the food and the serving just felt “off.”

Quoth Heine the cynic: "Woman, woman! Much must be forgiven you! You have loved deeply—and with many." Personally, I prefer to love deeply rather than widely. Having enough of one really good thing, along with the right sides, is way more satisfying than seven dishes—each one worse than the last. It’s also cheaper and way less hassle. If time is worth anything, the time saved in dishwashing alone is worth thinking about. In these times of rising prices, frugality sounds appealing, even in theory. Add the fact that you save money as well as effort, and the culinary world might just take notice.

The one-piece dinner is just as convenient and comfortable as a one-piece dress. Of course, there are times when it's not the right choice. One-piece here refers to the main dish—the essential part of the meal, so to speak. A bowl of rich soup or chowder, with crackers on the side, a hefty serving of well-cooked meat, accompanied by bread or potatoes, and the simplest side dishes, or a deliciously rich pudding drenched in brandy sauce; either of these can surpass a spread of this, a bit of that, a slice of something else, all laid out on a separate plate and considered a meal—in courses. Courses are fine by me—I appreciate them when they’re presented nicely. But when they mainly consist of "The substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen," then I’d gladly exchange them for as much good bread and butter as my appetite desires.

By way of a postscript: as a strong and passionate supporter of moderation, I wouldn’t consider writing this book unless I had the freedom to recommend using wine, brandy, cordials, and liquors when good cooking requires them. Anything can be misused; teaching proper use is the best way to prevent misuse. Liquors, like everything else, need to be of good quality. "Cooking sherry" is just as much of a disaster as "cooking butter" or "cooking apples." You will never get anything fundamentally better out of a pot or pan than what you put into it. Cooking isn’t magic; there’s no sorcery in the pot. The entire art and mystery of it lie in applying heat and seasoning in such a way as to make the best and most of the ingredients that your budget allows. Tough meat can't be made tender; spoiled meat can't be made good. The same goes for old fish, rotten or sour fruit, and wilted vegetables. It’s worth training tradespeople to understand that you want only the best of what you buy. If the item you desire, in perfect condition, exceeds your budget, choose the highest quality of something less expensive instead of settling for a lower quality. This way, you'll avoid wasting time, effort, and good ingredients. Don’t worry about the snickers regarding your simple meals. Remember, it was wise Solomon who wrote: "Better a dinner of herbs and contentment than a stalled ox, and contention therewith." Paraphrase the last part to "spoiled ox and ptomaines therewith," and you can maintain not only your self-respect but also that of your neighbors.[26]

Bread, more than almost any other food, can't be better than what it's made of. Here, just like anywhere else, a clumsy cook can ruin the very best flour or meal. But even the best chef can't fix a basic flaw.

When buying flour, look for these things: a slightly creamy color—brilliant white indicates bleaching, while gray-white or black specks mean it's made from spoiled grain. It should feel velvety, without any roughness—roughness usually means it's mixed with corn. When you grip a handful tightly, it should hold the shape of your hand and show some of the palm's markings. A pinch, when slightly wet and stretched between your thumb and finger, will indicate the quality of gluten by the length of the thread it spins, which is one of the most important food elements.[27]

The commercial cornmeal won’t work well for any recipes here. It’s been processed and dried out, losing all its natural flavor. Make sure to get meal that’s water-ground from white flint corn, and fresh from the mill. That way, you’ll have something worth the time and effort—something worth it, for sure. Honestly, even the smartest person can’t explain why, but steam-ground meal tastes completely different from water-ground. The grinding should be just right—not too fine and not too coarse. Leaving some bran in and sifting it out as needed helps prevent spoilage and keeps the delicate natural flavor. Fresh meal stored in clean, shiny tin or glass, or in a sturdy paper bag where it's dry, cool, and airy can last for two months. So, buy it wisely, according to how much corn cake your family enjoys.[28]

It’s impossible to specify the exact amount of liquid needed for bread-making because the condition of flour and meal changes with the weather and how it's stored. This also goes for sugar, which is why you need to be smart about using recipes. In humid, muggy weather, moisture gets absorbed from the air. On a dry day, especially if it’s windy, drying out is unavoidable. Anything that feels damp or clumps together should be dried in a warm, not hot, oven. Heating flour before mixing it—being careful not to burn it at all—is one small trick for making light bread, biscuits, and cakes. Flour in a bag can be placed in the sun for best results. Use your judgment when mixing. Pay close attention to how what you’re making looks—when it comes out really well, remember that first condition as your standard.

Beaten Biscuit: (Modern Style.) Sift a quart of flour into a bowl or tray, add half a teaspoon of salt, then cut in a teacup of very cold lard. Mix in cold water—ice water works best—until you have a very stiff[29] dough. Place it on a floured surface, like a marble slab, and give it a hundred strikes with a mallet or rolling pin. Fold it again as the dough gets thinner, adding flour if it starts to stick. The goal of beating is to incorporate air throughout the dough, which helps it expand while baking and makes the biscuits light. The dough should be firm, but smooth and very elastic. Roll it out to half an inch thick, cut out shapes with a small round cutter, prick the top lightly all over, and bake in steady heat until it turns a delicate brown. A too-hot oven will scorch and blister the biscuits, while a too-cold oven will make them hard and damp. Aim for the Irishman's "perfect middle."

There are various machines that eliminate the need for beating. You can also skip it by running the dough through a food processor several times after mixing. Beaten biscuits can closely resemble the real thing by making a good puff pastry, rolling it out, cutting it into shapes, pricking it, and baking it—but you need to do it a bit quicker than the traditional method. All these options are great for those living in apartments, where the noise from beating might[30] disturb good neighbors. Homeowners, especially in the suburbs, should splurge on a block or stone or marble slab—and enjoy a happy life, as long as they can find cooks who know how to use it properly.

Soda Biscuit: (Modern Style.) Sift a quart of flour with a heaping teaspoon of baking soda. Add a good pinch of salt, then mix in lard or butter about the size of your fist. Next, add sour milk until it becomes a moderately soft dough. Roll it out quickly, cut with a small round cutter, place them in hot pans, leaving space for them to expand, and bake in a hot oven just below scorching heat. Handle everything as gently as you can—this will make flaky biscuits.

To mix things up, roll out the dough thin—less than half an inch thick, then cut it with a three-inch cutter. Lightly grease the top and fold it in half. Let it rise on top of a warm stove for a few minutes before baking. By adding a lightly beaten egg and a heaping tablespoon of sugar to the dough while mixing, these biscuits will turn out quite differently from the usual type.[31]

Salt Rising Bread: (As Mammy Made It.) Scald a tablespoon of sifted cornmeal and a heaping teaspoon of salt with a pint of boiling water, let it sit for ten minutes, then stir in enough dried and sifted flour to create a thick batter, mixing until smooth. Damp flour won't rise. The batter should be almost thick enough to hold the mixing spoon upright—but not quite. Set the mixture in warm water—just hot enough to be comfortable for your hand. Keep the heat steady, but don’t let it get too hot—scalding ruins everything. Cover it lightly and keep it away from drafts. Check after an hour—if any water has risen to the top, stir in more flour. Keep a close eye on it—in six hours the yeast should be foamy-light. Have three quarts of dry sifted flour ready, make a well in the center, pour in the yeast, add a little more salt, a tablespoon of sugar, and half a cup of lard. Mix everything together into a smooth dough, rinsing out the container that held the yeast with warm, not hot, water to finish the mixing. Divide the dough into loaves, place them in greased pans,[32] lightly grease the tops, and set them aside in a warm spot to rise. When they have risen, bake with steady quick heat. Remove from the pans while hot and cool between clean cloths, placing them on a rack, or turn the loaves edgewise onto a clean board and cover with cheesecloth.

To make dinner rolls, shape some of the dough into balls, brush them with melted butter, and place them in a deep pan, making sure they don’t touch. Let them rise and bake them just like bread. You can save the dough for breakfast rolls by keeping it very cold and mixing in a tiny pinch of baking soda in the morning before shaping the balls.

Sweet Potato Biscuit: (Old Style.) Boil two large or four small sweet potatoes until soft, mash them while they’re still very hot, and make sure there are no strings or eyes. Add a pinch of salt, then mix in three cups of sifted flour. Also, mix in a generous handful of shortening, then add in two beaten eggs and some sweet milk until the mixture is soft. If you like it sweeter, add a little sugar—but just a little. Roll the dough out to half an inch thick, cut out shapes with a small cutter, place them in a warm pan,[33] and bake until golden brown in a hot oven. You can substitute soda and buttermilk for the eggs and sweet milk—in that case, a bit of sugar is a good idea. Mix the soda with the milk until it’s frothy, but don’t add too much.

Waffles: (Mom's.) Separate three eggs. Beat the yolks and whites until very light. Add to the yolks, alternating a pint of rich sweet milk and handfuls of sifted flour. Use enough to create a batter that's thicker than cream. Also, add about half a teaspoon of salt and half a cup of lard, or a mix of lard and butter, melted just enough to pour easily. Mix well, then fold in the beaten egg whites. Preheat the waffle irons until they're hot but not scorching—grease them well with melted lard, as the salt in butter can cause the batter to stick. Cook quickly, but be careful not to burn them. Place the waffles on a hot plate—have a pitcher of melted butter ready to pour on top. Stack the second waffle on the first, butter it, and keep them warm. It’s best not to start serving until you have at least six waffles on the plate. This, of course, is if you have several people with hearty appetites. Syrup can be served with the waffles, but it's not ideal to soak them in it—strong, clear coffee and broiled chicken are the right accompaniments for breakfast.

Plain Corn Bread: (The Best.) Sift fresh white cornmeal, mix with cold water to create a fairly soft dough, shape it by tossing from hand to hand into small pones, and place them into a hot pan that has been sprinkled with dry meal. The pan should be hot enough to brown the meal without burning it. Make the pones about an inch thick, four inches long, and two and a half inches wide. Bake quickly, making sure not to scorch, until a brown crust forms on the top and bottom. For hoe-cakes, make the dough a little softer, drop handfuls onto a griddle sprinkled with meal, ensuring that the handfuls do not touch. Flatten to half an inch, let them brown on the bottom, then flip, press down, and brown the top side. Don’t be tempted to add salt—the joy of plain corn bread is its pairing with fresh butter. It should be eaten soaked in butter that melts right into it after you split the pone or hoe-cake.[35] Salt ruins this wonderful pairing. However, some people surprisingly enjoy bread without butter. That’s why Mammy always said: "Salt in corn-bread makes it taste so much like poor white folks." She had little patience for our neighbors who simply had no butter for their bread.

Egg Bread: (Mammy's.) Whisk two eggs until light with a pinch of salt, then add two cups of sifted cornmeal. Pour in a pint of buttermilk with a teaspoon of dissolved baking soda. Mix in a spoonful of barely melted shortening, combine everything well, and pour into well-greased pans or skillets. Cook quickly until the crust is a nice brown, and serve right away. Alternatively, you can bake in muffin tins. For sensitive stomachs, you can skip the shortening, but make sure to grease the pans or tins extra well. If the milk is very sour, mix it with one-third water—this is better than adding more baking soda.

Batter Cakes: (Old Style.) Sift together half a cup of flour and one and a half cups of cornmeal, add a pinch of salt, scald with boiling water, stir until smooth, then add two well-beaten eggs,[36] and thin it with sweet milk—it will take about half a pint. Bake by spoonfuls on a hot, well-greased griddle—the batter should flow freely. Serve hot with fresh sausage or fried pig’s feet if you want to experience just how good batter cakes can be.

Ash Cake: (Pioneer.) This can only be done over wood fires—whether you’re camping or you’re a millionaire. Make dough like you would for regular bread, but add a little bit of salt. Clean the hot hearth thoroughly, shape the dough into a flat mound, then cover it with large leaves—cabbage leaves will work in a pinch, or even thick clean paper. Next, pile on some hot embers and coals and let it cook for an hour or more, depending on the size. Afterward, take it out, brush off the ashes, and remove any burnt bits. Serve it with fresh butter and buttermilk. This was sometimes the only summer dinner for very wealthy families back in the day. Undoubtedly, ash cake when cooked right has a delicious sweetness that no other type of cornbread can match.

Mush Bread: (Overton Receipt.) To a quart of very thick mush, well salted, add three fresh eggs, breaking them in one[37] at a time, and beating hard in between. Once smooth, add half a cup of rich milk and half a cup of melted butter. Stir well, then add one teaspoon of baking powder, and bake quickly. Bake in the serving dish since it’s too soft to turn out, and it should be scooped onto the plates with a spoon. Hence the name some people use: "Spoon bread."

Cracklin' Bread: (Pioneer.) Sift a pint of cornmeal, add a pinch of salt, then mix in a teacup of cracklings—leftover from rendering lard. Add boiling water to moisten it, shape into small cakes, and bake until golden brown in a hot but not burning oven.

Pumpkin Bread: (Pioneer.) Sift a pint of meal, add salt to taste, then mix in a large cup of very smooth stewed pumpkin. Add half a cup of melted lard, then combine with sweet milk to form a fairly stiff dough, shape into pones, and bake until crispy. Mashed sweet potato can be used instead of pumpkin, and finely ground cracklings can replace the lard. Those interested in traditional cooking can even make persimmon bread by using the pulp of ripe persimmons[38] to mix with the meal—but they’ll need a lot of patience to properly separate the pulp from the skin and seeds.

Mush Batter Cakes: (For Invalids.) Bring half a pint of water to a rolling boil in an open pot, add a pinch of salt, and gradually stir in a cup of sifted cornmeal to avoid lumps. Let it cool slightly, then drop spoonfuls onto a hot griddle that’s lightly greased. Cook the spoonfuls until they're brown on both sides, and serve them hot.

Wafers: (For Those Who Are Ill or Gatherings.) Blend a cup of lard or butter with a quart of sifted flour. Butter will add enough salt; if using lard, include a pinch. Combine with sweet milk, the creamier, the better, to form a smooth dough that isn't too stiff or too soft. Shape into balls the size of a small egg, roll them out very thin, prick lightly all over, and bake until brown—this will take about five minutes in a hot oven. Let cool on a cloth and keep dry. Handle gently—if the wafers are made properly, they should break and crumble with any rough handling.[39]

Plenty in the smokehouse was the foundation of traditional Southern cooking. So, hog-killing was a celebration as joyful as Christmas—and almost as sacred. There was fierce competition among plantations to see which one could showcase the best group of fattening hogs. While the plantation workforce was usually more than enough for the slaughtering, owners would often help each other out, indulging their slaves, and, of course, returning the favor when needed.

This is not your typical cookbook. Its content is worth discussing because it explains, in some detail, what comes next.[40] Specifically, it provides complete instructions for selecting your ideal pig, butchering it, and making the most of the final product. Look for pigs weighing between 175 and 150 pounds, with a fresh, pale pinkish-white color, and ensure there are no cuts, scrapes, or bruises. The skin should be clean and firm, not slimy, with fat that is solid and white, and meat that has a vibrant purplish-pink hue. There should be two inches of clear fat along the backbone, and the thickness around the ribs should be the maximum. Anything more than that is excessive—unless you really need lard in the kitchen. The pig should be thoroughly chilled, but not frozen—freezing can impact the flavor and texture and makes it difficult for the salt to penetrate properly.

Curing space allowing, it's smart to process several pigs at once. The effort isn't significantly increased, and the savings are much greater. The head will already be mostly severed during slaughter. With a very sharp butcher knife, after laying the pig on the chopping block, cut deeply through the [41] skin all the way around, then with a blow or two of the axe, remove the head. Next, cut deeply through the skin on either side of the backbone. The cuts should be evenly spaced and about two inches apart. Now turn the pig onto its back, spread the legs, and use the meat axe to chop through the ribs and joints. After chopping, free the backbone with the knife, trim off the strip of fat for the lard pile, and chop the backbone into pieces three to four inches long, until you reach the chine—the area between the shoulder blades with the prominent spinal processes. Leave the chine whole for smoking, along with the jowls and sausage.

Pull out the leaf fat—it surrounds and covers the kidneys. Also, remove the spare ribs, leaving just one or two in the shoulders. After that, chop off the feet, and using a knife, cut the hams and shoulders away from the sides. Trim the cuts afterward, keeping all the trimmings for sausage. Save every piece of pure fat for lard. Also, cut away the clear fat at the top of the sides for the same purpose. Make clean cuts at the joints—this means you'll need to sharpen your knife often[42]. Trim the hams so they are relatively flat, and shape the hip bone nicely. The common method of cutting away the entire upper half of the hams ruins the flavor. Trim the shoulders closely, unless you plan to turn them into sausage—in that case, put them with the other scraps. Sides can either be cut into strips that are four to five inches wide lengthwise, like commercial "breakfast bacon," or left whole across the streaky part, cutting away solid fat along the top for lard. Separate the heads at the jaw, leaving the tongue attached to the jowl, and be careful not to cut it. Cut off the snout about two inches above the tip, then lay the upper part of the head, skin down, crack the inner bone with an axe, pull the broken bones apart, and remove the brains. Jowls should be salted and smoked—heads are best either simply cured for boiling with cabbage, peas, and beans, or made with the feet into headcheese, which is called souse in the South.

Use regular pickling salt—coarse and effective. Spread it an inch[43] thick on clean wood—a broad shelf, box bottom, or something similar. Rub the meat thoroughly with salt, then lay it neatly, skin-side down, on the layer of salt. Spread more salt on top and add another layer of meat. Place pieces together, like hams and shoulders. Pack them as tightly as possible and fill any gaps with salt. Salt alone will preserve your bacon, but mixing a teacup of moist sugar into a water-bucket full of salt enhances the flavor. Use this on sides, jowls, and chines. Joints, hams, and shoulders, especially if the shoulders are closely cut, need a little extra sugar in the salt, plus a bit of saltpeter—about an ounce of fine powder for every three gallons of salt. Rub the skin-sides with plain salt and place them on the salted shelf just like the sides. Then take a handful of the mixture and rub it in thoroughly around the bone, covering the entire cut surface with half an inch of the mixture, adding dry salt for another layer of hams or shoulders, and repeat. Lightly salt the chines—their surface, cut all over, absorbs too much salt if allowed. There should be holes[44] or cracks in the bottom to let the dissolved salt drain away; it's also best to keep it at least a foot off the floor.

Wrap the meat in bulk, but not too tightly, and let it sit for two weeks. The cooler and airier the place, the better—freezing even is fine once the salt starts to soak in. However, if it's freezing outside, the meat needs to stay in the salt longer. Check on it after the first two weeks; that means breaking up the bulk, shaking off any bloody salt, cleaning the bottom, and putting on fresh salt. But use very little saltpeter on the cuts this time, or it will make the lean parts too tough. Its purpose is to provide firmness and a nice clear red color—too much will give it an off taste. Some well-known ham makers, during this second salting, lightly rub the cut sides with high-quality molasses and sprinkle on ground black pepper before adding new salt. Others mix a teaspoon of sugar with crushed red pepper and rub it around the bone. However, really great hams can be made without going to such lengths.[45]

Let the meat rest for two to four weeks after processing, depending on the weather. Then, take it up, wipe it down with a clean, coarse cloth, and attach a sturdy loop of twine that’s at least four inches long to each piece, threading it through the flesh so it can't be easily pulled out. Thread the twine through the hock of hams, the upper part of shoulders, the thickest part of sides, and the pointed tip of jowls. Jowls might not need to rest as long as larger pieces, especially if part of their fat has been rendered into lard. Chines can be hung up after three weeks and cured with a very light smoking, just like the sausage bags.

Hang hams at the top, shoulders next, followed by sides, jowls, and so on. Allow them to drip for forty-eight hours unless the weather suddenly becomes warm, damp, and muggy—in that case, start smoking after just a few hours. Use smoke from fresh hickory, which is clean and bright, for the best flavor. Arrange small logs close together as they burn, ignite them along their entire length, then smother the fire with damp small chips, debris, bark, etc., but ensure everything is solid. Rotten[46] wood or anything that is waterlogged or mildewed produces strong, unpleasant smoke. Be especially careful that the logs never flare up and that the meat is hung high enough to avoid direct heat. If the meat gets heated from the fire, all your effort will be wasted—though it won't be spoiled, it will have the same taste and smell, with the degree indicating how much it was heated.

Old Southern smokehouses mostly had earthen floors, dug out to make the smoke fires safe. Some had wooden plank floors, with an earthen hearth in the middle, where a furnace made of loose bricks could be kicked over if needed to smother a fire. Others had large cast iron kettles set into a sort of well in the floor, along with a handy water bucket ready for putting out fires. No matter the floor type, constant vigilance was essential for safe bacon—you checked the smokehouse fires first thing in the morning and last thing at night. They were extinguished at sundown but had a way of reigniting from some hidden ember. The morning smoke couldn’t be too thick, as long as it smelled right—sharp and fresh, like the outdoors—a thick, acrid smoke that made you sneeze and cough was "almost bearable and totally unacceptable." It wasn’t good to let the smoke get too thick at night; the chill condensed it somehow. A thin, blue, hot-scented but cool vapor was what to aim for then. Some people suggested using furnaces with smoke pipes leading in, claiming it was much safer and less trouble. Even the smoke from a cooking stove could work, they said. But the old-timers greeted these ideas coldly—they knew from tradition and experience that well-ventilated smoke was essential.

It gave this current writer a sense of returning home to walk through the curing rooms of what might be the most famous bacon makers in the world and see them using the wisdom from her childhood. Specifically, they were using hickory smoke not coming from furnace pipes but rising in beautiful, swirling spirals, reaching row after row of hams and cuts—and being told, [48] by a kind person who didn’t realize she already knew, that their curing followed the old English method—curing in the smoke of grand stone hall chimneys. Yes—they had tried pipes and furnaces too—but they produced too much heat, didn’t distribute smoke evenly, and were almost impossible to regulate. So, they relied on the smoldering hickory that felt like a breath from a distant past.

However, the writer believes that people who want to try their hand at making bacon can do so with decent results without needing to build proper smokehouses. To them, she would say to get a sturdy hogshead—preferably a sugar hogshead—attach a wooden roof to keep off the rain, then set it on a strong frame at least seven feet above the ground. Inside, nail down sturdy cleats to hold the crossbars for the meat. Hang the meat on these crossbars, but only after the hogshead is in position. Cut a hole in the bottom that’s as wide as the top of a large barrel. Using this hole, arrange the meat, then place a headless barrel underneath, with the top resting against the hogshead and the bottom supported by gas pipes, iron, or even stacked bricks. Between the supports, set an iron container—build your hickory smoke fires in it, smothering them carefully while allowing enough air for the smoke to rise through the barrel, hogshead, etc. Alternatively, one could even set up a smoking hogshead in an attic, as long as the chimney is tall enough to cool the smoke properly and lead the smoke out through a length of drainage pipe.

These are just suggestions—the creative mind will surely come up with other and better ones. Smoking should continue for at least five weeks. Six weeks is even better, tapering off towards the end. However, two weeks can be effective if you use something called "liquid smoke," which is also known as crude pyroligneous acid. This product comes from wood distillation and has been shown to be safe for use, although it's still prohibited for commercial producers. After opening, the meat is dipped in it three times at fairly short intervals, hung up, drained, and then smoked. From the liquid smoke, it will gain as much beneficial acidity as from four weeks of traditional smoking.[50]

A smokehouse should be kept dark, dry, and cool, as well as well-ventilated. Use fine screen wire over all openings, and make the windows very small, using coarse, loose mesh instead of glass inside the screens. Keeping it dark helps prevent maggot flies. To deter them even more, cover the cut sides of hams and shoulders with molasses thickened with ground black pepper before hanging them up. If the peppering is thorough, they might not need canvassing and dipping in whitewash afterward. But to be safe—go ahead and canvas and dip. Make the whitewash using a thick paste as a base, and make sure it covers every thread of the canvas. Perfectly cured and canvassed hams can last indefinitely in the right kind of smokehouse, but there isn't much improvement in flavor after they've aged three years.

In rendering lard, try using leaf fat—it produces the very best results. Carefully cut out the kidneys and remove any lean bits, then peel off the thin inner skin. Cut the leaves into pieces about two inches wide and four inches long. Quickly wash these in warm water, drain them in a sieve, and place them over a slow fire in a thick-bottomed iron pot. Add a little cold water—about a cup for every gallon of cut-up fat—and let it cook gently until the lumps of fat turn a light color. Increase the heat until you get a gentle bubbling—keep the bubbling steady, stirring often to ensure no lump of fat sticks to the pot and burns, until all the lumps become crisp brown cracklings. Aim for a bright brown, not dark—if it's dark, the lard will have a slight tint. Burning taints and ruins the entire batch. Strain through a sieve into a clean tin vessel that has been freshly scalded and dried. Put the cracklings in a strong cloth bag and press hard between two clean boards until no more fat drips from them. A jelly press is helpful but not necessary. If you add weak, clear lye made from green wood ashes to the fat instead of water at the beginning, the fat yield will be higher, and the amount of cracklings will be less, also more finely broken down.

Other fat can be tested in the same way, making sure to remove all skin and cut away any lean streaks. Pieces with a lot of lean should go to the sausage grinder—the ideal mix is two pounds of fat for every three and a half pounds of lean. Grind it well and remove any strings, gristle, and so on. Seasoning is largely a matter of personal taste, so start lightly—then fry a small patty to test it, and add anything it seems to need. Use salt sparingly, as diners can add more if needed, but can’t take it out, and too much can make even fresh sausage taste old. A good blend of flavors, one that has been tried and tested, includes a cup of powdered and sifted sage, an ounce of freshly ground black pepper, a tablespoon of powdered red pepper, a teaspoon of cayenne, a pinch of finely powdered thyme, a dozen cloves, the same amount of allspice, a teaspoon of brown sugar, and a blade of mace finely powdered. Skip the mace, cloves, etc. if the flavor is off-putting. Mix everything together well, then blend it evenly into the meat. This seasoning should be enough for five pounds of lightly salted ground meat. Those who enjoy strong flavors can use more.

Scrub the feet thoroughly and remove the hooves by either dipping them in hot lye or hot, wet wood ashes. Wash them very well after scraping, then throw them in cold water and soak for an hour. Next, place them in a clean pot with plenty of cold water and boil gently until they're very tender. If you're boiling them for souse, cook until the meat and gristle fall off the bones. If you're frying, take the feet out as soon as they're tender, keeping their shape. Boil the heads the same way, removing the eyes, cutting off the ears, and cleaning them thoroughly inside. Separate the meat from the bones, mix it with the picked feet, and season well—add salt, black and red pepper, herbs if you like, and just a touch of onion juice. Then pack the mixture into deep molds, pour a bit of the boiling liquid over—just enough to moisten—and let it cool uncovered.[54]

Let the boiling liquid cool down while covered with a cloth. Skim off the oil—hog’s foot oil is great for any kind of leather—then carefully remove the jelly underneath. Avoid disturbing the sediment—just take the clear jelly. Melted, clarified with egg whites, flavored with wine, lemon juice, or grape juice, and sweetened enough, it surpasses all store-bought gelatins. In fact, any recipe for gelatin desserts can work with hog's foot jelly. It may be a small salvage, but it’s definitely worth it.

Everybody knows that brains can be fried—just as everyone knows they can be confused. We from the old South pickled ours. Go ahead and do the same if you want an experience. Start by boiling the brains—put them in cold, slightly salted water, then let it barely come to a boil. Skim off the surface, drop them in cold water, remove the skin, keeping the lobes as intact as possible, place them in a porcelain kettle, season generously with black and red pepper, cloves, nutmeg, and allspice, cover with strong vinegar, bring to a boil, cook for five minutes, then put them in a jar, let cool uncovered, seal tightly, and let sit for a week before using. Properly prepared, pickled brains will last for six weeks if kept cool.

We also pickled our souse by cutting it into thin slices and soaking them in strong vinegar for an hour before serving. Another method was to melt the souse into a kind of rich hash—occasionally, we added beaten eggs, and served the result on hot toast. In a pinch, it could also be used as the base for a meat pie, layering it with sliced hard-boiled eggs, sliced pickles, lots of seasoning, a good chunk of butter, and a little water. The pie was baked quickly and made a great supper dish if unexpected guests showed up and we ran out of sausage or chicken to fry.

But fried hog's feet were almost the best part of hog killing. After boiling until tender, the feet were split in half, rolled in sifted cornmeal, salted, and peppered, then fried until crispy in lots of hot fat. Served with a hot biscuit and stewed sun-dried peaches, along with strong, fragrant brown coffee, they made a meal for breakfast or supper that you could truly enjoy.

Backbone stew, served with sweet potatoes, hot cornbread, and sparkling cider, was definitely not something to be overlooked. The stew was cooked slowly, with flavors perfectly balanced—enough salt but not too much, red and black pepper, and just a hint of pepper vinegar. Many cooks preferred to add the vinegar at the table. There was little water at the start, and almost none at the end—the pot was kept well covered to prevent it from boiling over. Backbone pie stood up to chicken pie—actually, some people even liked it more. It was made the same way—in a skillet or deep pan lined with a rich crust, then filled with cooked meat, adding strips of bacon, and bits of butter rolled in flour, along with pieces of crust. Then the cooking liquid was poured into the gaps—there might even be a few tiny crispy brown sausages—cakes no bigger than a lady's watch. A thick, rich crust was placed over everything, with a cross-cut in the middle, and the corners folded back neatly. When the crust turned brown, the pie was ready.

No doubt we were foolish—but somehow the regular "cases" made our sausages unappetizing if we put them in there for storage. Additionally, the "Tom Thumbs" were in high demand for chitterlings—I never saw them served to white folks but have smelled their deliciousness in the cabins. That’s not the point, though. We saved our sausage for the spring scarcity in several ways. One method was to fry it in bulk, pack the fried cakes in crocks, pour gravy over them, and when the jar was almost full, cover the top with an inch of melted lard. Kept in a cool, dark place, the cakes came out just as good as they went in. Still, some people craved smoked sausage. To satisfy them, some folks tied up the meat in links using clean corn husks and hung them in a spot where the smoke barely touched them. Another method was to make small bags from sturdy unbleached muslin, fill them, tie them shut, dip the bags in melted grease, then cool and smoke them. The dipping wasn't strictly necessary—yet it helped keep the sausage a bit fresher. Lately, I’ve been wondering if paraffin had been known back then, whether it would have worked better than grease.[58]

The right way to boil a good ham is truly an art form. When done correctly, it can make any decent ham enjoyable to eat; on the other hand, a careless and rushed cook can completely ruin this impressive creation from the smokehouse. However, proper cooking isn't a complicated process, nor is it out of reach for the average person. It mainly requires attention and patience, a bit of planning, and a little extra judgment.

Cut off the hock, but not too high—just barely above the slim shankbone. Then use a dull knife to scrape off any removable grease or dirt from the ham.[60] Wipe it down afterward with a coarse, damp cloth, then place it in a dishpan and cover it with cold water to a depth of an inch. If the water is very hard, soften it by adding a small pinch of baking soda. Let it soak overnight. In the morning, wash the ham thoroughly with your coarse cloth and a bit of scouring soap, then rinse well in lukewarm water, followed by a second rinse in cold water. Drain and wipe it dry. A flat-bottomed boiler is best—round ones carry a greater risk of scorching. Place a rack at the bottom, or an old dish or an earthen pie plate, pour in an inch of water, and set it over the heat. Lay the ham on the rack, skin side down, and add cold water until it rises two inches above the meat. Be careful not to dislodge the ham from the rack while adding water. Bring the water to a boil, then add a pint of cold water and skim the boiler clean, doing it two or three times. After the last skim, add six whole cloves, twelve whole allspice berries, a pod of red pepper, a few whole black peppercorns, and if you prefer, a small onion or a stalk of celery. Personally,[61] I don't like onion or celery—they contaminate the fat you might want to save from the pot. Keep the water at a hard boil for half a minute, no longer, then reduce the heat to barely a simmer. Maintain the simmer, adding more water as needed until the ham is tender throughout. The cooking time depends on several factors—the hardness and age of the ham, its weight, and how it's cured. A standard estimate is fifteen minutes per pound, counted from the start of simmering. I don't have a strict rule—my hams always cook until a fork goes in easily and the hip bone separates from the meat.

A big ham, weighing fifteen to twenty pounds, should be soaked in water overnight. A smaller one, about ten pounds, only needs to stay in the water until it's completely cold. Once it's cold, carefully take it out and let it drain for twenty minutes, lying flesh side up in a flat dish. Then trim the underside and edges neatly, cutting away any rusty fat, strings, etc., and cutting through the skin at the hock end. Flip it over and remove the skin, making sure not to tear away too much fat with it. Place the ham in a clean, deep dish or bowl—the closer fitting, the better—and pour in some decent claret or sweet cider until it reaches halfway up the sides. If you like bold flavors, add a bit of Tabasco or Worcestershire sauce to the liquid. Then, stick whole cloves in a diamond pattern all over the fat, sprinkle on a generous amount of red and black pepper, and finally, add sugar—brown sugar if you have it, but white will work too.

Leave it to rest for several hours, basting once or twice with the liquid in the bowl. Remove it, place it on a rack in a roasting pan, pour the liquid underneath, and bake slowly for one to two hours, depending on its size. Baste every fifteen minutes, adding water as the liquid evaporates. Be careful not to scorch it—the ham should be a beautiful speckled dark brown all over. Let it cool uncovered and store it in a cool place, but not on ice until it's eaten.

Drop a lump of ice into the boiling liquid unless it’s cold outside—then put it outside. As soon as the fat on top hardens, remove it, boil it for fifteen minutes in clear water, chill it, skim off, and clarify by[63] frying slices of raw potato in it. The spices will have settled at the bottom, and there will be no trace of their flavor in the fat. Any boiling vegetable—cabbage, green beans, navy beans, or greens in general—can be cooked effectively in the liquid. It also makes an excellent base for pea soup. Strain it to remove the sediment, reduce it slightly by quick boiling, then add the other ingredients. Dumplings made from firm cornmeal, mixed until stiff, shaped like eggs, and dropped into the boiling liquid provide an inexpensive and tasty lunch option.

Fried ham, like Mammy used to make, is mostly a fragrant memory—only the wealthy dare to enjoy it these days. She sliced thin pieces from the juicy, thick part of the ham using a very sharp, clean knife. Then she trimmed away the skin and placed the slices in a clean, hot skillet—but not too hot. In about a minute, she gently flipped them over to sear the other side. Once enough fat had rendered to bubble a bit, she turned them again, then moved the skillet aside and reduced the heat beneath it a little—putting it back to let the ham cook until it was tender all the way through. She never washed the slices or even wiped them with damp cloths. There was no need—her hands and knife were as clean as could be. She said washing and wiping ruined the flavor. I agree with her. After taking up the ham, she poured in milk, half cream, and shook it around in the sizzling hot fat until it absorbed all the delicious brown bits stuck to the bottom of the skillet. This milk gravy was then poured over the slices on the platter. It's a practice I've never adopted—my gravy is made with water instead of milk and served separately.

Invalids and food lovers can enjoy boiled ham cooked over live coals. Slice it very thin and lay it on a shovel of glowing fresh coals for half a minute, then transfer it to a very hot dish, butter it generously, sprinkle with pepper, and serve hot. To make frizzled ham, slice it as thin as possible into tiny pieces and fry them until they are curly and crispy in hot butter. It makes an excellent appetizer or a way to stimulate thirst.[65]

For ham and eggs, slice and fry as instructed, take them out, break fresh eggs into a saucer one at a time, and gently drop them into the hot bubbling fat. Spoon the hot fat over the eggs to cook the tops—use a spatula to lift them out, and arrange them nicely around the ham. Add some sprigs of watercress on the side for a nice touch. Serve with warm biscuits, waffles, or muffins, and strong, clear coffee.

Tart apples, cored but not peeled, sliced into rings, and fried in hot oil, then drained and lightly sprinkled with sugar, enhance the appeal of even the best ham. The same goes for hominy—the hearty kind—that’s boiled until tender and then fried until a thick, brown crust forms on the bottom of the skillet. The key to successfully frying these, as with all frying, is to use enough oil, heat it sufficiently to instantly crisp whatever you put in, and keep an eye on it to avoid burning, removing the fried items as soon as they're done and draining them well. One of the surprising truths in cooking is this: frying with too little oil results in greasy food, while frying in plenty of hot oil leads to the opposite.[66]

Sweet potatoes, peeled and sliced, should be fried in ham fat. After draining well, sprinkle them with salt, pepper, and sugar; they are delicious and very easy to digest. Frying is often underrated because it can be misused. In skilled hands, it produces results that can't be achieved by any other cooking method.

A perfect mutton ham is a matter of skill and planning. It should be cut from a wether that is at least four years old, grass-fed, grain-finished, not too fatty, and not too lean. It needs to be butchered scientifically in clear, chilly, but not freezing weather, and hung unsalted in clean, cold air for about three days. Neatly saw off the shank and hip bones, and cut the meat smoothly, removing any tags or rough edges. Then pack it down in a scalded and chilled agate or clean wooden container. Half-cover the meat with a marinade made from one pint of pickling salt mixed with one gallon of cold water; boil and skim it clean, then add one pint of vinegar, a dozen each of whole cloves, allspice, and peppercorns, a pod of red pepper, a teaspoon of powdered saltpeter, and a small cup of oil. Simmer for half an hour, and cool it before pouring it over the meat. Let it soak in the liquid for a week, turning it twice daily. After that, take it out of the marinade, wipe it down, and let it air out. Return the marinade to the heat, bring it to a boil, skim it well, then add enough plain brine to fully cover the hams, skim again, cool it down, and pour it over the hams, making sure to scald the container first. Let it sit for another week, then drain it well, wipe it with a damp cloth, rub the outside with a mixture of salt, moist sugar, and ground black pepper, and hang it in a cool, airy place where the hams can be lightly smoked for two weeks. Winter curing, or late fall, is the only time this is possible for the average householder. After smoking, wrap the hams in waxed paper and canvas like any other hams.

Cook it just like venison, as mutton prepared this way is very similar. Slice and grill it, serving with butter and a very sour jelly, or boil it whole in a small amount of water until tender, glazing it with tart jelly and crisping it in the oven after draining and cooling. [68] Alternatively, soak it for two hours in cold water, then cover it completely with an inch-thick crust made from stiff flour and water, and bake it in a slow oven for four to five hours. Always serve with a very tangy sauce and sharp pickles, or strongly spiced ketchups. Make jelly from wild grapes, wild plums, green grapes, green gooseberries, or crab apples, using half the usual amount of sugar, especially for this type of meat.

Melt half a cup of that jelly with a tablespoon of boiling water. Add black pepper, paprika, a splash of Tabasco, and the strained juice of a lemon. Gradually mix in a teaspoon of dry mustard. Cook over hot water until everything is well combined and smooth, and keep it warm until serving.

Beef hams are a bit of a hassle—but they’re worth it. Start with small but well-fed animals, remove the shank and part of the top round. Lightly rub them with powdered saltpeter mixed with moist sugar, then let them sit in salt for two weeks, or cover them with brine made like this: one pint of pickling salt for a gallon of cold water, one teaspoon of sugar, and a pinch of whole cloves. Boil and skim the mixture. Pour it cold over the hams in a clean barrel. Let them sit for two weeks, then take them out, drain them, and wipe them down. Rub them with dry salt and hang them up high in the cold air. Start smoking lightly after three days. Keep smoking, but don’t overdo it, for a month. Coat them all over with ground black pepper mixed to a paste with molasses, cover with canvas, and leave them hanging.

Slice and broil, or you can chip it and serve it raw. You can fry it, but that's a waste of good resources. Properly cured meat should be salty but not too salty, a deep blackish-red color, and when sliced thin, it’s partially translucent and has an indescribable deliciousness. Cut as close to the grain as possible. Only attempt to make beef hams in late fall when the weather is cold for curing. The meat needs to be fully chilled before salt is applied, but freezing it is very harmful. Frozen meat doesn't absorb the salt, sugar, and other elements needed for proper curing. By the time it thaws enough for absorption, there could be changes that happen in cold storage, making it unfit for consumption.[70] If the beef ham is thick, it might need to sit in salt or brine for a month. Here, as in other areas, your judgment is key.

If there are a lot of rabbits and they're nice and plump, put some hindquarters in a jar with marinade for three days, then wipe them off and hang them in a cold, dry place. You should dress a rabbit before it cools down—this helps avoid the strong flavor that makes store-bought rabbits often hard to eat. Chill it but don’t freeze it after dressing. A light smoking is fine for the quarters, which should be left whole, with the thick loin in between. Soak them for two hours before cooking, and cook with plenty of butter, black and red pepper, and a splash of pepper vinegar. It makes for an excellent breakfast or lunch dish.

To cook a fresh ham properly, select one that weighs ten pounds or less. Scrape and wash it thoroughly, then score the skin all over. Season it generously with salt, sugar, black and red pepper, and add some Tabasco on top. Place it on a rack in a deep pan and pour boiling water underneath, making sure it barely touches the meat. Cover it tightly and bake in a hot oven for two hours, replenishing the water in the pan as it evaporates. Uncover it and cook for another thirty minutes, reducing the heat by half, and baste the meat with the liquid in the pan. If desired, add a cup of cider or good claret to the basting liquid. Let it sit without basting for ten minutes before serving so the skin can crisp up properly.[72]

Grandmother's Cherry Bounce: Rinse a clean, empty whiskey barrel thoroughly with cold water, drain, and fill with very ripe Morello cherries, mixed with black wild cherries. The right ratio is about one gallon of wild cherries to five gallons of Morellos. Sprinkle just a little blade mace, whole cloves, allspice, a tiny bit of bruised ginger, and grated nutmeg among the cherries. Add twenty pounds of sugar to a full barrel of fruit—or use half a pound for each gallon of fruit. Cover the fruit with good corn whiskey, about an inch deep; the older and smoother, the better. Leave the bung out but cover the opening with [73] lawn. Let it sit undisturbed for six months in a warm, dry, airy place. Rack it off into a clean barrel, let it sit for another six months, then bottle it or put it in demijohns. It gets much better with age up to five years—after that, the change is barely noticeable.

Grape Cider: Fill a clean, tight, well-scalded barrel with ripe wild grapes picked from their stems. You can add spices if you want, but they can be skipped. Fill the container with fresh cider, the sweeter the better. Leave some space for fermentation. Cover the opening with a thin cloth and let it sit in a dry place for four to six months. Transfer it and bottle it. This drink also gets better with age. Use it with caution—it’s gentle on the palate, but strong and overwhelming, especially for those not used to its allure.

Persimmon Beer: The lesser-known alternative to champagne—having the perk that no one ever suffers from drinking it. To make it, start with fully ripe persimmons, the juicier, the better. Remove the stalks and calyxes, then mash them well, and mix in[74] enough wheat bran or middlings to create a thick dough. Shape the dough into thin, flat cakes that will bake crisp in a slow oven. Once they’re cool, break them apart in a clean barrel, and fill it with filtered rainwater. A bushel of persimmons will produce a barrel of beer once mashed. Place the barrel upright, cover it with a thin cloth, and keep it in a warm, dry place away from any odors. Allow it to sit until the beer starts to ferment—the persimmon cakes will rise and form a foamy mass on top. After three to four weeks, either move the barrel to a cooler location or transfer the beer into bottles or demijohns, sealing them tightly and storing them in a very cool spot. The more flavorful and meaty the persimmons, the richer the beer will be. Be cautious about using fruit that hasn't been hit by frost, as it retains a harsh taste. A small amount of it can ruin an entire batch of beer. If the beer is left in the barrel, a wooden cover should be placed over the cloth once fermentation is complete. You can speed up fermentation by adding a slice of toast soaked in quick yeast along with the persimmon cakes. But[75] if the temperature is suitable, the beer will ferment on its own.

Egg Nogg: Make sure all ingredients, including eggs, sugar, brandy, and whiskey, are thoroughly chilled before you start, and work really fast. Beat the yolks of eighteen eggs until they’re very light, adding six cups of granulated sugar one cup at a time. When it's frothy and pale yellow, gradually and alternately mix in a glassful at a time of a quart of smooth old whiskey and a quart of authentic French brandy. Whip it well, then add the egg whites that have been beaten until they stick to the bowl. Grate nutmeg on top, and rub the rims of the serving glasses with lemon or orange peel. The glasses should be ice-cold, and so should the spoons. Fill carefully to avoid spilling, and serve immediately.

If you're preparing for an early morning Christmas celebration, beat the yolks and sugar the night before, chill them along with the liquor, and keep the unbeaten egg whites very cold too. In the morning, freshen up the yolks a bit, then add the liquor, and finally fold in the newly whipped egg whites. This is[76] the only authentic Christmas eggnog. Adding milk, cream, or especially rum ruins one of the finest Christmas treats.

White Egg Nogg: For those who are ill, especially fever patients. Whip the white of a fresh egg as stiff as possible with just a hint of salt. Then, mix in three heaping spoonfuls of light whipped sterilized cream, beat in two tablespoons of powdered sugar, and add a gill of the best French brandy. Alternatively, you can skip the sugar and mix more than a gill of vermouth—with either French or Italian—into the frothed egg and cream, depending on your preference.

Apple Toddy: Wash and core, but do not peel, six large, good-quality apples. Bake them covered until they’re tender all the way through. Place them in a bowl and sprinkle with cloves, mace, and crushed ginger, along with six lumps of sugar for each apple. Pour over a quart of boiling water and let it sit covered in a warm spot for fifteen minutes. Then add a quart of smooth whiskey, let it sit for another ten minutes,[77] and keep it warm. Serve in large deep glasses, placing an apple or half of one at the bottom of each glass, and fill with the liquid. Grate nutmeg on top just before serving.

Hail Storm: Combine equal amounts of clear ice, crushed into small pieces, and high-quality lump sugar. Pour enough good brandy over the mixture to cover it completely, then put it in a shaker. Shake it vigorously for five minutes, then pour into glasses and garnish with a fresh mint leaf on top.

Mint Julep: This requires the best of everything if you want it to be perfect. Especially the mint and the whiskey or brandy. Choose tender, fast-growing mint that's leafy and not long-stalked or coarse, wash it very clean without bruising it at all, and place it on a clean cloth on ice. Chill the spirits too. Put the sugar and water in a clean fruit jar and set it on ice. Do this at least six hours before serving so the sugar fully dissolves. Four lumps for a large goblet is about right, along with half a gobletful of fresh cold water. When it's time to serve, rub a lemon zest around the rim of each[78]goblet—the goblets should be well chilled—then fill them halfway with the dissolved sugar, add a tablespoonful of cracked ice, and stick sprigs of mint all around the rim. Set the goblets on a tray, then fill them up with whiskey or brandy or both, mixed together—the mix works best with brands that blend smoothly. Drop in a fresh ripe strawberry, or cherry, or slice of red peach in the middle, and serve immediately. You can skip the fruit without affecting the flavor—it’s mainly for presentation. But under no circumstances should you bruise the mint—it will give an acrid flavor that's "most tolerable and not to be endured." To capture the real old-time experience, serve with spoons in the goblets instead of straws. Dipping and sipping release more of the mint essence—plus the clinking of the spoons is almost as refreshing as the sound of the ice.

Lemon Punch: Bring a gallon of fresh water to a rolling boil in a large kettle, and as it starts boiling, throw in a tablespoon of your favorite tea. Let it boil for one minute—no more, no less—then strain it, while it's still hot, over the juice and thin yellow peel of twelve large or eighteen small lemons, along with two pounds of sugar. Stir vigorously until the sugar dissolves, then add a pint of rum. Let it sit on ice for twelve to twenty-four hours to mix and develop the flavors. Place a small block of clear ice in the punch bowl, pour in the punch, and then add either Maraschino cherries, hulled small ripe strawberries, or diced pineapple or bananas—or a mix of all these. Serve in chilled punch cups, providing coffee spoons for the fruit. You can skip the fruit and serve the punch with sandwiches just like iced tea. Some people find that adding a wineglass of yellow chartreuse right after the rum enhances the flavor. A touch of peach or apricot brandy works well too.

Punch à la Ruffle Shirts: This recipe dates back to the time of knee buckles and ruffled shirts, and it definitely holds its own against any other punches—even the well-known "Artillery punch," loved by the army and navy. To make it, clean and thinly slice the yellow peel of two[80] dozen oranges and one dozen lemons. Place the peeled citrus into a deep glass pitcher and cover it with one quart of brandy, one quart of aged whiskey, one generous pint of Jamaican rum, one tumbler of cherry bounce, one tumbler of peach liqueur, or one tumbler of "peach and honey." Cover it with a cloth and let it sit for three days at room temperature to blend and mature. In the meantime, squeeze and strain the juice of the oranges and lemons over four pounds of the best lump sugar, finely shred a large, very ripe pineapple and mix it with another pound of sugar in a separate container. Hull half a gallon of ripe strawberries, cover them generously with sugar, and allow them to sit to extract the juice. If strawberries aren't available, you can use ripe peaches, blackberries, or even pitted cherries. Keep the fruit and sugar cool, but not too cold—just enough to prevent it from going bad. On the third morning, strain the juice of all the fruits together and mix thoroughly. Next, brew a gallon of weak green tea, and pour it boiling hot over the liquor and yellow peel, stirring well. Then add the fruit juices and sugar, and let it sit uncovered until cool.[81] Chill the mixture thoroughly, and also chill the wine. You can use any kind you like—claret, which is fruity and good, works well, as does almost any quality homemade wine. Some people enjoy American champagne. However, I recommend claret or good homemade grape wine. Add a block of clear ice to the punch bowl, pour in equal amounts of the mixture and the wine. Let it sit for half an hour before serving. Finally, add ice-cold vichy at the very end. Thin strips of fresh cucumber peel enhance the flavor slightly and improve the presentation.

The wine and mixture can be combined in demijohns and stored for months, as long as they are kept cool. Since the process is a bit tricky, it's best to make a full batch at once and keep it for emergencies. Store-bought liqueurs can replace the homemade ones mentioned here. They might not be as unique, but they won't let you down. Dry sherry is a good alternative for cherry bounce, and apricot brandy works too, while vermouth or chartreuse can substitute for peach liqueur, which[82] you'll probably not have on hand unless you're an old-school housekeeper.

Peach Liqueur: Peel a large quantity of very ripe, juicy peaches, remove the pit, weigh them, and pack them down in earthenware or glass jars with an equal weight of granulated sugar. Crack the pits, take out the kernels, blanch them just like almonds, and soak in a quart of brandy. Let it sit in the sun for a full day to extract the flavor. Let the fruit and sugar mix sit for twenty-four hours, then place it over heat in a preserving pot and simmer very slowly until the fruit is completely broken down, adding boiling water as needed to replace what cooks out. If you like spices, simmer in some blade mace, whole cloves, and half a dozen black peppercorns. This is optional. Strain without pressing to avoid cloudiness, and mix the juice while it’s still very hot with the brandy and soaked kernels. Add the brandy and kernels, plus a quart of whiskey—aim for a total of a gallon of fruit juice. Stir well to combine. Let it cool, then bottle or transfer to demijohns, making sure to[83] distribute the kernels evenly. They will settle at the bottom, but the liqueur will infuse with their delicate almond scent and flavor.

Strawberry Liqueur: Wash, hull, and mash two gallons of very ripe strawberries, place them on the stove, bring to a quick boil, skim off any foam, and let it simmer for five minutes. Add a pint of boiling water, and strain it like you would for jelly. Measure the juice—use one pound of sugar for each pint, then return it to the pot and simmer for fifteen minutes, skimming as needed. After removing it from the heat, measure it again, and for each quart, mix in a pint of good whiskey or a combination of whiskey and brandy. Bottle it while still hot and seal it up. Smaller bottles work best. You can also add spices to your liking while the juice is simmering to turn the liqueur into strawberry cordial.

Blackberry Cordial: Go through and wash half a bushel of very ripe, but good berries, then drain them well. Mash the berries, add a little cold water, and simmer for half an hour. Strain and measure the juice. Add a pound of sugar for each pint of juice, and for each gallon, include a teaspoon of cloves, a teaspoon of allspice, a piece of bruised ginger, a small pod of Cayenne pepper, and half a dozen black peppercorns. Wrap the spices loosely in very thin muslin so they won't be skimmed off. Remove all foam and cook for an hour, keeping the kettle barely boiling. The mixture should reduce by about half. Remove from heat and add spirits, either whiskey or brandy, in a ratio of one to two—two pints of cordial to one pint of liquor. Allow it to cool uncovered, then bottle it and cork it tightly—sealing is not necessary. This is excellent for people recovering from illness, especially children. To make it almost a remedy for bowel issues, dig up and wash dewberry roots, cut them short, and boil in clear water to make a strong decoction. Add this to the boiling cordial in a proportion of one part decoction to four parts cordial. Then mix in the spirits. You can treat a quart of cordial this way for medicinal use, while keeping the rest for general purposes.

Blackberry Wine: Pick, wash, and mash thoroughly ripe berries. Pour a gallon of freshly boiling water over each gallon of berries and let it sit for twenty-four hours.[85] Strain the mixture, measure the juice, and add three and a half pounds of sugar for each gallon. Transfer it into clean casks or jugs, leaving some space for fermentation. Cover the opening with a thin cloth and let it sit in a clean, warm place for two months. After that, rack it into clean containers, discarding the sediment, and cork or seal it tightly. It will be ready to use in another month and will improve in flavor with age for up to a year.

Strawberry Wine: Mash thoroughly clean, hulling, very ripe berries, add an equal amount of boiling water, let it sit for six hours, then strain. Put the strained juice in a preserving kettle with two and a half pounds of sugar for each gallon. Bring it to a boil, skim off the foam, then pour into clean containers, cover the tops with thin cloth, and let it sit until fermentation stops. In a wet season, the berries might be so juicy that less water is needed—or you may need more sugar.

Gooseberry Wine: Wash and drain fully ripe gooseberries, mash them thoroughly with a wooden pestle, and add an equal amount of boiling water. Let it sit[86] for thirty-six hours unless it’s really hot outside—then twenty-four hours is enough. Press out all the juice, even if it comes out cloudy. Measure it, and for each gallon, add three pounds of the best lump sugar. Stir well, doing this every day for a week, then cover with cheesecloth and let it sit until fermentation stops. After that, cover it tightly and leave it for another six weeks so the wine can mature on the sediment. Carefully siphon it off, filtering the cloudy part at the bottom through several layers of cheesecloth. Transfer it to a clean container for two more months, then bottle and seal it. If you store the bottles on their side and pour the wine carefully, it will have a bright golden yellow color with a translucency like topaz. It reaches its best flavor after a year. Since it’s on the heavier side, many people enjoy it more by adding ice-cold sparkling water once it’s in the glasses.

Grape Wine: Pick the grapes from the stems, wash them, drain, and mash them thoroughly if they are ripe and fresh. Add an equal amount of boiling water and let it sit for twelve hours. If you want a really deep color and the grapes are black, let it sit for twenty-four hours. Strain the mixture, measure the juice, and add three pounds of sugar for each gallon. Stir until the sugar is dissolved, then transfer it to a clean container, filling it only three-quarters full. Cover the opening with a cloth and let it sit in a clean, warm place until fermentation stops. After that, seal it tightly and let it sit for another month. Then, siphon off the liquid, strain the last remnants through triple cheesecloth, bottle it, and cork it tightly. Store it in a dark, warm place, ideally away from any potential contamination.

Muscadine Wine: It can be a hassle, but it's worth it. Rinse the overripe muscadines, and pop them out of their skins one by one. Discard the skins after squeezing out all the juice—if the pulp stays with them, their strong, musky taste will ruin it. Mix in half as much boiling water as there is juice. Let it sit for a day and a night, then strain it and add three pounds of white rock candy for each gallon of juice. Stir daily until the candy dissolves. Cover it with cloth until fermentation is complete. Once done, bottle it right away and seal or secure the corks. The perfect wine[88] is pale pink, very clear, and has a unique but indescribably delicious flavor.

Fruit Vinegars: Any type of acidic fruit—like strawberries, raspberries, gooseberries, or black and red currants—makes a refreshing drink. Pick and wash the fruit, then heat it until it’s steaming. After it boils for a minute or two, add an equal amount of cold water and bring it back to a boil. Skim off any foam, remove it from heat, and let it sit until the next day. Strain the mixture, then measure the juice. Add two to three pounds of sugar per gallon, depending on how tart you want it, then put it back on the heat and simmer for twenty minutes, skimming off any foam. Boil in your favorite spices tied up in a thin cloth. If it looks watery, boil for another twenty minutes until the syrup becomes richer, then after removing it from heat, mix in a quart of cider vinegar for each gallon of syrup. Mix well, and bottle it while still hot in small bottles, cork them, and seal. When mixed half and half with ice water, poured over crushed ice, or used as a flavoring for tea, hot or cold, it's really refreshing,[89] especially in hot weather. Use a spoonful in each cup or glass of tea.

Boiled Cider: Reduce fresh sweet cider by half through gentle boiling, skimming it clean as it cooks. Then, bottle it, adding one or two cloves, a pinch of allspice, and a piece of mace to each bottle. Cork, seal, and store in a cool place. This is especially useful for making mincemeat or for flavoring sauces for simple desserts. Alternatively, you can add sugar towards the end, enough to create a thin syrup, which also works well as a sauce for plain desserts.[90]

The Philosophy of Pie-Crust: Pie crust perfection depends on several factors—quality flour, good fat, proper handling, and especially good baking. A hot oven, quick but not scorching, expands the air between layers of dough and pops open the flour grains, allowing them to absorb the fat as it melts, making them crisp and delicious instead of hard and tough. The lighter and drier the flour, the better—in very humid weather, it’s best to oven-dry the flour and then let it cool before mixing. Shortening, whether lard, butter, or clarified drippings, should be very cold—unless your recipe says it should be softened or melted. Milk or [91] water used in the mixture should also be well chilled, unless the shortening is soft—in that case, match its temperature. The general rule is half a pint of ice water to one pound of flour, using chilled shortening. If the fat is semi-fluid, the dough needs to be mixed softer, using about three parts of a pint to the pound.

Baking powder or baking soda and cream of tartar, or just baking soda with sour cream or buttermilk for moisture, makes the crust light and flaky with less butter, making it economical. True puff pastry is essential for the best tarts, pies, etc., but a light flaky crust works great for most things. Sift the flour twice or even three times for any type of dough. Sift the baking soda or baking powder well through the flour, but don’t sift the salt. Make the salt fine, sprinkle it in the bottom of the mixing bowl before the last sifting, and mix it lightly through the flour before adding the shortening. Rub in the shortening very gently, using just your fingertips—the palms will melt or soften it. Add milk or water a little at a time, mixing it in with a broad knife instead of your hands. Mix lightly so the dough barely holds together. Start with one-third of the shortening—this is for puff pastry. Half a pound of butter or lard to a pound of flour makes a very good dough, but for richer flavor, use three-quarters of a pound. Wash the butter well to remove the salt, and squeeze out the water by wringing it in a well-floured cloth. If there’s a strong taste or any hint of rancidity, wash it thoroughly, kneading it in sweet milk, then rinse out the milk with cold water mixed with a little borax. Rinse again with clear cold water—this should remove any bad flavor without harming anyone's stomach. But be very careful that the final rinse is thorough—borax, while completely safe, doesn’t improve digestibility at all.

The goal of repeatedly rolling and folding real puff pastry is to trap as much air as possible between the layers. That's why you chill it between rollings. It's also important to pinch the edges tightly after folding, and to always roll *away* from you, never back and forth. Roll the dough into a long, narrow strip after the initial mixing, divide the remaining fat into three equal portions, keep them cold, and cut them into small pieces as needed. Spread these pieces evenly on top of the rolled-out dough, which should be lightly dusted with flour. Fold the dough into thirds, stacking one layer on top of another, then turn it so the folded edges are to your right and left while rolling. Pinch the other edges tightly together and roll it out again into a long strip, always moving the rolling pin away from you. Continue this process until all the butter is incorporated, then chill it in the fridge for an hour to firm up. When baking, be careful not to open the oven door until the pastry has fully risen and developed a slightly crispy surface.[93]

Baking powder crust shouldn't sit around—the gas that makes it rise starts forming and escaping as soon as it gets wet. It also needs to go in a hot oven and should be handled gently. Use half a pound of shortening and a teaspoon of baking powder for each pound of flour, mixing it stiff or soft depending on [94] the texture of the fat. If done right and baked well, it'll make a crust good enough for anyone.

French Puff Paste: This is like the famous little girl—either really good or terrible. So be cautious about trying it until you have some experience or the naive confidence to back you up. Either approach could lead to success—while half-hearted knowledge or confidence will likely end in disaster. For this, you need two pounds of sifted flour, two pounds of well-washed and very cold butter, four chilled egg yolks, and about half a pint of ice water, along with a pinch of fine salt. Lightly rub four ounces of butter into the flour, then shape the rest into a flat oblong and put it in the fridge. Mix the flour with the egg yolks and water, adding them alternately, and work it into a smooth dough, handling it as gently as possible. Then roll it out to half an inch thick, dust it lightly with flour, place the ball of cold butter in the center, fold the dough over it smoothly, and gently flatten it with a rolling pin. Roll it out as thin as you can without letting the butter break through.[95] Fold it in thirds, roll it out thin again. Repeat the folding and rolling, then chill it for half an hour by folding it in thirds again. Roll and fold it twice more, chill for another twenty minutes, then give it two more rolls and folds. Chill again if you can before using. If everything has gone well, you’ll end up with a crust that is an experience.

Every Day Pie Crust: One pound of flour, six ounces of shortening—lard or clarified dripping, a pinch of salt, half a pint of ice water. Mix the flour, salt, and water to make a smooth dough using a broad knife, then roll it out thin. Spread a third of the fat on it, fold it into thirds, roll it out again, add another third of the fat, roll it, add the last bit of fat, roll it out again, fold it, and chill for ten minutes before using.

Cobblers: Make with any type of fruit in season—peaches, apples, cherries, plums, or berries. Avoid green gooseberries because they’re too sour and can be a hassle. For stone cherries, peel peaches or apples and slice them thin, halve plums if they're large enough, and remove the stones—if not, just wash them, drain well, and use them whole. Line a skillet or deep pie pan that is at least three inches[96]deep with short crust, rolling it out to a bit more than a quarter-inch thick. Fit it well, then prick all over with a blunt fork. Fill it with the prepared fruit, place an upper crust that is a quarter-inch thick and large enough, gently press the crust edges together, prick the top crust all over with a fork, and bake in a hot oven for half to three-quarters of an hour, depending on the size. Once done, take it out, remove the top crust, and lay it upside down on another plate. Sweeten the hot fruit generously, adding a spoonful of brandy if you like, along with a good chunk of the best butter. Mix it well into the fruit, then scoop out enough to make a thick layer over the top crust. Grate nutmeg over apple pies, or sprinkle a little powdered cinnamon on top. A few blades of mace baked with the fruit enhance the apple flavor beautifully. Cherries do well with brandy, but need less butter than either peaches or apples. Add plenty of sugar for plums, leaving extra for the stones. Cook a few stones with them for flavor, even if you remove most of them.[97] Do the same with cherries, using about a dozen pits for the pie.

Serve cobbler hot or cold. If hot, serve it with a hard brandy sauce, made by creaming together a cup of sugar and a tablespoon of butter, then mixing in two tablespoons of brandy or good whiskey. Right here is perhaps the place to say once and for all, good whiskey is definitely better in anything than poor brandy. Thick sweet cream, either whipped or plain, pairs wonderfully with cold cobbler for the average palate.

Fried Pies: To get them just right, you need to use sun-dried peaches that are bright and sweet, but any good dried fruit will do in a pinch. Soak the fruit overnight after rinsing it in three waters, then simmer it for five hours in the soaking water, using a plate to keep the fruit submerged. Mash and sweeten the mixture while it’s hot, adding spices to taste—like cinnamon, nutmeg, and grated lemon peel for apples, and a little bit of cloves and ginger for peaches or apricots. Roll out some short pastry into rounds the size of a small plate, cover half of it with the fruit, fold over the empty half, pinch the edges together tightly, and fry in deep hot fat until golden brown on both sides. Drain on paper towels and sprinkle lightly with sugar. Serve hot or cold. They're perfect for impromptu lunches or very late dinners—and wholesome too. A famous doctor often said, "You would only be better off eating an acre of them."

Green Apple Pie: Take apples a little bigger than your thumb, cut off the stems and seeds, and slice them into thirds, dropping them into water as you slice to prevent browning. Make a thick syrup—three cups of sugar and one cup of water for four cups of sliced fruit. Boil and skim, then add the apples along with a piece or two of mace, and cook quickly until they’re preserved. You can either bake them in a crust like usual or bake the crust until crisp after pricking it well, then spread the preserved fruit inside. Alternatively, make small turnovers, but bake them instead of frying—and make sure the oven is hot enough to brown them without burning. You can also turn the green apples into shortcake, placing the fruit only between the layers of crust, and serve with a rich sauce or sweetened cream.

Lemon Custard: (M. L. Williams.) Separate and beat the yolks and whites of six eggs until very light. Mix one pound of sugar smoothly into the yolks, then add half a pound of creamed butter. Combine well, then fold in the beaten whites, followed by the strained juice and grated yellow peel of two large or three small lemons. Beat for another five minutes, pour into pans lined with puff pastry, place in a hot oven, and bake until golden brown. Meringue can be added, but it’s only needed for decoration.

Cream Pie: (M. L. Williams.) Whisk three eggs until they’re really light, then stir in a heaping cup of sugar. Add two cups of sifted flour and mix until smooth. Next, fold in half a cup of rich sour cream that has half a teaspoon of baking soda dissolved in it. Mix well, pour immediately into shallow pans, bake in a hot oven, and serve warm with or without sauce.

Damson and Banana Tart: (M. W. Watkins.) An heirloom in the narrator's family, passed down from English ancestors.[100] Line an agate or ceramic pie dish that is two to three inches deep with a good crust, rolled thin but not stretched or pulled. Layer it with thinly sliced bananas, sprinkled with three tablespoons of sugar and a pinch of grated lemon peel. Drizzle with a shot glass of rum, brandy, or whiskey, then add a layer of preserved plums—damsons are the best—along with their juice. If there's space, repeat the layers of bananas, plums, and seasoning. Cover with a crust rolled fairly thin, poke holes in it, and bake for about 45 minutes in a moderately hot oven. Serve it either hot or cold, but it's best hot, with this sauce: whisk one egg very lightly, then add a cup of cream, a wineglass of rum, brandy, or sherry, and a larger glass of preserve syrup. Mix it over hot water, stirring constantly until it starts to thicken, but be careful not to let it get too thick.

Amber Pie: (Mrs. J. R. Oldham.) Beat the yolks of four eggs until very light, with two heaping cups of sugar, a large spoonful of melted butter, a rounded teaspoon of sifted flour, a cup of buttermilk, a cup of seeded raisins, a teaspoon of cinnamon, and a pinch each of cloves, allspice, and nutmeg. Beat the two egg whites until very stiff. Half bake the crust, then pour in the batter and cook slowly until done. Top with meringue made by beating two egg whites with two teaspoons of cold water, a few grains of salt, and one cup of sugar. Gradually add the sugar after the eggs are very light. Use it right away—it will deflate if left standing. Let the meringue brown lightly in the oven. Serve hot or cold.

Jelly Pie: (Louise Williams.) Whisk the yolks of four eggs until they’re really light, then mix in a cup of sugar, three-quarters of a cup of softened butter, and a glass of jelly—make sure it’s on the tart side. Add a tablespoon of vanilla and a dessert spoon of sifted cornmeal, followed by the egg whites beaten until very stiff. Bake in pie crusts—this recipe makes two generous pies. Meringue is optional—and not really needed.

Cheese Cakes: Beat the yolks of twelve eggs with a pound of sugar until they’re very light, then add a tablespoon of cornstarch, followed by three-quarters of a pound of butter that’s been softened and creamed. Also, mix in the[102]strained juice of two lemons, a teaspoon of lemon essence, and a teaspoon of vanilla. Place the mixture over boiling water and stir until everything combines. This method is necessary to dissolve granulated sugar, which is best because it lacks the old-fashioned live open-kettle brown. Keep it over the hot water, stirring well as you fill the tart shells, which should be lined with real puff pastry, rolled very thin, and fitted nicely. Once filled with the batter, set them in broad shallow pans and bake in a hot, but not scorching, oven. You can add a blanched almond, a piece of citron, or half a pecan or walnut in each shell before filling. Personally, I prefer to add these embellishments with the frosting. To make the frosting, beat six egg whites with a pinch of salt until they cling to the bowl, then gradually add three cups of granulated sugar boiled with a cup and a half of water until it spins a thread. Keep the syrup boiling while you add it. Once all the syrup is in, place the frosting pan over boiling water, add six drops of lemon juice, and beat until it’s stiff enough to hold its shape. Make sure it doesn’t touch[103]the water, but there should be plenty of steam rising underneath. Frost the tarts generously, and place either a piece of citron, a quarter of a Maraschino cherry, or half a nut in the center. If you like coconut flavor, sprinkle freshly grated coconut on while the frosting is still soft—it should harden within half an hour. Tiny pink or green candies placed in the center, or arranged in threes, look very decorative. There are truly no limits except taste and creativity when it comes to making these tarts beautiful. I take pride in them, as they’ve been enthusiastically praised by people who have tasted desserts all around the world, and were even rated higher than the best French confections by a man who lived in Paris for ten years and whose wife is considered the most skilled amateur cook in New York.

Grated coconut or raw grated apple mixed into the batter before baking changes up the cheesecakes—and for some people, it makes them even better. Personally, I can't find anything that compares to the cheesecake from my childhood—which had a full pound of butter for each pound of sugar, and no fancy frosting, [104] although strips of citron were often layered on top after the crust was prepared. Always prick the crust well before filling it—this way, the tarts will be nicely shaped instead of looking like caricatures.

Sweet Potato Custard: Boil two large or four medium sweet potatoes until tender, then peel, remove any strings, and mash them well. Mix in half a pound of creamed butter thoroughly, and gradually add five cups of sugar along with five whole eggs, alternating between the two. Beat until smooth, then add the juice of three lemons, a tablespoon of lemon essence, and just under a pint of very rich milk. If the potatoes are really soft, use less milk. Mix until smooth and pour into pie pans lined with good crust. Bake until golden in a hot oven, but be careful not to overbake. If the amount of sugar seems high, it’s important to note that sweet potatoes need more sugar to taste sweet than most other foods, except for crabapples or green gooseberries.

Sweet Potato Pie: Line a deep pie pan with short crust rolled out to a quarter-inch thick, then fill it with raw sweet potatoes, peeled and sliced thin. For a medium-sized pan, add three cups of sugar, a cup of butter cut into pieces, mace, cloves, and nutmeg to taste, half a cup of cold water, and half a cup of good whiskey or sherry. Cover with a crust that's an eighth-inch thick; prick it well and cut a tiny cross in the center, then bake in a hot, but not scorching oven for three-quarters of an hour, or a full hour if the pan is large. Placing another pan upside down over it helps ensure even baking. Remove the top pan ten minutes before it's done. Serve hot. This doesn't need any sauce.

Apple Custard: Whisk four eggs until light with three cups of sugar, one cup of butter, and one and a half cups of rich milk—the richer, the better. At the very end, mix in one quart of grated apple, and add nutmeg or vanilla for flavor. Bake in crusts. If you want it richer, sprinkle on some soaked and pitted raisins or shredded citron on top before baking.

Molasses Pie: (M. W. Watkins.) Cream together one large cup of granulated sugar and one heaping tablespoon of butter until light. Add the well-beaten yolks of three eggs and a large[106] cup of rich molasses. Flavor with one teaspoon of grated nutmeg, then fold in the whipped egg whites until they are as stiff as possible. Bake in pans lined with a rich crust until firm. You can add meringue, but it’s not necessary.

Mystery Pie: (Louise Williams.) Beat the yolks and whites of four eggs separately until very light. Mix the yolks with a cup and a half of sugar, three heaping tablespoons of butter, two teaspoons of mixed spices (either beaten or powdered finely), one cup of tart dark jelly, one cup of blackberry jam, and one cup of sweet milk. Finally, fold in the egg whites, mix well, then pour into pans lined with rich pastry and bake until firm.

Butter Scotch Pie: (Leslie Fox.) Beat lightly two egg yolks with one scant cup of dark brown sugar, one tablespoon of creamed butter, and two tablespoons of flour. Mix until smooth, then gradually add one cup of rich milk, place in a double boiler, and cook until thick. Let it cool, flavor with vanilla, then pour into rich crusts that are previously well-baked, cover with meringue made [107] from the egg whites, set in the oven to harden, and serve hot or cold.

Raspberry Cream Pie: (Leslie Fox.) Line a deep pie pan with a rich crust, spread the crust generously with red raspberry jam, then pour on top a raw custard made from two well-beaten eggs, one cup of milk, and one tablespoon of sugar. Bake until the custard is fully set, let it cool, and top with whipped cream. Serve as cold as possible.

Rhubarb Pie: Take a generous quart of rhubarb, peeled and chopped, and add three cups of sugar, the pulp from three sweet oranges, thin strips of the yellow peel, two small broken pieces of mace, and about half a cup of cold water. Cover the pan and bake in a hot oven for thirty minutes—then uncover and cook for another five minutes. The result is a sweet treat that's great for many uses—as a sauce, as a replacement for marmalade, as the base for pies, tarts, shortcakes, and even as a filling for layer cakes.

Make pies with two crusts or with lattice tops as usual. Turn it into [108] tarts, turnovers, or layer it between hot buttered layers for a quick shortcake. But if you want to see how amazing rhubarb can be, make it into meringue pies or tarts. Bake the crusts after pricking them well, cover them lightly with either good meringue or the frosting used for cheesecakes, let it set, and then right before serving, add a thin layer of the prepared rhubarb—the meringue or frosting will stay crisp until eaten if you work quickly enough. Young, unpeeled, tender rhubarb creates a pink sauce—older, peeled stalks yield a translucent green. Either looks great on its own. They can look even better if you drop a cherry or preserved strawberry in the center of the tarts.

Banana Pie: Line a deep pie dish with a thin, high-quality crust, fill it three-quarters with very thinly sliced bananas. Cover them generously with sugar, add the strained juice of a large lemon, dot with small pieces of butter, place a lattice crust on top, and bake in a hot oven for twenty-five minutes.[109]

Banana Pudding: Slice three medium bananas very thin, crosswise, and sprinkle them generously with sugar. Then, add them to a batter made by beating four egg yolks and two egg whites, mixing in one cup of crumbled rich stale cake, half a cup of sugar, a cup of very rich milk, and the juice of a large lemon. Mix until smooth, pour it into a deep pudding dish, and bake in a hot oven. After baking, cover with meringue made from the reserved egg whites, which should be beaten with a small pinch of salt, two teaspoons of cold water, and six tablespoons of sugar. Return it to the oven and let it barely color. Serve it hot or cold.

Sweet Potato Pudding: Beat four eggs until they're very light, then mix in four cups of sugar and one cup of creamed butter. Add a cup of very rich milk, mixing until smooth, then incorporate one pint of raw grated sweet potato. Mix well, pour it into a deep earthen dish, and place it in a hot oven. As soon as a brown crust forms on top, stir it down. Repeat this at least three times. Serve it hot, with either wine sauce or a rich sugar and butter sauce flavored with lemon. It's best not to flavor the pudding itself, so you can fully enjoy the flavor of the brown crust stirred throughout it.[110]

Poor Man's Pudding: For each person, take a fresh egg, a tablespoon of sifted flour, and half a cup of very rich milk. Add a pinch of salt for every six eggs. Separate the eggs and beat the yolks and whites until they are very light. Gradually mix the yolks with the flour and milk, making sure there are no lumps. Fold in the stiffly beaten whites at the very end—if the batter is too thick, add a little more milk. Pour the mixture into a deep pan and bake it in a hot oven. It should be taken out the moment it's done, or it will collapse and be ruined. Serve immediately with a sauce made by mixing over hot water three cups of sugar, one cup of butter, half a cup of boiling water, and some fruit juice, wine, or whiskey, along with any flavoring you like. The sauce can be as rich as you want, while the pudding should be a pale clear yellow, as light as a puff, and should cut easily with a spoon. It may not truly represent its name in today's world of expensive eggs, but it earned that name during the pioneering days when it was created.[111]

Boiled Batter Pudding: Make the same batter as above, but add a teaspoon of baking powder. Mix in three cups of seeded raisins, soaked in whiskey and well-floured. Place it in a newly-scalded, floured pudding bag, drop it into a pot of boiling water, making sure to keep it topped up with more boiling water, and cook for one to one and a half hours, depending on the size. Serve it hot with lots of rich, sweet sauce, and be sure to warm your knife or spoon before cutting into the pudding.

Apple Pudding: (M. W. Watkins.) Core and peel six tart apples, slice them crosswise, and layer the slices in a deep dish with plenty of sugar, a reasonable amount of butter, cinnamon, and just a little water. Pour over a batter made like this: beat one egg with half a cup of sugar until light, add butter about the size of a walnut, half a cup of milk, a pinch of salt, and enough flour to make it thick enough for a layer cake, along with a teaspoon of baking powder sifted in. Spread the batter evenly, dot the top with small pieces of butter, and bake in a hot but not scorching oven,[112] for half an hour or longer if needed—the apples should be fully cooked. Serve it hot or cold—preferably hot, with hard sauce or wine sauce.

Apple Dumplings: Peel and core six tart apples, put three cloves in each one, fill the core with very sweet hard sauce, and add a sliver of mace in the sauce. Place each apple on a round of good short pastry, then fold the pastry over it, sealing the edges neatly. Arrange them close together in a pan that's just the right size, and pour in half a cup of sugar melted in a cup of water with a bit of butter and lemon juice. Cover the pan and cook quickly until they're done—then uncover, brown, take them out and serve hot with a very rich hard sauce.

Crumb Pudding: (Anne McVay.) Soak a cup of dry grated bread crumbs in half a pint of milk until soft, then add the well-beaten yolks of two eggs, half a cup of sugar, a tablespoon of butter, and another half pint of milk. Flavor with lemon, vanilla, or brandy, as you like. Bake until firm in a quick but not scorching hot oven, then cover with meringue made from the egg whites and half a cup of sugar. Lightly brown the meringue. Let it cool, and serve with either whipped or sweetened cream, or a fruit sauce. It’s good on its own without any sauce.

Blackberry Mush: (Leslie Fox.) After picking a quart of fresh, very ripe blackberries, wash them, then put them in a pot with just enough water to prevent burning. Bring to a boil and skim off any foam. Gradually add almost two pounds of flour or cornstarch that has been mixed with cold water, along with sugar to taste. Cook, stirring frequently until the mixture becomes thick and glossy. Pour it into your pudding dish, let it cool, chill it thoroughly, and serve with cream, either plain, whipped, or sweetened.

Peach Pudding: Whisk one egg, with half a cup of sugar, two tablespoons of melted butter, three-quarters of a cup of flour, one cup of sour cream, one teaspoon of baking soda dissolved in one teaspoon of cold water, and two cups of very ripe peaches, peeled and thinly sliced. Bake quickly and serve when hot with a rich hard sauce or a wine sauce.

Ginger Pudding: Whisk three eggs until very[114] light with two cups of sugar, a large cup of rich black molasses, three-quarters of a cup of softened butter, creamed, and a tablespoon of finely beaten ginger. Add half a cup of rich sour cream and half a cup of boiling water with a teaspoon of baking soda dissolved in it. Mix in enough flour to create a thick batter, pour into a deep greased pan, and bake quickly. Serve hot with a rich sauce flavored with orange juice and zest.

Nesselrode Pudding: (Mrs. H. Barker.) Boil together three cups of sugar and one cup of water until the syrup is thick. Gradually beat it into the yolks of six eggs that have been beaten very light while it's still boiling hot. Gently fold in the stiffly beaten egg whites, then mix in a box of Cox's gelatin dissolved in warm water, one cup of raisins that have been pitted, steamed, and soaked in sherry or whiskey, one cup of finely chopped nuts, or one cup of crumbled macaroons, or a cup of both combined. Finish by adding enough heavy cream to make a full gallon, then pack it in salt and ice, freeze it, and let it sit long enough to ripen.

Thanksgiving Pudding: (Mrs. J. O. Cook.) Beat the yolks of four eggs[115] until light, then mix in one cup of sugar, two tablespoons of creamed butter, and one cup of stale cake crumbs soaked in eight tablespoons of whiskey. Combine everything well, then add one cup of seeded and floured raisins and one cup of chopped nuts. Beat until smooth and bake until set, then top with meringue. Serve with whipped cream or any preferred sauce. You can substitute milk for the whiskey and use preserves instead of raisins.

Real Christmas Pudding: Toast a pint of fine breadcrumbs until they are a nice brown without burning them. Pour half a cup of strong, clear black coffee over the breadcrumbs and let it sit until soft.

Beat six egg yolks until light with two cups of yellow sugar and one cup of creamed butter, then add the soaked crumbs and mix until smooth. Meanwhile, soak one cup of seeded and halved raisins, one cup of clean currants, one cup of shredded citron, and one cup of finely chopped nut meats in a tumbler of sherry, a tumbler of rum, and a wineglass of apricot brandy. Once the fruit is well soaked, add it to the egg and sugar mixture, including any leftover liquors. Gradually mix in[116] a teaspoon of cinnamon, a teaspoon of cloves and allspice, half a cup of very thinly sliced preserved ginger, and a tiny pinch of black pepper and paprika. Beat smooth, then gently fold in the stiffly beaten egg whites alternately with one cup of browned flour. If the mixture is too thick to stir easily, thin it out with a little milk or boiling water. Pour it into a clean pudding bag that has been freshly scalded, leaving room for the pudding to expand. Place it in a deep kettle of boiling water and boil for five hours, adding more boiling water as needed to maintain the cooking temperature. Make it several days in advance and boil for an extra hour on Christmas Day. Serve it flambéed with brandy, accompanied by a rich sauce, either fruit or wine flavored.

Pudding Sauce: (Mrs. Barbara Clayton.) Mix together until very light, one cup of white sugar, one cup of creamed butter, and the yolks of three eggs. Beat the egg whites until very stiff with another cup of sugar, then add them to the yolks and butter, mixing well. Place the mixture in a double boiler and cook[117] until thick. Pour two wineglasses of good whiskey into a bowl, then add the hot sauce and whip vigorously until light.[118]

Exotic plants rarely bloom in their natural beauty after being relocated. Milly was the exception that proved the rule. Born and raised in New Orleans, influenced by its culture and traditions, she was a skilled cook and the daughter of another cook to whom she paid deep respect, even though that cook was well past middle age. Despite the chaos of New York City, she maintained her magical cooking touch, although she never truly adapted or felt at home there. This was despite her fondness for her employer, to whom she had devoted ten years back in her hometown. When Milly finally returned home, there was a lot of sadness among those of us who had enjoyed her cooking, [119] but her employer smiled sadly, saying, "I couldn't ask her to stay—she was so unhappy here."

Milly never really had complete freedom—New York markets don't have many of the things familiar to those in New Orleans. Still, she was a great teacher of mixed flavors and the joys and surprises of Creole cooking. Tall and slim, with a golden-brown complexion, neat to the point of being strict, and self-contained, her presence somehow added an extra zest to her dishes. She wasn't quick to make friends, but the shared experience of cooking encouraged her to be more welcoming to me. "I don't claim I can cook—but my mom can," she often told me, smiling proudly while the praises of gourmets echoed in her ears. She could never explain how she made her delicious dishes—but if you were lucky enough to be persona gratis, she would show you, to perfection.

I will only write about what I know—not as a complete guide to Creole cooking. In fact, a lifetime wouldn’t be enough to try all of its incredibly good dishes. From this limited experience, I believe there is one main principle that stands out: the mixing of well-balanced flavors, achieved through slow and gentle cooking. Milly used to say she let things "sob," which I think is a mistake, as it refers to the old term "sod," the past participle of "seethe." But I don’t claim to have the final word—my conclusion comes from the experience of fifty dinners, each one seeming uniquely amazing. Now, let's get to the specific recipes.

Court Bouillon: (Pronounced "Coubare.") Milly wished for Redfish or Red Snapper but settled for halibut or any other firm, fine-grained fish that was perfectly fresh. Take three pounds of it, wash it very well, and cut it into six equal slices with a sharp knife. There should be no ragged edges. Melt a heaping tablespoon of lard in a deep pot, then gradually add two tablespoons of flour while stirring vigorously so it doesn't burn. Add a dozen crushed allspice, three sprigs each of thyme, parsley, bay leaf, and chopped sweet marjoram, one small clove of garlic, one large onion also chopped finely, and either six large fresh tomatoes, chopped small, or half a can—those in glass are best. Pour in a large glass of claret, add a quart of boiling water, and bring everything to a vigorous boil. Cook for five minutes, then add salt and cayenne pepper to taste. Boil for another five minutes, then add the fish slices one at a time, followed by the strained juice of a lemon. Boil hard for twenty more minutes. Serve hot.

To make Court Bouillon a la Espagnole, stir together the lard and flour until smooth. Then add a large onion, six tomatoes, a clove of garlic, and sprigs of sweet basil and thyme, all finely chopped, along with two whole bay leaves. Brown everything nicely, being careful not to burn it, then add a quart of boiling water, bring it to a boil, and cook for two or three minutes. Take six thick slices of fresh, firm fish, rub them well with salt and pepper, place them in a dish, and pour a large cup of hot white wine over them. Vinegar works too, but wine is better. Carefully place the fish slices in the pot, add the wine,[122], and simmer until tender—about half an hour usually. Lift them out carefully to avoid breaking, place them in a deep dish, remove the bay leaves from the gravy, and pour it over the fish. Finish with a garnish of sliced lemon and serve with either boiled rice or whole boiled potatoes.

Bouillabaisse: As long as New Orleans exists, it will take pride in this dish, which inspired a famous compliment from Thackeray. "In New Orleans, you can eat a Bouillabaisse unlike any you’ve had in Marseilles or Paris." That's quite a statement from the champion of Bouillabaisse, originally from Marseilles. The key to its superiority is easy to identify—it's the quality and flavor of the fish found in the Gulf of Mexico. Without Pompano, Red Snapper, and Redfish, even Milly couldn't quite do justice to her knowledge. But she made do with whatever the market offered, typically using halibut, fresh cod, bluefish, or sea trout. You need two types of fish in equal amounts. The better and firmer the fish, the better[123] the Bouillabaisse. Cut each type into six equal pieces, keeping the trimmings, heads, and so on. Boil them in three pints of water with a sliced onion and a bouquet of herbs until it reduces to one pint. Remove the fish heads and herbs, then strain the stock and set it aside until needed. Meanwhile, thoroughly rub the fish with salt and pepper, then with a mixture of finely minced three bay leaves, three sprigs each of thyme and parsley, three cloves of garlic, and six allspice berries ground to powder. Make sure to rub the mixture in very thoroughly—this is the key to success. The seasoning must penetrate the fish completely. In a wide pan, heat two tablespoons of olive oil gently, add two mild onions, chopped, and let them cook a bit without browning. Now add the fish, slice by slice, making sure they don’t touch, cover the pan, and let them steam for about ten minutes, turning them once to cook each side partially. Remove them and place them separately on a large dish, pour half a bottle of white wine into the pan, and stir well. Add six large, fresh[124] tomatoes, sliced very thin, let them boil for a few minutes, then add half a lemon, also in very thin slices, and a pint of the strained fish stock. Season well with salt, pepper, and Cayenne—this is where your taste comes in. Boil everything together until it reduces by almost half, then add the fish slices, ensuring they don’t touch, and boil vigorously for five minutes. While boiling, finely chop a pinch of saffron, place it in a small, deep dish, and mix it smoothly with a spoonful of the boiling liquid. Dissolve the saffron completely, and once the fish has cooked for its five minutes, spread the saffron over the fish. Fry enough slices of toast in butter for every slice of fish—place the fish on the toast, pour the sauce over it, and serve immediately, very hot.

Shrimps: The secret to cooking shrimp is to boil them properly—in very salty water, almost like brine. They absorb salt only during boiling, and not very much at that. For five quarts of very salty water, add a large bunch of chopped celery, including roots and leaves, two dozen[125] allspice berries, a dozen cloves, two blades of mace, a small bouquet of chopped herbs, a pod of red pepper, and a sprinkle of cayenne. Boil until the flavors of the herbs and seasoning are extracted, then add a hundred shrimp—river shrimp are the best—boil hard for ten minutes, then remove from heat and let the shrimp cool in the brine. Serve as an appetizer before dinner, on a bed of crushed ice, garnished with parsley.

Baked Shrimp: Cut out the stems from a dozen large, juicy tomatoes and scoop out the insides, leaving the shells intact. Then mix the scooped-out pulp with one hundred boiled shrimp, peeled as directed, one cup of grated bread crumbs or fine cracker crumbs, and a generous tablespoon of butter. Cook everything together, seasoning with salt and pepper. Fill the tomato shells with the mixture, sprinkle fine crumbs on top, dot with butter, place in a pan with a little hot water in the bottom, and bake until done in a quick, but not too hot, oven.

Shrimp Pie: Boil and remove the shells from one hundred shrimps, then mix them well with two large slices of stale bread (without the crust) that have been soaked in two glasses of white wine. Season the mixture with salt, pepper, Cayenne, nutmeg, mace, chopped thyme, and parsley. Crisp the bread crusts and grate them over the packed mixture in a deep dish. Dot generously with butter and bake in a hot oven. Serve with a sauce made by cooking together a pint of boiled shrimp, a tablespoon of butter, five chopped tomatoes, a bit of celery, thyme, parsley, and a bay leaf, all chopped. Cook for three to four minutes, then add half a pint of oyster liquor, bring to a boil, and serve very hot.

Shrimp Salad: Boil the shrimp and remove them from their shells—if they're large, cut them in half; otherwise, leave them whole. Season generously with salt and pepper, then mix thoroughly with crisp celery, finely chopped with just a bit of onion. Pile it in a salad bowl, top with a good amount of mayonnaise, and garnish with sliced hard-boiled eggs, lemon slices, beet slices, and celery leaves.

Fried Soft-Shell Crabs: Always wash in cold water—hot water ruins the flavor.[127] Remove all sand, including the sand-bag between the eyes, the apron, and the spongy growths under the side points. Rinse well again in cold water and dry thoroughly with a clean towel. Season a pint of rich milk with pepper and salt. Season the crabs too, laying them in the milk and rubbing them so it soaks in. Take them out, roll them in sifted flour, patting lightly while you roll, then shake off any excess flour. Heat deep fat until it's very hot—it should be deep enough to fully submerge the crabs. Gently drop them in, fry until they're a delicate brown, skim them out, drain on hot paper towels, and serve garnished with fried parsley and sliced lemon. Serve with tartar sauce.

Daube: Otherwise Beef a la Mode: Take five pounds of good lean beef, either rump or top round, and lard it with a quarter pound of salt pork or fatty bacon, cut into thin strips and heavily season with salt, pepper, onion, garlic, thyme, parsley, and bay leaves, all finely minced. Stuff in the seasoning along with the larding strips. Make the cuts for larding three to four inches long.[128] Cut two large, mild onions into quarters, and put them in a deep saucepan with a tablespoon of lard. Let them brown nicely, then place the larded beef on top, cover, and simmer very slowly until well browned. Once browned, add five carrots and two turnips cut into inch squares, and two more onions chopped finely. Keep it tightly covered and simmer for ten minutes, then flip the meat over and brown the other side—it will take about ten more minutes. Next, cover the meat with boiling water or weak stock, add a glass of sherry or Madeira, or even claret, season with salt, black pepper, and cayenne to taste, then cover the pot tightly, place it where it will barely simmer, and let it cook for three hours. The meat should be very tender. Serve it hot or cold.

Cold Daube a la Creole: Season and cook three pounds of rump or round beef as instructed above, but let it simmer for four hours instead of three. Place it in a fairly large deep dish and pour over it a sauce made as follows: Put a two-pound veal steak and two well-cleaned pig's feet in a pot with four quarts of water, adding plenty of salt, pepper, and cayenne for seasoning. Include half a clove of garlic, a bay leaf, a sprig of thyme, and one finely minced onion, along with two pounded cloves and a glass of sherry or Madeira. Boil until the meat falls off the bones—then remove it from the pot, take out the bones, mince the meat finely, season it well, and return it to the liquid, stirring thoroughly. Pour this sauce over the beef and let it sit uncovered in a very cool place to firm up. Serve in very thin slices—it will have a jelly-like consistency. This dish is meant for cold weather, as even a fridge won't set the sauce properly in summer.

Grillades with Gravy: Tenderize a good round steak by beating it and cut it into four-inch squares. Season the squares generously with salt, pepper, and cayenne. Put a generous tablespoon of lard in a frying pan—once it's melted, add a chopped onion and a chopped clove of garlic. As they brown, stir in one tablespoon of flour until it's smooth. Then add two sliced tomatoes along with their juice—once they brown, place the grillades on top of them. Cover tightly, let them brown on one side, then turn and brown the other side. After that, add half a tablespoon of vinegar and a cup of water. Stir well, then let it simmer for half an hour. It’s great for breakfast with hominy or rice.

Another way to cook the grillades is without garlic, and you can add half a pint of tender okra, washed and sliced, along with the tomatoes. Alternatively, you can fry them until brown in clear fat, then place them in a hot dish over boiling water while making a gravy from fresh fat, heated very hot, and stirred around the pan to pick up the browned residue from the meat. Add a chopped onion, two sliced tomatoes, a tablespoon of flour, and an equal amount of vinegar and water. Season to taste with salt, pepper, and cayenne, boil for ten to twelve minutes, and pour the gravy over the grillades.

Chicken Sauté a la Creole: Clean, singe, and cut into pieces two spring chickens, slicing the breasts lengthwise and cutting the drumsticks from the thighs. Season generously with salt and pepper. Melt two large tablespoons of butter in a frying pan, add the chicken, and let it brown slowly for five minutes. Slice three large onions thinly—add them to the pan and let them brown, being careful not to let them scorch at all. Dust with two tablespoons of flour and let it brown. Then add six large tomatoes, peeled and sliced, allowing them to brown but cooking slowly, keeping the pan at a bare simmer. Add chopped parsley, thyme, and a bay leaf, along with two cloves of garlic finely minced, and if you have them, six sweet green peppers, seeded and cut into strips. Stir well, cover, and let it cook down for twenty minutes, stirring occasionally but keeping the pan covered. If you have consommé, add a cup; otherwise, use a cup of boiling water, and cook very slowly for a full half-hour, seasoning to taste. After seasoning, cook for another ten minutes. Serve very hot.

Roasted Quail: Take six plump, fresh, and tender quail, clean them, remove the insides, singe off any feathers, and wipe them with a damp cloth inside and out. Coat the inside with butter, then lightly sprinkle with salt and pepper. Butter the outside thoroughly, truss, and wrap with a thin slice of bacon. Put a tablespoon of [132] butter in the roasting pan, place the quail in it, and roast in a hot oven for twenty to thirty minutes, depending on their size. Put six slices of hot buttered toast on a warm plate and place a quail on each slice. Add half a spoon of butter, a little boiling water, and the juice of a lemon to the gravy in the pan, cook for three to four minutes while stirring well, strain it, then put it back on the stove to cook for two more minutes, and finally pour it evenly over the quail so it seeps into the toast. Garnish with lemon slices and watercress, and serve alongside green grape jelly. If you have grape leaves, wrap the birds in them instead of bacon after preparing them as directed, roast, place on toast, garnish with fresh young grape leaves, and serve with spiced grapes or grape jelly.

Creole French Dressing: Pour three tablespoons of olive oil into a small, deep bowl, then add a pinch of salt and half a pinch of pepper—more if you prefer. Gradually add a teaspoon of prepared mustard and a tablespoon of vinegar, drop by drop. Once well mixed, add the mashed yolk of a hard-boiled egg and stir until everything is combined. Serve it with lettuce, celery, or potato salad.

Mayonnaise Dressing: Chill a small bowl, a fresh egg, and your salad oil. Put the yolk of the egg in the bowl, which should sit in cracked ice if it’s summer. Gradually add chilled oil drop by drop, mixing it in as you go. Once you’ve added a spoonful, start adding lemon juice drop by drop, incorporating it into the yolk. This will thicken the egg—stir until very thick, then continue to add more oil drop by drop, mixing it in with a fork. Repeat until you’ve used the juice of half a lemon and two gills of oil. When the egg starts to curdle, add salt and pepper to taste—but save those for last. Keep it very cold and serve.

Remoulade Dressing: Put three hard-boiled egg yolks into a bowl and mash them until smooth. Add half a teaspoon of prepared mustard, one tablespoon of tarragon vinegar, and season with salt and cayenne to taste. Then, slowly add three tablespoons of olive oil, drop by drop. After that, add the yolk of a raw egg and stir until it’s light and fluffy. Finish by gradually mixing in the juice of half a lemon. The mixing is crucial—if it’s done too quickly or carelessly, the sauce will curdle. This dressing is perfect for all kinds of cold meats, heavy salads, and fish.

Drip Coffee: Two things are essential—an absolutely clean urn and good coffee, freshly roasted and ground, not too fine and not too coarse. The water must be freshly boiled. Put a cup of ground coffee in the strainer, pour about two tablespoons of boiling water over it, and let it stand until the water drips through and there are no more bubbles. Then pour on more water, but not too much, and let it drip, keeping both the strainer and the spout covered to preserve the aroma. Repeat this until you've used almost five cups of water—this will yield four cups of brewed coffee, as the grounds absorb some of the water. Keep the pot hot while it drips, but never where the coffee will boil. If it stains the cups, it's too strong; be careful not to make it too weak.

Bruleau: Put three ladlefuls of brandy into the special bruleau[135] bowl, which has its own brandy ladle, along with the yellow peel of half an orange, a dozen cloves, a stick of cinnamon, a few grains of allspice, and six lumps of sugar. Let it sit for several hours to extract the essential oils. When it’s time to serve, add an extra ladleful of brandy for each person being served, and two lumps of domino sugar. Pour alcohol in the tray underneath the bowl, light it, and stir the brandy back and forth until it catches fire from the flame below. Let it burn for two or three minutes—if the lights are turned off as they should be, the effect is beautifully spectral. After three minutes, pour in strong, hot, clear, black coffee, a small cupful for each person, and keep stirring until the flame goes out, then serve it literally blazing hot. This "burnt water," known in more sophisticated areas as Café Diabolique, originated in New Orleans and is the ultimate expression of Creole cooking.[136]

The ultimate queen of cake makers sums up her secret to success in one sentence: "The best of everything." Cake will never be better than the ingredients it’s made from, no matter how skilled the baker. However, it can, and often is, disappointingly worse, leading to a waste of the precious gifts of sugar, butter, eggs, flour, and flavors. When you have the best available, make sure to use it wisely. Isaac Walton’s advice for bait, "Use them as though you loved them," applies here just as it does in many other situations. If you don’t love cake-making—perhaps not the actual work, but the results—you will never truly excel in this fine art. It’s better to buy your cake or hire someone to make it for you, or even trade tasks with someone who has more talent in this specific area.

Here are a few key tips. Keep the eggs very cold, the butter soft but not greasy, and the flour dry and light—dry it in the sun or oven if the weather is humid. Sift it three times for regular cakes, twice for tea cakes, and four to five times for very light items like sponge cake or angel food. Measure the flour before sifting, and don’t forget the required amount—this way, you won’t risk using too much or too little. Always add a pinch of fine salt to the bottom of the mixing bowl, which should be freshly scalded and thoroughly dried. A damp bowl makes it difficult to mix the sugar or flour properly. Unless instructed otherwise, separate the eggs and keep the egg whites cold until it’s time to whip them. Beat the yolks until they’re very light—pale and frothy—then add sugar free of lumps, one cup at a time. Next, incorporate the butter, which should be washed and whipped to a creamy froth. Beat everything together hard for five minutes, then add the flour alternately with the egg whites, whipped to the stiffest peaks you can manage. Add a pinch of salt when you start beating, and if you have only a few eggs, add a teaspoon of cold water to each egg white. This will increase the quantity and make the cake lighter since the air bubbles trapped in the froth are what helps it rise. Add fruit and flavoring at the end. Make sure the fruit is well-floured but not clumped together. If the batter seems too thick, a little whiskey can loosen it nicely and help lighten it. Use two tablespoons for six eggs, adjusting as needed. Rose water or a liqueur can have a similar effect but will add their own flavor, unlike whiskey.

If you have to use strong butter, you can tone it down a bit by washing and kneading it well in cold water mixed with a little chloride of lime solution. Rinse it thoroughly in cold water and then again in sweet milk, which can be half water. Make sure to rinse it clean. Allow the butter to soften before you start creaming it[139]. A sturdy, blunt wooden spoon is best for creaming, along with a deep bowl that is narrow at the bottom. Grease deep cake pans generously with either lard or butter, and make sure to use only the best quality. For heavy cakes like fruit, spice, and marble cake, line the pans with double layers of buttered paper. While baking, either place shallow pans of water in the oven or set the pans in larger pans with a quarter inch of water at the bottom. If the cakes are browning too quickly, open the oven door slightly and cover the pan with a thick, well-buttered paper until the oven cools down. Never jar the oven while the cake is baking—don't bang the doors or drop heavy items on top of it. Also, be careful not to slam kitchen doors or bump things around in the room. Making a fine cake requires avoiding as many mistakes as it does following the right steps. In fact, the things you shouldn't do are just as important as the things you should do.

Layer cakes need to be mixed thinner than deep ones. The batter should be liquid enough to run freely. Fill the tins halfway and place them in a hot oven, being careful not to burn them before they finish rising[140]. Butter the tins generously—it's economical in the long run. Make sure the tins are level in the oven to avoid a lopsided final loaf. Prepare your filling while the baking is happening so you can assemble the layers while they're still warm and flexible. Let them cool before frosting, so you can trim the sides smoothly. Ensure your fillings aren’t too watery and that they’re blended well. Spread the filling evenly, and press down each layer firmly before adding the next filling on top. Layers make the baking process much easier, but in my opinion, no layer cake, not even the famous Lady Baltimore, compares to a well-frosted, rich deep loaf.

Pound Cake: (Aunt Polly Rives) Take ten fresh eggs, their weight in fresh butter, white sugar, and finely sifted flour. Separate the eggs, beat the yolks until they’re a creamy yellow, then gradually add the sugar a cup at a time, beating hard. Next, mix in the butter whipped to a froth, then half of the flour, and then two shots of whiskey, brandy, good sherry, or rose water. Beat this mixture hard for five minutes, then add the rest of the flour, being careful not to pack it down as you handle it. Beat for another fifteen minutes, then gently fold in the egg whites, which should be beaten with a good pinch of salt until they have stiff peaks and hold their shape. Mix them into the batter just enough to combine everything, then pour it into deep pans or baking dishes lined with double greased paper. The pans should also be well buttered. Bake at a high temperature, allowing the cake to rise well before it starts to brown. Reduce the heat when it’s a light brown and continue baking until a straw or skewer inserted into the center comes out clean. Turn the cake out onto a thick, folded cloth, cover it with a thinner cloth, and let it cool. Frost once it’s cool, either with the boiled frosting for cheesecakes (See Chapter on Paste, Pies and Puddings) or with plain frosting made this way. Beat three well-chilled egg whites to the stiffest froth possible with a pinch of salt and a tiny bit of cold water. Gradually mix in a pound of sugar that’s been sifted with a teaspoon of cream of tartar. Blend it until it’s smooth and apply it with a broad knife, dipping it in cold water occasionally to keep the frosting smooth. It should dry to a quarter-inch thick and taste delicious. A frosted cake stays fresh three times longer than an unfrosted one.

Spice Cake: Cream a coffee cup of well-washed butter with two cups of yellow sugar and one cup of black molasses. Add seven egg yolks one at a time, beating well in between. Once all are added, mix in one tablespoon of whiskey or brandy, one teaspoon of grated chocolate, and one teaspoon each of powdered cloves, allspice, ginger, mace, and cinnamon, along with a grated nutmeg and half a saltspoon of black pepper. Also, include a pinch of salt and a light sprinkle of paprika. If using whiskey is not preferred, substitute it with strong, clear coffee, adding two spoonfuls and omitting the chocolate. Beat everything together vigorously for ten minutes, then add four scant cups of flour that have been browned in the oven but not burned. Sift the flour after browning and mix in two teaspoons of baking powder. Beat for another five minutes after adding all the flour, then pour the mixture into a deep, well-greased pan lined with buttered paper. Let it rise[143] for ten minutes with the oven door open, then bake in a hot oven until thoroughly cooked.

Marble Cake: Mix egg yolks into spice cake, whip the egg whites until they’re very light, and fold them into three cups of sifted sugar that has been beaten smooth with a large cup of creamed butter. Add a splash of whiskey or brandy, then incorporate three and a half cups of flour sifted three times with a heaping teaspoon of baking powder. Spoon the light and dark batter alternately into well buttered and lined pans, let it rise, and bake it like spice cake. Alternatively, you can bake the light and dark batter in layers, stack them with any good filling, and frost with caramel frosting.

Real Gold Cake: Lightly beat the yolks of sixteen eggs with a full pound of yellow sugar and just under a pound of creamed butter. Add a cup of rich sour cream with a teaspoon of baking soda dissolved in it. Alternatively, you can add the cream on its own and mix in the baking soda that’s dissolved in a teaspoon of boiling water at the very end. This method makes a lighter cake, so it’s worth the extra effort. Flavor to your liking—grated lemon zest works well. Gradually add four cups of flour that have been sifted at least three times. Beat vigorously for ten minutes, then bake in well-greased pans lined with buttered paper until fully cooked. Let it cool slightly in the pans, then turn it out, dust lightly with flour or cornstarch, and frost.

Real Silver Cake: Cream together a pound of fresh butter until it's fluffy, then mix in a pound of sifted sugar and a pound of flour that has been sifted three times along with a teaspoon of baking powder. Add your choice of flavoring—vanilla, lemon, or rose water—followed by a wineglass of whiskey. Next, gently fold in the beaten whites of sixteen eggs, which should be whipped with a pinch of salt until they are as stiff as possible. If the batter seems too thick, add half a cup of sweet cream; this will vary based on the size of the eggs and the dryness of the flour. Bake in deep pans, or layer it. If you bake the gold and silver batter in layers and alternate them, you'll create a beautiful marble cake. Alternatively, you can color half of the white batter pink using vegetable coloring available at any confectioner, resulting in a rose-marble[145] cake. This cake can be iced with pink frosting or plain white icing, then decorated with pink dots on top. It’s very festive for birthday parties or afternoon teas.

Christmas Cake: Start by preparing the fruit. Cut half a pound of homemade citron, drained from syrup, into small pieces. Wash and seed one pound of raisins, then pick, wash, and dry one pound of currants. Mince one teacup of any firm preserve—like quince, peach, or pear—or use a cup of whole preserved cherries. Finely shred four ounces of homemade candied peel and four ounces of preserved ginger, then mix in a cup of chopped nuts—pecans or English walnuts, or even scalybarks. Combine everything well, then pour the strained juice of three oranges and three lemons over the mixture, adding the grated yellow peel. Next, pour in half a pint of whiskey, a gill of rum, and a tumbler of cordial—preferably peach or blackberry, and homemade if possible. Let it sit overnight in a warm place so the fruit can absorb most of the liquid. Some people think adding a glass of tart jelly improves it, but I don't use it—the preserves taste better to me.[146] Cream a full pound of butter with four cups of sifted sugar, then beat in ten large fresh eggs, one at a time. After that, add four cups of dried and sifted flour and mix until smooth. Then, fold in the fruit that has been drained from the liquid and lightly dusted with hot, sifted flour. Combine well, then add the liquid drained from the fruit, along with a tablespoon of lemon essence and as much vanilla or rose water as you like. If the batter is too thick to stir easily, thin it with a bit of sweet cream, boiling water, or cordial. Pour the batter into pans that have been buttered and lined with five layers of buttered paper, place the pans in larger pans filled with hot water in a warm (but not hot) oven. Cover the tops with double paper and let it rise for half an hour. Then increase the heat, but bake it slowly. It will take four to five hours, depending on the size of the pans. Keep it covered until the last half hour, at which point you can raise the heat a bit. Test with straws—when they come out clean, take them out and place the pans on racks. Cover with a thick cloth and let cool completely. Frost the next day with either plain[147] or boiled frosting. If you bake the cake in small square molds, placed closely in a larger pan, you can cut the squares without waste and frost them to make individual cakes.

White Layer Cake: (Mrs. George H. Patch.) Sift two teaspoons of baking powder through three and a half cups of flour, measured before sifting. Cream a cup of butter with two and a half cups of sugar, then add a cup of rich milk and beat well. Gradually add the flour, followed by the stiffly beaten whites of seven eggs with a small pinch of salt. Gently fold everything together and bake in three layers. Assemble with orange filling or frosting thickened with nuts and minced figs.

German Coffee Cake: (Mrs. T. G. Petre.) Beat six fresh eggs until they are very light with one pound of sugar and one pound of flour. Add the grated peel of a lemon and one yeast cake dissolved in a little hot milk or water. Let it sit until it becomes very light, then roll it into sheets about one inch thick, spread them generously with melted butter—half a pound will be needed—sprinkle with two ounces of blanched and shredded bitter almonds finely mixed with four ounces of sugar and a teaspoon of powdered cinnamon. Let it rise again and bake in a moderate oven. It's good hot or cold.

Cream Cake: (Betsy Vaughn.) Cream together very light 2 cups of butter, 3 cups of sugar, and 1 cup of heavy cream. Gradually add 4 cups of flour sifted with 1 teaspoon of baking powder, then fold in the stiffly beaten whites of 14 eggs with a pinch of salt. Add bitter almond flavoring, bake in loaves or layers, and frost with pink icing flavored with rosewater.

Sponge Cake: Beat the yolks of seven eggs very lightly with three cups of sifted sugar and a pinch of salt. Gradually add one cup of hot water, then mix in three slightly rounded cups of flour that has been sifted three times along with two teaspoons of baking powder. Finally, fold in the stiffly beaten egg whites, pour the mixture into greased pans, and bake in a hot oven. The batter shouldn't be too thin. If the eggs are large, you might only need half a cup of water. Flavor with vanilla, and add orange or lemon zest to the frosting.[149]

White Sponge Cake: Whip six egg whites until very stiff, then gradually add a cup of sugar and a cup of flour that has been sifted twice with a teaspoon of baking powder. Don't forget to add a small pinch of salt to the egg whites.

Angel's Food: Beat the whites of eleven eggs with a pinch of salt until stiff. Slowly mix in a cup and a half of powdered sugar, then add a cup of flour that has been sifted twice with a teaspoon of cream of tartar. Mix until smooth, then add the strained juice of half a lemon. Pour the mixture into a smooth, ungreased pan and bake in a moderate oven for half an hour. Once done, flip the pan upside down onto a cloth and let it sit until the cake falls out.

Chocolate Cake: Sift together two cups of flour, one cup of cornstarch, and two teaspoons of baking powder. Add this mixture to a cup of butter that has been creamed until light with two cups of sugar and one cup of heavy cream. Incorporate the stiffly beaten whites of seven eggs, add some vanilla for flavor, and bake in layers. For the filling, boil together three cups of sugar, one cup of water, and half a cake[150] of grated chocolate until it becomes a thick syrup. Pour this mixture over three egg whites that have been beaten very stiff, add vanilla or bitter almond for flavor, and spread it between the layers.

Orange Cake: Cream together a cup of butter and two cups of sugar, then beat in a cup of cold water. Next, add four cups of flour that has been sifted three times along with two teaspoons of baking powder, alternating with three well-beaten eggs. Add flavor to taste, bake in layers, and assemble with orange frosting made as follows: Cook together the strained juice and grated zest of a large sweet orange with one cup of sugar until it forms threads. Then, beat the hot syrup into two egg whites whipped as stiff as possible. Mix until smooth and spread while hot.

Dream Cakes: Cream together half a cup of butter, then add one and a half cups of sugar, half a cup of cold water, two cups of flour sifted twice with two teaspoons of baking powder, one teaspoon of lemon extract, and the stiffly beaten whites of six eggs. Bake in small shapes, frost with boiled frosting, and decorate with tiny pink candies.[151]

Shrewsbury Cakes: This recipe, along with the next two, dates back to "the grand era of Queen Elizabeth." They are presented exactly as in the original version, as I believe the charm of the language enhances the charm of the cakes. "Mix half a pound of butter, beaten until creamy, with the same amount of flour, one egg, six ounces of sifted loaf sugar, and half an ounce of caraway seeds. Shape this into a dough, roll it out thin, and place it on sheets of tin, then bake them in a low oven."

Queen Cakes: "Take a pound of sugar, beat and sift it, a pound of well-dried flour, a pound of butter, eight eggs, and half a pound of currants, washed and picked. Grate a nutmeg along with an equal amount of mace and cinnamon, cream the butter, then add the sugar. Beat the egg whites for twenty minutes and mix them with the butter and sugar. Next, beat the egg yolks for half an hour and add them to the butter mixture. Mix everything together, and when it's ready for the oven,[152] add the flour, spices, and currants, sift a little sugar over the top, and bake them in tins."

Banbury Cakes: "Take a pound of dough made for white bread, roll it out, and dot it with butter like you would for puff pastry until a pound of butter is mixed in. Roll it out very thin, then cut it into oval shapes based on how you want the cakes. Mix some good, moist sugar with a little brandy just enough to dampen it, then combine it with some clean, washed currants. Place a little of this mixture on each piece of dough, seal them up, and position the sealed side down on the baking tray. Space them apart, and bake them at a moderate temperature. Once they're out of the oven, sprinkle some sugar over them. You can also add some candied peel or a few drops of lemon essence."

Oatmeal Cookies: (Mrs. T. G. Petre.) Cream together one egg, half a cup of sugar, a third of a cup of butter, a third of a teaspoon of baking soda mixed with one cup of sifted pastry flour, and half a teaspoon each of salt and cinnamon. Then, add one cup of rolled oats, half a cup of shredded nuts, and half a cup of raisins. Mix well, drop onto a greased baking sheet, and bake in a low oven. Don’t let the stiffness of the dough tempt you to add milk or water.

Tea Cakes: (Betsy Vaughn.) Cream together 1.5 cups of butter and 2.5 cups of sugar, then add five eggs that have been beaten very light and mix well. Next, add 1.5 cups of buttermilk with a small teaspoon of baking soda dissolved in it. Pour in enough flour to create a soft dough, add nutmeg for flavor, roll it out to a quarter-inch thickness, cut with a small round cutter, and bake in a hot but not burning oven.

Tea Cakes: (M. L. Williams.) Whisk five eggs until light and fluffy, then mix in five cups of sugar, a heaping cup of creamed lard, and two cups of sour milk with a teaspoon of dissolved soda. Stir in enough flour to form a soft dough, roll it out to half an inch thick, cut into shapes, and bake in a hot oven.

Plain Soft Gingerbread: Dissolve a tablespoon of baking soda in a cup of boiling[154] water, then add a cup of rich molasses and three tablespoons of melted butter. Mix everything well with two and a half cups of sifted flour, add ground ginger and allspice to your taste, and bake in a moderate oven.

Mammy's Ginger Cakes: Beat four eggs until light with a good pinch of salt and a cup of coffee sugar. Add three cups of rich molasses, and a cup of boiling water with two teaspoons of soda dissolved in it. Mix in two tablespoons of ground ginger. Sift five pints of flour with a teaspoon of salt, then rub in two cups of sweet lard lightly. Next, add the molasses mixture and knead it into a firm dough, adding more flour if needed, or if it’s too stiff, a little sweet milk. Roll it out to half an inch thick, cut into large squares, bake in a hot oven, and brush the tops with a mixture of butter, molasses, and boiling water while still hot. Let them sit in a warm place until dry. These could properly be called First Monday Ginger Cakes, since our Mammy made them to sell on that day to the crowds[155] that came to court, making quite a few honest coins.

Family Gingerbread: 1.5 cups dark molasses, 0.5 cup sugar, a small cup of melted lard, 1 cup boiling water with 1 teaspoon of baking soda dissolved in it, a pinch of salt, and enough sifted flour to make a batter that’s a bit stiffer than pound cake. Add spices to taste—ginger, allspice, and nutmeg, all in powder—make a good mix. Bake quickly.

Solid Chocolate Cake: (Mrs. R. Heim.) Cream together one cup of butter and two cups of sugar, then add six egg yolks that have been beaten light. Next, alternately mix in one cup of sour milk with a teaspoon of dissolved baking soda, and three cups of sifted flour. Fold in the egg whites that have been beaten stiff, then add half a package of melted Baker's chocolate and three teaspoons of vanilla. Stir vigorously for a minute, pour into a deep, well-greased pan, and bake in a moderate oven.

Coffee Cake: (Mrs. R. Heim.) Beat together until fluffy one egg, one cup of sugar, and butter the size of a large egg. Gradually add one cup of milk and two cups of flour mixed with two teaspoons of baking powder[156]. Pour into a pan and generously sprinkle sugar and powdered cinnamon on top. Bake quickly but be careful not to burn it.

Fig Pudding: (Mrs. R. Heim.) One pound of figs, half a pound of suet, six eggs, two cups of sugar, three cups of biscuit crumbs. Grind the figs, suet, and crumbs together. Beat the eggs until very light, then add the other ingredients and beat again. Steam or boil in a buttered mold, tied in a well-scalded bag, for four hours. Serve hot with this sauce. Beat one cup of butter with two cups of sugar until light and creamy. Add two well-beaten eggs, then gradually mix in two tablespoons of vinegar and one of vanilla. Cook for a long time in a double boiler, stirring constantly, or it won't be smooth. Keep hot until served.

Thin Ginger Snaps: (Mrs. R. Heim.) Mix a cup of melted lard thoroughly with two cups of molasses, add a pinch of salt, spices to your liking, and enough flour to create a soft batter. Drop small spoonfuls onto a well-greased baking sheet, and bake in a hot oven.[157]

Measure Pound Cake: (Leslie Fox.) Cream together 1 cup of butter and 1 and ¾ cups of sugar until very light. Then, add an unbeaten egg yolk and beat well. Add another yolk, beat again, and repeat with the last yolk, making sure to beat hard each time. When the mixture is very light, alternately add 2 and ½ cups of flour and 1 cup of milk, mixing well. Next, add half a cup of flour that has been sifted three times with 3 even teaspoons of baking powder. Follow this with the stiffly beaten egg whites. Flavor with 1 and ½ tablespoons of brandy. Bake in a moderate oven for about an hour. Serve with any preferred pudding sauce, or use it like any other cake. It's almost as good as the pound cake our grandmothers made.

Kisses: (Mrs. R. Heim.) Add four fresh egg whites that haven't been beaten, a tiny pinch of salt, two teaspoons of water, and three cups of fine sugar. Whip it vigorously for at least half an hour—until the mixture is smooth and stiff. Drop it from the tip of a spoon onto buttered paper, and let it harden in an oven that's cool enough not to brown.[158]

Barbecued Lamb: The middle cut, known to butchers as "the bracelet," is best for barbecuing. Have it cut down the backbone, and the rib ends neatly trimmed, with the ribs themselves broken about halfway, but not completely through. Clean it well, dry it off, and rub it generously with salt. Then, make tiny gashes with a sharp knife and rub in black pepper, paprika, a little bit of dry mustard, and a light splash of Tabasco. Place a low rack in the bottom of a deep, narrow pan, setting the meat on it so that only the backbone and rib ends touch the rack. This creates a sort of Gothic arch. Keep it that way while cooking. Add a cup of water underneath—it should not touch the meat. Preheat the oven very hot, but not scorching; if it scorches at all, place another pan over the meat for the first hour of cooking. Add more water as it evaporates, but don’t baste the meat—the water is just to keep it from getting too tough. Roast until the fat is crispy and brown throughout, and the lean meat is very tender. Transfer to a broad, hot serving dish, and when serving, cut along the ribs so that each portion includes the full length of them along with some of the backbone. Serve with a sauce made from melted butter mixed with an equal amount of strong vinegar, heated to boiling, thickened with red and black pepper, minced cucumber pickle, and a slight dash of onion juice. This is as close to a real barbecue, which is cooked over live coals in a trench, as a modern kitchen can get.

The middle part of a pig that weighs less than[160] a hundred pounds, properly cleaned, washed, and roasted on a rack after being well-seasoned, makes a great dish. The sauce should use minced green peppers instead of cucumbers. If you have a pepper mango, chop it finely and let it sit in the hot sauce for ten minutes before serving.

Beefsteak with Bacon and Onions: Fry up a pound of crispy bacon, then remove it and keep it warm. Heat the fat until it bubbles all over, then add a clean steak that’s been seasoned with salt and pepper and lightly dredged in flour. Sear it nicely on both sides—then take it out of the fat, place it on a broiler, and cook for ten minutes, flipping it once. Serve it this way if you prefer it rare—if you want it well done, place the steak on a rack or broiler in a hot oven, and let it cook for fifteen to twenty minutes, depending on its thickness. Meanwhile, add more flour to the fat, let it brown for a minute, then add large, mild onions that have been thinly sliced. Fry until they are lightly brown, and serve them around the steak. Serve the gravy separately; just before serving, add a little hot water to it and shake the pan well. This can be changed up by frying sliced tomatoes with the onions or using shredded green peppers instead. Alternatively, cut large, meaty tomatoes, unpeeled, into thick slices, pour off the gravy, place them in the hot, greasy pan, season them well with salt and pepper, and cook for five minutes, turning them and seasoning the other side. Lay the bacon on the tomatoes—or if you prefer, place it around the steak, outside of the onions.

Boned Fresh Ham: It shouldn’t be too big—ten pounds is about the maximum. Have the bone removed, but don’t throw it away. Instead, break it into pieces and boil them for three hours in just enough water to cover. Clean the ham well inside and out, lightly coat the inside with butter, season with salt and pepper, and add a little vinegar. Rub salt all over the outside and let it sit on ice for several hours. Make a stuffing from grated breadcrumbs, minced pork fat, a finely chopped sprig of celery, half a finely chopped apple, salt, pepper, paprika, a pinch of sage powder, and a tiny bit of thyme and lemon peel. You can also use a chestnut stuffing or one based on grated sweet potato. Fill the cavity of the bone firmly but not too full, skewer or sew the edges together, and tie it around twice with narrow tape. Turn it over, score the skin well, rub it with soft butter or bacon fat, lightly dust it with flour, then with black and red pepper, and sprinkle a little sugar on top. Place it on a low rack in a pan. Pour in sweet cider or good claret until it comes halfway up the ham, cover it with a tightly fitting upper pan, and put it in a hot oven. Cook for two hours, lifting the pan occasionally to baste the meat. Uncover and make it very crispy. Serve it on a hot dish with candied sweet potatoes around it. Add boiling water to the liquid in the pan, mix it well, and pour it into a gravy boat. Alternatively, pour off the fat, add a sprinkle of flour, let it brown on the stove, and then mix in the strained liquid from boiling the bone. Cook for three minutes and serve in the gravy boat. If you don’t use the bone liquid this way, make it the base for pea or cabbage soup. When carving, cut all the way through so each portion includes stuffing.

Roast Beef: Scrape and wash thoroughly, wipe dry, sear the cut sides well, either in hot fat or over a gas flame. Place it on a small rack in a deep pan, sprinkle generously with salt and pepper, lightly coat with flour, and pour water underneath until it’s half an inch deep. Cover tightly, place in a hot oven, and cook until tender. You won’t need to baste until you uncover it—then add a bit more boiling hot water, baste thoroughly, return to the oven, and let it brown. If you want, you can add sliced tomatoes, minced onions, shredded green peppers, small diced carrots, and very tender green peas after uncovering—they will cook while the meat is browning and can be served separately.

Pot Roast: Wash and dry the meat, then lightly brown it all over in hot bacon fat, and place it on a small rack at the bottom of a deep pot. Season well with salt, pepper, and paprika. Add a little cayenne, vinegar, and a spoonful of hot fat, then pour[164] in enough boiling water to come halfway up the meat, cover tightly, and simmer until it’s tender. An hour before serving, add any vegetables you like or have on hand—sliced carrots, peas, string beans, lima beans, thick slices of potatoes—into the hot fat. Let them cook for five to ten minutes, sprinkling with salt and pepper, then remove them from the fat and add them to the pot along with another cup of boiling water. Simmer until the water is gone and the meat is brown. Remove the meat, arrange the vegetables around it, or create a bed of them for the meat. Add a bit more hot water to the pot and stir well over the heat until it absorbs the meat's essence, then pour it over the meat and vegetables, or serve it in a gravy boat.

Leg of Mutton in Blanket: Make deep, narrow cuts in the thick end of a clean leg of mutton, and fill them with a mixture of seasoning: salt, red and black pepper, minced onion, a little dry mustard, and powdered herbs. Brush the entire leg with melted butter or soft bacon fat, then sprinkle lightly with salt. Place it on a rack in[165] a roasting pan and put it in a very hot oven. Let it brown—then rub a tart jelly melted in a little hot water over it, and wrap it in a stiff crust of flour and water, rolled out to half an inch thick. Pinch the edges tightly together, place it back in the pan, cover it, and bake in a hot oven. Once done, carefully break the crust on top, lift out the meat, and pour the gravy from the crust into a small saucepan. Add either hot claret or a spoonful of tart jelly, along with Tabasco or Worcestershire sauce, bring to a boil, and serve in a gravy boat. Tomato or walnut ketchup can be used for flavoring. Indeed, one sometimes finds opportunity a close second to inspiration.

The Preparation of Poultry and Game: Carefully select, clean, and singe all types of poultry and feathered game. Rinse them thoroughly in cold water, never hot, then drain and dry them as much as possible with a soft, thick, damp cloth—it absorbs moisture better than a dry one. Keep them very cold and away from odors until you’re ready to cook. Tilt roasting birds so[166] they can drain if any liquid collects. Before stuffing, lightly rub the entire inside with soft butter or bacon fat, add a sprinkle of pepper, and rub in a small amount of salt. Grease and season the outside after stuffing is complete—never before. If the game has any torn areas from being shot, soak it for ten minutes in weak salt water, rinse in cold salt water, then wipe dry and drain.

Furred game, like rabbits, squirrels, and possums, should be dressed before it gets cold if you want the best flavor. This is especially important for possums, which should be bought alive and fattened for several weeks in a clean cage, feeding them bread, milk, apples, potatoes, cabbage leaves, and grass. This makes them tender and enhances their flavor. To kill, quickly dislocate the neck with an upward jerk, then cut the throat and hang them to bleed. Roll them after wetting the fur in very hot embers, then scrape just like you would with a pig, draw, and hang to cool. For rabbits and squirrels, split the skin around the middle and pull off each half like a glove. This way, no hairs stick to the clean meat. Draw quickly, wipe lightly with a damp cloth, and hang where it is cool and airy for at least an hour.

Roast Turkey: Make a stuffing using stale bread. Remove the crusts from a small loaf, grate the inner bread, toast the crusts until crispy, crush, sift, and mix well with the grated bread. Finely shred four ounces of fresh suet and a lump of butter about the size of an egg. Add a small piece of celery chopped finely, half a tart apple also chopped, two dozen plump raisins, seeded, halved, and soaked in whiskey for twelve hours to cover, along with salt, pepper, and paprika to taste. Mix everything well, stuff the turkey but not too tightly. Place a handful in the neck cavity and secure the skin neatly over it. Tie the turkey securely, rub it all over with soft fat, then sprinkle with salt and pepper. Set it on a rack in a deep roasting pan, pour half an inch of water in the bottom, cover tightly, place in a hot oven, and roast for an hour. Then reduce the heat and continue cooking. The turkey will brown while covered and will be more tender and sweeter than if roasted uncovered. The pan will[168] hold gravy better than any other method.

Roast chickens or capons in exactly the same way. Geese need to be roasted more slowly and should have a stuffing seasoned with sage, onion, and tart apple instead of raisins. The dry stuffing absorbs the juices of the bird, making it much more flavorful and less pasty than wet stuffing.

Guinea Hen in Casserole: Stick six cloves into a cored and peeled apple, insert a heart of celery in the core space, then place it inside a guinea hen that’s been buttered, salted, and peppered on the inside. Fill it with grated bread crumbs until there's no more room. Tie it up, grease it, season it, place it in a hot oven, and lightly brown it all over. Next, lay it in a casserole on a bed of sliced carrots, young green peas, shredded green peppers, sliced tomatoes, and tiny onions that have been parboiled for five minutes. Add a large ball of butter rolled in flour, a cup of hot water or weak broth, cover it tightly, and cook for an hour in a hot oven. Serve it on the vegetables, nestled firmly, with tart jelly melted just enough to run, drizzled over the breast.

Chickens in Blankets: Take young, plump chickens weighing about three pounds, prepare them for roasting, and place a peeled sweet potato and a small piece of butter inside each one after greasing and seasoning both inside and out. Arrange them on a low rack in a deep pan, lightly brown them in the oven, and then cover each with a round of good short crust, rolled to a quarter-inch thickness. Put them back in the oven—when the crust is a rich brown, the chickens will be done. Serve the crust with each serving, which will remind you of an upgraded chicken pie.

Fried Chicken: Cut two tender young chickens into pieces, wipe them dry, season with salt and pepper, both red and black, then chill them. Fry a pound of bacon in a deep skillet until crispy, then remove it. Roll the chicken in flour, dip it in beaten egg, then roll it in flour again, and place it in the hot bubbling fat, but not scorching. Cook, turning often, until golden brown, then remove and pile in a pan. Set the pan over another with boiling water at the bottom,[170] and put everything in a very hot oven for fifteen minutes. This will cook the chicken all the way through without making it tough. The pieces shouldn't touch while frying, so you'll need to do it in two batches. Once all the chicken is fried and in the oven, add more flour, stir it into the fat, then gradually add a cup of cream while stirring constantly, letting it barely simmer—boiling will curdle it. If you prefer a richer gravy, pour off the fat, then stir in double the amount of cream in the skillet to absorb the flavors, then transfer it to a double boiler. Add pepper, salt, minced celery, a bit of onion juice, and one by one, lumps of butter rolled in flour. Cook until thick and rich, and serve in a gravy boat.

Smothered Chicken: Get two pound broilers that are fat and tender, have them split down the back, clean them well, season by buttering inside and out, sprinkle with salt, pepper, and paprika, and coat with flour. Place the breasts down on a low rack in a deep pan, cover with slices of bacon, layering the slices neatly. Sprinkle with pepper and flour, then add sliced tomatoes, [171] shredded green peppers, and a few small parboiled onions. Add lumps of butter rolled in flour, distributing them around the bacon. Pour in enough water to barely reach the top of the rack, cover the pan tightly, and cook in a hot oven for about an hour. Uncover after three-quarters of an hour, add half a cup more water—this is for the gravy. Cover again and finish cooking. The chickens should be brown all over but meltingly tender. Serve on a hot dish, breaking the bacon slices as little as possible. Serve the vegetables separately, along with the gravy from the pan. The vegetables can be skipped, and smothered chicken will still be a dish to delight any food lover.

Glorified Chicken Croquettes: (Mrs. G. H. Patch.) Boil a large, tender young chicken until the meat nearly falls off the bones. Also, boil one pound of either sweetbreads or calf brains in salted water until tender. Remove the chicken and grind the meat finely, then mash it well with the brains or sweetbreads, and season to taste. In a double boiler, combine half a pint of cream, one tablespoon of butter, two tablespoons of flour, one tablespoon of finely chopped parsley, one teaspoon of onion juice, one teaspoon of salt, and black and cayenne pepper to taste. Cook until smooth, stirring vigorously, let it thicken, then add the meat and mix thoroughly. Let it cool, shape into croquettes, dip in egg, roll in cracker crumbs, and quickly fry in deep hot fat.

Chicken-Turkey Hash: Cut the meat into small pieces, removing any skin and gristle. If you have rich gravy left, put it in a skillet and cook half a dozen sliced tomatoes, three shredded green peppers, a small sliced onion, and a cup of raw potato cubes until tender. If you don’t have gravy, cook everything in butter or bacon fat, and season to taste—gravy needs less seasoning than plain fat. Add the meat, pour in a cup of boiling water, stir everything well, and cook for five minutes. Serve in a hot dish lined with thin toast. Great for breakfast or a very late supper.

Rabbit or Squirrel Smothered: Leave it whole, rub it with fat, season generously, place it in a pan or skillet with slices of bacon, add a cup of hot water, cover it tightly, set[173] over the heat, and simmer until tender. Uncover it, brown it in the gravy, and add a little cayenne vinegar right at the end.

Rabbit or Squirrel Barbecued: Leave it whole, skewer it flat, grease it all over, place it on a rack in a pan, and roast in a hot oven, basting every five minutes with hot salt water. When it's crispy, take it out and serve it with the sauce specified for barbecued lamb.

Quail: Cook quail the same way you would rabbits. I prefer them cut in half, fried crisp and quickly in hot bacon fat. But to get the best out of them, a pie is the way to go. The crust should be rich and rolled about a quarter-inch thick. Place the birds in whole, seasoning them well inside and out with salt and black pepper. Also add generous lumps of butter coated in flour, slices of fatty bacon, strips of crust an inch wide and three inches long, a little minced onion, celery, or shredded green pepper if you like those flavors, and a small pod of Cayenne pepper. Pour in cold water until it rises halfway up the birds. Make sure the top crust is large enough—pinch it down tight, prick it, and make a cross-cut in the center where you need to stick a paper tube to prevent the gravy from boiling over. Bake for about 45 minutes in a hot oven. Take it out and serve very hot. Some people like a gill of hot cream poured in through a funnel after serving—I'm not one of them. Others enjoy a wineglass of very hot sherry.

Wild Duck: If it seems like it might be fishy, soak it for an hour in a mixture of vinegar and very salty water, and roast it with an onion stuffed full of cloves inside. Season both inside and out, rub it with fat or butter, and roast it at a high temperature until it reaches the desired doneness. For ducks or geese that have a mild flavor, roast them with a tart apple filled with cloves and a mild onion inside. Rub the outside with fat, season with salt and pepper both inside and out, and sprinkle a small pinch of powdered sage inside. A great sauce for them is made by browning half a cup of grated breadcrumbs in a tablespoon of butter, then adding a spoonful of tart jelly, a glass of claret, a tablespoon of tomato[175] ketchup, and seasoning to taste with salt and pepper.

Possum Roasted: Chill thoroughly after cleaning and preparing. Save all the internal fat, let it soak in weak salt water until it's time to cook, then rinse it well, and render some of it in the pan before adding the possum. Unless it's huge, leave it whole, skewering it flat and placing it skin side up in the pan. Put it in a hot oven and cook until it's crispy and tender, being careful to avoid burning. Roast a dozen medium-sized sweet potatoes—in ashes if possible; if not, bake them covered in a deep pan. Peel them when done, and while they're hot, place them around the possum, tossing them in the abundant gravy. The possum should have been lightly salted before hanging and well-seasoned with salt, pepper, and a touch of mustard when it was set to cook. Serve it on a large platter, arrange the browned potatoes around it, add a bit of boiling water to the pan, shake it well, and pour the gravy over everything. Serve it with hot cornbread, strong black coffee, or sharp cider, along with very hot, tangy pickles.

Eggs: Eggs need an introductory paragraph. As everyone knows, there are different kinds of eggs. A freshly laid egg has a small air space at each end, between the shell and the soft lining membrane. If it’s left sitting, this trapped air moves—shifting from the ends to the top side of the shell. Shells are porous—through them, the egg white evaporates—so the air bubble on top gets bigger and bigger. By its size, you can get a good idea of the egg's age—unless it has been stored in cold conditions or in water glass. By boiling it hard, cooling it in cold water, and peeling it carefully, you can determine if a so-called fresh egg is really fresh. If it is fresh, the shape will remain smooth—however, if it shows any shrinkage, and especially if the yolk is close enough to the shell that it’s visible through the cooked white, that’s a clear indication that the egg isn’t freshly laid—even though it could still be perfectly safe to eat.

Eggs stored in a clean, cool place don't[177] go bad for almost a month. Even after that, if they're properly stored, they’re still good for making cakes, puddings, and similar dishes. However, they easily pick up odors from just about anything. So, keep them away from items like onions, salted fish, anything in brine, or any strong bad smells.

Duck eggs are larger than hen eggs—eight duck eggs equal about ten hen eggs. Goose eggs are nearly two for one. Turkey eggs, which aren’t commonly used in cooking, are still delicious and have a better flavor than duck eggs, which can sometimes have a strong taste. Here, as elsewhere, food is the key factor. Guinea eggs, even though they are much smaller, are just as good for raising and are just as rich as hen eggs. In fact, they are the best eggs for eating—rich, but still delicate. The only egg that comes close is the quail egg—we always called it a partridge egg—but only those favored by the gods ever get to taste them. Quails often nest in wheat fields—during harvest, the exposed nests provided tasty treats. Dad often took the lion's share of them for "my white chilluns." [178] He would often return with his big hat overflowing with those delicate white ovals. Mormonism must be popular among quails—sometimes there would be forty eggs in a nest. Eating them would have been the worst kind of vandalism, but leaving them out in the sun was pointless because the birds would abandon them unless they had started to brood. In that case, the mother would stay snug in the nest, and sometimes the reaper passing by would take her head off. More often, she would fly away just in time, flapping between the mules with a dramatic display of lameness. If the nest was discovered in time, grain would be left standing around it. No one complained about losing a small patch of wheat for the sake of sport.

Partridge eggs were boiled hard and eaten by hand—they were way too thin-shelled for roasting, even though they had a really tough inner membrane. Guinea eggs were a whole different story. They have extra thick and hard shells, so they were placed in hot ashes, covered with live coals, and left there as long as our patience would last. When Mammy[179] took them out, it was frustrating to watch her test them. She would delicately lay a short broom straw on each egg. If it spun around, the egg was done—if it fell off, it had to go back in the embers. She had no intention of letting us eat eggs that weren’t cooked until the yolk was mealy. To this day, I still believe she was wise—and right. Eggs roasted the way she did have a flavor that is completely unique compared to those cooked any other way.

Baked Eggs: These come closest to the flavor of roasted eggs. Crack fresh eggs at the small end, let the whites drain out, then break the shells into deep cups, each with a yolk at the bottom. Lightly sprinkle the yolks with salt and pepper, add a little butter to each, then set the shells upright in a pan. Place the pan in a hot oven, bake for twenty minutes, and serve hot. Mammy taught us this to avoid wasting yolks when wedding or Christmas cakes needed a lot of whites for frosting.

Potato Egg Puffs: Take a quart of rich[180] and well-seasoned mashed potatoes, beat in two eggs, then divide the mixture into equal portions—six or eight. Using lightly floured hands, shape each portion into a ball and place the balls in a baking dish. Press a hard-boiled egg into the center of each ball. Add a small piece of butter on top of each egg and sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper. Bake in a hot oven until the potatoes are browned and light—they should puff up like a fat apple.

Egg Dumplings: Similar to puffs but richer—these can definitely serve as the main dish for a simple dinner. Mix the potato well with half its weight in finely chopped cold meat, and the leaner the meat, the better. Bind the mixture with beaten eggs, then divide it and roll each portion around a hard-boiled egg. Place the dumplings in a greased and floured pan, giving them enough space, and pour a nice gravy or a rich tomato sauce around them. Bake for ten to twenty minutes in a hot oven.

Egg Spread: Spread a flat pan about an inch deep with creamy mashed potatoes, sprinkle with salt and pepper, then top it with hard-boiled eggs cut in half.[181] Place the yolks facing up. Add salt, pepper, and a bit of butter on each yolk, and bake for ten minutes in a warm oven. If you prefer soft eggs, make indentations in the potatoes using the back of a spoon, crack an egg into each indentation, sprinkle with salt and pepper, add a small piece of butter, and bake for five minutes. If you want the potatoes to be browned, bake them for ten minutes after making the indentations, then add the eggs and bake them soft or hard as you like.

Poached Eggs: You'll need a deep skillet filled three-quarters with boiling, slightly salted water, and add a good splash of vinegar. Crack each egg into a separate bowl before adding it to the skillet. Gently slide them in, one at a time, being careful not to break the yolks. Keep the water boiling vigorously, and use a knife or spoon to separate the egg whites if they start to clump together. After about six to seven minutes, remove them with a slotted spoon and drain well. Trim any stray bits of white, place the eggs in a deep hot dish, and drizzle over some real melted butter made with butter, hot water, salt, pepper, lemon juice or vinegar, and a dash of Tabasco. Serve immediately[182] because poached eggs that cool down lose their appeal. Alternatively, you can serve the eggs on hot, buttered toast that's generously sprinkled with grated cheese, then pop it in a hot oven for a minute. If you serve it this way, pass the melted butter on the side, as pouring it over might make it too rich for some tastes.

Egg Fours: Cut hard-boiled eggs in half lengthwise, mix the yolks with an equal amount of drained sardines, removing the skin and bones, and chop finely. Season with salt, pepper, lemon juice, or vinegar, and olive oil. If you like, add minced olives. The mixture should be soft but firm enough to shape. Form small ovals using two spoons and place one oval in each quarter of the egg whites. Add very thin strips of pimento on top of the ovals, then sprinkle them generously with grated cheese—Edam works well for this. Place in a baking dish and cook for two to four minutes in a hot oven. For an extra tasty touch, as a starter before dinner, serve the egg mixes on narrow strips of toast spread with prepared mustard mixed with finely chopped very sour cucumber pickles.[183]

Bacon, sliced thin and fried until crispy without burning, and finely chopped can substitute for sardines. In fact, when making this dish, you have a lot of flexibility—you can adjust flavors and amounts almost endlessly. You can add onion, a hint of garlic, Tabasco sauce, Cayenne vinegar, walnut ketchup, or Worcestershire sauce. Mixing in capers makes it incredibly flavorful. However, ingredients that need to be really fresh, like celery and lettuce, should be left out completely.

Stuffed Eggs: A must for picnics and barbecues. Boil for twenty minutes, then immediately place in cold water and peel right away. Cut in half and mash the yolks while they're still hot with plenty of butter, pepper, salt, a bit of onion juice, finely minced capers or larger pickles, and diced pimentos. Mix the seasoning thoroughly, then shape into balls the size of the yolks. Place each ball between two half-whites and secure them with a couple of toothpicks. Wrap[184] each finished piece in wax paper and keep cool until needed. It's worth mentioning that the sooner you peel a hard-boiled egg after chilling, the better and more delicate its flavor will be.

Fried Eggs: Almost anyone can fry an egg poorly. It takes skill to fry one just right. Make sure the frying pan is greased and hot, but not burning. Carefully crack the eggs separately into the pan, being careful not to break the yolks. Lightly sprinkle with salt and pepper, and keep the edges from merging. Once they’ve hardened underneath, spoon hot grease over the tops until the whites are set. If the heat is correct, the eggs won't stick to the pan. Cook them as much as you like, then use a spatula to lift them onto a shallow pan lined with soft, clean paper. Keep them warm while they drain—it takes about a minute—then transfer them to a blazing hot dish and serve. If ham is served with them, place it in the middle, with the eggs arranged around it. Triangles of fried toast in between look and taste great for breakfast.[185]

Vegetable Soup: Cut two fat chickens into joints, season with salt and pepper, and set aside while you fry half a pound of streaky bacon in a deep pot. Once the bacon is crispy, remove it and add the chicken, turning it to brown all sides. Add a thick slice of ham and let it brown as well, then do the same with four mild onions, sliced. Next, pour in two gallons of cold water, half a teaspoon of salt, two red pepper pods, a dozen whole peppercorns, and two sprigs of parsley. Keep it at a gentle boil for an hour, then add two small heads of tender cabbage, finely shredded, and six white potatoes, peeled and sliced a quarter-inch thick. Fifteen minutes[186] later, add a quart of short-cut string beans, a pint of shelled lima beans, a stalk of celery sliced thin lengthwise, and a dozen tomatoes, peeled and sliced. Ten minutes later, mix in a pint of tender sliced okra, and then add the pulp from a dozen ears of green corn, slit lengthwise and scraped. Stir almost constantly with a long-handled skimmer after adding the corn pulp. If any chicken bones come up with the skimmer, discard them. Just before serving, add a large spoonful of butter rolled in flour. Taste and add salt if needed. Serve very hot with corn hoe cake and cider that’s just starting to sparkle. If there's enough soup for everyone, nothing else will be needed.

Black Turtle Bean Soup: Rinse and clean one quart of black turtle beans, soak them overnight in three quarts of cold water, and bring them to a boil the next morning in the soaking water. Once boiling, add three sliced onions, one peeled and chopped carrot, a stalk or two of celery, three sprigs of parsley, and one tomato, either fresh or canned. Let it simmer slowly for four to five hours until the[187] beans are tender, adding cold water as needed to replace what evaporates. When the beans are very soft, strain everything through a fine colander, pressing the beans and vegetables through. Add a quart of high-quality soup stock and a bay leaf, bringing it to a rapid boil for half a minute before serving. In each soup bowl, place a slice of lemon, a slice of hard-boiled egg, and a tablespoon of sherry wine before adding the soup.

Gumbo: Cut a tender, fatty chicken, almost fully grown, into pieces. Season it well with salt and pepper, and fry for ten minutes in the fat from half a pound of bacon, along with two thick slices of ham. Then add two finely chopped onions, six large ripe tomatoes (peeled and chopped), including their juice, half a large pod of mild red pepper (cut small), a teaspoonful of minced thyme and parsley mixed, and a pint of tender sliced okra (trimmed and cut lengthwise). Cook everything together, stirring constantly to prevent burning, until everything is well-browned. Then add three quarts of freshly boiled water at a rolling boil, reduce the heat so it barely simmers, and cook for another hour, continuing to stir to avoid scorching. For the rice to serve with the gumbo—it should never be cooked in the pot—it needs to be washed until the water runs clear, drained, and then tossed into a large pot of boiling salted water. Cook for twenty minutes. Drain the rice in a colander, and after draining, place it in the oven for a minute. The grains should remain separate but be very tender. Rice cooked this way, served with plenty of butter, is excellent as a side dish.

Wedding Salad: Roast three young, tender turkeys without stuffing, or use six full-grown chickens. Take only the white meat, cut it into small pieces with kitchen shears, cutting against the grain while it's still hot. Let it cool, then mix it with ten hearts of crisp celery, chopped into bits, and two heads of tender white cabbage, finely chopped, removing the tough stalks—use three heads if they're very small—and set it aside in a cool place. For the dressing, boil thirty fresh eggs for twenty minutes, then place them in cold water, shell them, and take out the yolks, saving the whites for garnish. Mash the yolks while they're still hot until very smooth with a pound and a half of the best butter. Season them well with salt, pepper, a little dry mustard, celery seed, and, if available, a splash of walnut ketchup, but not enough to change the color. Also, add a teaspoon of sugar—this is just to blend the flavors. Gradually mix in enough warm vinegar to make it as thick as cream. Chill the dressing, then pour it over the salad and mix everything together well. Finally, heap it into a large glass bowl lined with partially white lettuce leaves, create a ring of leaves around the top, and when serving, place a larger lettuce leaf on each plate, filling it with the yellow-white salad.

Fruit Salad: Wash a very ripe, juicy pineapple well and let it dry. Then, use a fork to shred it while holding the crown firmly in your left hand, pulling away sections with the fork in your right. This helps you avoid the hard core. Peel the sections gently after separating them and cut them into long, thin slivers, following the grain. Arrange these slivers in a star shape on lettuce leaves on the plates. Place a very thin strip of pimento—sweet red pepper—between every two slivers, then fill in the points of the stars with grapefruit pulp, free of skin and seeds, and broken into bite-sized pieces. Add more pimento strips on top. Chill until ready to serve, then drizzle with sweet French dressing.

Sweet French Dressing: In a small bowl, mix together a little less than a teaspoon of granulated sugar, a teaspoon of dry mustard, half a teaspoon of salt, and equal amounts of black pepper and paprika. Stir for two minutes. Gradually add claret vinegar while stirring until smooth, aiming for a consistency like cream. Next, add twenty drops of Tabasco, twenty drops of onion juice, the strained juice of half a lemon, and half a teaspoon of brandy, rum, or whiskey. Mix thoroughly, then slowly incorporate a gill of salad oil, adding it tablespoon by tablespoon while stirring vigorously. Adjust with more vinegar or oil as needed—the seasoning is enough for half a pint of dressing. Continue stirring until it thickens; it should have an emulsion-like consistency when drizzled over the salad. Store in the fridge. The oil and vinegar may separate,[191] but you can restore the dressing by stirring well.

Banana and Celery Salad: Chill heart celery and very ripe bananas, slice them thin crosswise, mixing the rounds well. Pile them on lettuce leaves, and cover with French dressing, into which finely grated cheese has been lightly stirred. This dressing with cheese is great for tender Romaine, and also for almost any type of cooked vegetable used as a salad.

Red and White Salad: Create cups from lettuce hearts and secure them to the plate with a bit of melted butter. Lightly fill the cups with grapefruit pulp and place a small, tender boiled red beet in the center. Prepare a zesty French dressing using oil, lemon juice, and tarragon vinegar. Serve this with cheese straws or toasted crackers lightly sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.

Pineapple Salad: Peel and core a very ripe, sweet pineapple, then cut it into slices. Place the slices in a bowl, sprinkle with sugar, add half a cup of rum or sherry, all the juice that came out while cutting, and a grating of nutmeg. Let it sit until morning, keeping it cool but not on ice. Make rosettes from small lettuce leaves on the plates, put a slice of pineapple on each, and fill the center hole with pink pimento cheese. Shape the cheese into a marble-sized ball and stick a tiny sprig of celery on top. Add a little of the syrup from the bowl to each plate, then finish with a very sharp French dressing. To make the pimento cheese, finely grind half a can of pimento and mix it into two packages of cream cheese, softening the cheese with French dressing and seasoning it to taste.

Cold Slaw: (V. Moroso.) Thinly shred half of a medium-sized head of tender cabbage, place it in a bowl, and cover it with this dressing. Melt a heaping tablespoon of butter over hot water, then stir in two tablespoons of sugar, a pinch of pepper, a teaspoon of salt, a dash of red pepper, and a scant teaspoon of dry mustard. Mix until smooth, then gradually add four tablespoons of vinegar, mixing well. Next, incorporate the yolk of a raw egg, beating it in thoroughly. Cook until creamy, but not too thick. Remove from heat and add, if desired, two tablespoons of cream, though it’s not necessary—the dressing is good on its own. Take[193]

Tomato Soy: Take one gallon of solid, ripe tomatoes, peeled and sliced, or four cans preserved in glass. Put them in a large pot with a quart of sliced onions, two tablespoons of salt, an equal amount of brown sugar, a teaspoon of black pepper, a pinch of paprika, four finely chopped celery hearts, a tablespoon of ground cloves, and a mix of allspice, mace, grated nutmeg, and cinnamon. Stir everything together and cook slowly, being careful not to burn it, until it reduces by half. You can add dry mustard or mustard seeds, but not everyone likes them. After it boils down, add a quart of very sharp vinegar, stir well, skim off any froth that rises, bottle it hot, and seal it. It will keep for a long time in a cool, dark place.

Table Mustard: Mix together two tablespoons of dry mustard, a little less than a teaspoon of sugar, and half a teaspoon of salt. Add boiling water to create a very thick paste, then mix in either a teaspoon of onion juice or a mashed clove of garlic. Stir well, then gradually add a tablespoon of olive oil, and thin it out with strong vinegar, adding it slowly to avoid lumps or curdling, until you reach the consistency of thin cream. Transfer to a glass jar, seal it tightly, and let it sit for a week. A month is even better—in fact, the mustard gets better with age as long as it doesn't dry out.

Cabbage Pickle: Shred enough tender cabbage to make four quarts, then add four large green tomatoes, sliced thin, six large onions, finely chopped, and three green peppers, also chopped, discarding the seeds. Add two ounces of white mustard seed, half an ounce of celery seed, a quarter-ounce of turmeric, three tablespoons of salt, two pounds of white sugar, and two quarts of vinegar. Put everything in a preserving kettle, place it on an asbestos mat over a low heat, and cook gently for several hours, stirring to prevent it from scorching. It should be tender throughout but not mushy-soft.

Cauliflower Pickle: Put two heads of cauliflower in salted boiling water and cook for fifteen minutes. Remove them and drop them into cold water. Separate the cauliflower into neat florets and pack them tightly in a clean crock. Pour a quart of hot vinegar over the florets, seasoned with a mix of two tablespoons of salad oil, one teaspoon of dry mustard, one tablespoon of sugar, one teaspoon of salt, half a teaspoon of onion juice, half a teaspoon of black pepper, a dash of paprika, and ten drops of Tabasco. Bring everything to a boil and pour it over the pickles, making sure to sprinkle in some blade mace, whole cloves, allspice, and small broken pieces of cinnamon, but do not powder them. [195]

Pear Relish: Wash and stem a gallon of fresh, ripe but not overripe Seckel pears, remove the blossoms with a very sharp narrow knife, and stick a clove in each cut. Drain them, then drop into a syrup made from three pounds of sugar and a quart of vinegar. Bring it to a quick boil, skim off the foam, and reduce to a simmer. After skimming, add cloves, allspice, mace, ginger, cinnamon, and black pepper, crushed but not powdered. Chop up a large sweet red pepper and add the pieces. Cook until the pears are tender. If the syrup is too thin, add more sugar—some pears release more juice than others. Sliced lemon adds a[196] tangy kick, but it's optional. Pack in glass or ceramic jars, and seal tightly, placing a piece of brandy paper on top.

Cherries Piquant: Wash thoroughly and stem, but do not pit, half a gallon of ripe Morello cherries. Drain well, sprinkle spices evenly throughout, layer thinly sliced lemon on top, add a dozen whole peppercorns, and a small pod of cayenne pepper. Then, pour over a pint of sharp vinegar that has been boiled with four pounds of sugar and skimmed clean. Let it sit overnight, then drain off the syrup in the morning, boil it up, skim, and pour it again over the fruit. The next day, put everything in a pot and cook for fifteen minutes, then transfer to glass jars, seal, and store in a dark place. Especially good with game or any heavily seasoned meat.

Gooseberry Jam Spiced: Wash and trim half a gallon of green gooseberries, picked just before they ripen. Put them in a pot with six large cups of sugar, a cup of water, half a teaspoon each of cloves, allspice, mace, grated nutmeg, and cinnamon, along with the grated yellow peel of an orange and the strained juice. Cook[197] slowly until thick—it should set like jelly when dropped on a plate. Pack into small jars. It's one of the best things to serve with any type of poultry. If you skip the spices and just cook the berries until they're thick enough to slice like cheese, it’s just as good as bar le duc for serving with salad.

Frozen Cranberry Sauce: (Mrs. R. Heim.) Adds a fresh flavor to game, roast turkey, capon, or duck. Cook a quart of cranberries until they're very soft in one pint of water, strain through a coarse sieve to get all the pulp. Then, mix in one and a half pints of sugar, the strained juice of four lemons, and one quart of boiling water. Bring it to a boil, skim off any impurities, let it cool, and then freeze until it's a bit soft.

"Apple Sauce Gone To Heaven": That's what a poet calls it, but I, the one who created it, argue that it's completely and wonderfully ordinary. To make it, peel eight firm apples, the tastier, the better, core them, and drop them into cold water as you peel. Let them sit while you prepare the syrup. Use one cup of sugar for every two apples and one cup of water for every two cups of sugar. Bring it to a boil, skim off any foam, clean it twice, then add[198] about half a dozen blades of mace, thin strips of yellow peel from two lemons, a few pieces of stick cinnamon, and one peppercorn—no more. Stick four cloves into each apple, and drop them into the syrup, which should be boiling. Once the apples are in—they should just cover the pan—add the strained juice of two lemons. Boil hard for five minutes, flip the apples over, and simmer until they’re done—they should be clear all the way through. Use a slotted ladle to scoop them out, allowing all the syrup to drain off, and arrange them in a deep glass dish or stack them on a glass platter. Boil the syrup until it gels when dropped on a plate, then spoon it over the apples, allowing it to harden as you pour it on.

Another, easier way is to wash and core the apples without peeling them, poke in the cloves, place them in an earthen or glass baking dish, add the sugar, water, and spices, cover tightly, and put it in a hot oven. Cook until the apples are soft all the way through, then uncover and let the top crisp up a bit. The peel will be edible, and the flavor will be richer than[199] when boiled, but the dish won’t look as fancy.

Spiced Grapes: Wash and drain good, ripe grapes, remove them from the stems, then take out the grapes one by one from the skins. Save the skins and juice. Put the pulp and seeds on the stove, cook until soft, then strain through a colander to get rid of the seeds. Next, add the pulp to the skins and juice, put everything back on the stove with an equal weight of sugar and spices to taste. I prefer cloves, allspice, mace, and cinnamon, all ground fine but not powdered. Cook until thick, being careful not to burn it, then pour into jars like jelly, and serve with any kind of meat or as a dessert.

Wild grapes, washed and picked from their stems, cooked and strained through a colander, create a pulp that's as valuable as sugar and spices. Cook as you would vineyard grapes. If you skip most of the spices and add a cup of vinegar for every quart of syrup, you’ll end up with a very tangy jelly, or more accurately, fruit cheese.[200]

Sweet-Sour Pears: The pears should be ripe but very firm. If they're large, peel and quarter them, removing the core, place a clove in each quarter, and drop the peeled pears into cold ginger tea. If they're small or medium, just wash them instead of peeling, remove the cores, put two cloves in each cavity, pack them tightly in the kettle, and cover them with strained ginger tea once all are added. Boil in the tea for fifteen minutes, until a fork can easily pierce them. Then skim them out, pack them into jars, sprinkling spices generously in between, and then cover with boiling hot vinegar, to which you've added a cup of sugar for every quart. Let them sit for twenty-four hours, then drain, boil, and pour the liquid over them again. Repeat this process three times, then put everything into the kettle, bring to a boil, cook for five minutes, and while hot, transfer to clean stone jars.

Spiced Plums: All kinds of plums, even the wild red ones, make amazing relishes when cooked the right way. Wash, pick, and weigh, using four pounds of sugar for every five pounds of fruit, along with any spices you like, but don’t forget to include a small pod of Cayenne pepper. Put everything on the stove,[201] let it boil slowly, skimming off the foam. Stir with a slotted spoon—it’ll remove most of the stones. A few stones left in will give a nice bitter almond flavor after the plums sit for a while. Be careful not to burn it; cook until it’s very thick, then add strong vinegar, about a cup for every half-gallon of fruit. Boil for three more minutes, then pour hot into well-scalded jars, cover with brandy paper, or seal with paraffin.

Baked Peaches: Especially great with barbecued lamb, roast duck, or smothered chicken. Peel a dozen large, ripe, juicy peaches, insert two cloves into each one, and place them in an agate or earthen pan that they will just fill. Add two cups of sugar, a tablespoon of butter, a little water, and a good sprinkle of mace and lemon peel. Cover tightly and bake until done. Serve hot. Instead of butter, you can use a gill of whiskey, adding it just before taking the peaches out and letting them sit covered until the alcohol is absorbed. Prepared this way, they're even better cold than warm. The pits add such a delicate flavor to the fruit that they should never be removed.[202]

Tomato Layer: Peel and slice a dozen meaty tomatoes, thinly slice six mild onions, and cut the corn off of six large ears, saving the milk. Start by covering an earthen baking dish with a layer of tomatoes, seasoning well with salt and pepper, and just a hint of sugar. Layer the onion slices on top, sprinkle lightly with salt, and then add a layer of corn, seasoning it with salt and a bit of sugar. Repeat until the dish is full. Pour the corn milk, the tomato juice, and a heaping tablespoon of melted butter over the top. Bake in a hot oven for half an hour, covering it for twenty minutes and then browning it uncovered. When corn is out of season, you can substitute very crisp brown bread crumbs. But it should definitely be illegal to use soft crumbs or any kind of uncrisped bread in cooked tomatoes. Adding shredded green pepper mixed through the layers enhances the flavor—for those who love green peppers.

Corn Pudding: Cut the kernels lengthwise from eight large ears of corn, then carefully scrape out the pulp and save all the juices. The corn should be plump but not overly firm—if it's too doughy, the kernels won't hold their shape. Whisk three eggs until they're really fluffy, then mix in half a teaspoon of salt, a tablespoon of sugar, plenty of black pepper, and paprika, along with half a cup of very soft butter and half a cup of sweet cream. Stir in the corn pulp and juice, mixing well—if it's too thick, add a little more milk to thin it out. Pour the mixture into a pudding dish, cover it, and bake for ten minutes, then uncover and continue baking until it's fully cooked.

Fried Corn: Fry up a half-pound of crispy streaky bacon, remove it, and put into the[204] hot bacon fat eight large ears of corn cut from the cob, seasoned with salt and black pepper. Also add the corn milk, stir everything together for five minutes, then place an asbestos mat under the skillet and let it sit until the corn forms a thick brown crust on the bottom. Pour it out, loosen the crust with a knife, place the corn on top, add the crispy bacon, and serve very hot. This is a popular breakfast dish in the South all through "Roastin' ear time," which means from July to October.

Hulled Corn: Also known as lye hominy or samp. Mix a pint of clean, strong wood ashes with half a gallon of water, and boil for twenty minutes—or until the water feels slippery. Let it settle, drain off the clear lye, and pour it over enough shelled and cleaned white flint corn to cover it. Let it sit until the hulls on the grains slip off under pressure—usually twelve to twenty-four hours. Drain the lye, cover the corn with cold water, and rub and scrub the grains between your hands until all the husks are removed. Soak them in[205]clear water, changing it every few hours until there’s no lye taste left. Then, boil gently in three times the amount of water, adding a little salt—just a pinch—until it's very tender. A grain should easily mash between your fingers. Add water as it boils away, and be careful not to scorch it. Let it cool uncovered and keep it cool. To serve, spoon out a portion, fry it in sizzling bacon fat like you would with corn, or warm it in a double boiler and serve it with butter and sugar or cream and sugar as a cereal. You can also use it as a vegetable like rice or green corn. Hominy pudding, baked until golden brown and well-seasoned, makes a great addition to a light meal, as corn is one of the most warming and nutritious grains.

Steamed Potatoes: Clean a dozen fresh new potatoes, steam them until they're tender enough to pierce with a fork, then dry them in the heat for five minutes. Next, peel the potatoes and add them to a skillet with a heaping tablespoon of butter that’s been mixed with flour, half a pint of rich milk, ten drops of onion juice, salt and pepper to taste, and a teaspoon of chopped parsley.[206] The sauce should be bubbling when you add the potatoes. Toss them in the sauce for five minutes, then transfer to a deep dish and pour the gravy over. Serve it very hot.

Candied Sweet Potatoes: Boil medium-sized potatoes that are similar in size until a fork can easily pierce them—steaming is better even though it's a bit more work—then soak them in cold water for a minute, peel them, and brush soft butter over them. Arrange the potatoes separately in a large skillet, adding an inch of rich syrup at the bottom, and place it over a low heat. Turn the potatoes frequently in the syrup, allowing it to coat all sides. Keep turning them until they are candied and slightly brown. If you want it to be very rich, add butter and lemon juice to the syrup while you're making it. Ground mace also adds a nice flavor.

Tipsy Potatoes: Choose large potatoes, peel them, and slice them into round pieces about half an inch thick. Arrange these in a baking dish with plenty of sugar, butter, mace, lemon zest, crushed cloves, and a single peppercorn. Pour in half a cup of boiling water, cover, and bake until a fork goes through easily, then uncover, add a [207] glass of rum, and keep it warm, but not too hot, until it's time to serve. Alternatively, you can use half a pint of claret instead of the boiling water. Another option is to mix a glass of sherry with a spoonful of cream and add it to the dish five minutes before serving. Sweet cider can replace the wine, as can lemon or orange juice. But in my opinion, the best option is definitely rum, or whiskey, its older sibling.

Left-over Sweet Potatoes: Peel, slice thick, dip in melted butter, roll in sugar mixed with grated lemon zest and nutmeg, and place in a pan without touching to ensure they heat up well in the oven. This final preparation is always better than the first.

Potato Balls: Mash boiled or baked sweet potatoes until smooth, seasoning them well with salt, pepper, cinnamon, a little nutmeg, and melted butter. Combine with a well-beaten egg, flour your hands, and roll the mashed potatoes into balls the size of large walnuts. Roll the balls in fine crumbs or sifted cornmeal, drop them in deep hot fat, fry until crisp, drain, and use as a garnish for roast pork, roast chicken, or broiled ham.

Bananas: Bananas are way too underused in the kitchen. They can be cooked in so many ways—and each one is excellent. The best method I've found so far is to peel them, slice them in half lengthwise, place them in a covered dish, sprinkle with sugar, add a little mace, lemon juice, lemon peel, and melted butter, then bake until soft—about seven to fifteen minutes in a hot oven, depending on how many you have in the dish. Alternatively, you can peel and slice them, leave them unseasoned, and place them in the pan where you've cooked bacon, after pouring off most of the fat. Bake for five minutes in a hot oven, and serve it with hot bread, crispy bacon, and coffee for breakfast. A thick slice of banana paired with a thick slice of tart apple, both very lightly seasoned, makes a great stuffing for squabs. A half banana, delicately baked and placed on a well-browned chop, enhances both its appearance and flavor.

Baking Vegetables: Paper bags showed me how easy and valuable it is to cook vegetables in the oven instead of on the stovetop[209]. It requires less attention, less water, and less heat. For instance, peas and lima beans, after shelling, should be thoroughly washed, placed in a pan with salt, seasoning, and a little water, covered tightly, and baked in a hot oven for half an hour to an hour. Corn is never cooked as well outside of a paper bag as it is by placing it on a rack in a covered pan, adding a little water underneath, sealing it tightly, and putting the pan in a hot oven for nine minutes. It turns out sweeter and richer than when cooked in cold unsalted water, where it's brought to a boil, cooked for one minute, and then removed. However, no matter how you apply heat, overcooking ruins it. Cook just until the milk is set—not a second longer. Green peas should have a few tender mint leaves added with them, along with sugar at a ratio of a teaspoonful per half a pint of shelled peas. Lima beans taste better if butter is added with them along with the water. Use just enough to create steam—about two tablespoons for a medium-sized pan. Spinach and beet greens also bake well but need[210] more water. Skip the salt and add it after draining and chopping. They take twenty to thirty minutes, depending on their age.

All kinds of fruits, especially berries, cook well in the oven. Place them in earthenware or agate dishes, adding sugar, spices, and a little water. Cover them tightly and bake for about 30 to 45 minutes, depending on the amount. Then uncover—if they’re done, take them out; if not, let them cook uncovered until done. Always set the baking dishes on a rack or grid shelf, never on the bottom of the oven or solid metal. This reduces the risk of burning and the need for stirring.

For cauliflower au gratin, cut the head into florets and pack them tightly in the baking dish. Add a bit of water, along with salt, pepper, and butter. Bake covered until tender, then sprinkle grated cheese on top and put it back in the oven for three to five minutes. Tomatoes, peeled and left whole except for removing the eyes, baked in a dish with a generous amount of salt, pepper, and butter, a sprinkle of sugar, and a bit of onion juice, look and taste completely different from [211] stewed tomatoes, the typical kind.

Boiling with Bacon: Get a pound of streaky bacon, cut into squares if you can, scrape and wash it clean, then place it in lots of water along with a young onion, a bit of thyme, and parsley. Bring it to a rapid boil, then add some cold water, skim the surface to remove any impurities, and let it simmer for two to three hours. Add greens—like mustard, turnip, dandelion, or field salad—that are well washed and picked. Cook until they’re really tender, then skim them out, drain in a colander, and place them on a hot dish with the piece of bacon on top. This is the base of a hearty and nutritious meal. The bacon, after boiling for a long time, becomes more digestible and is meant to nourish even the most delicate stomach without causing any issues. Serve two thin slices of bacon with each serving of greens. You should have plenty of hot and tangy Cayenne vinegar, warm corn bread, and cider or beer to go with it.

String beans, called snaps in the southern regions, never truly shine unless cooked with bacon. Even pork doesn’t do the trick, though it’s much better than boiling with butter or drowning in milk sauces. The same goes for cabbage. Wash it well, cut it in half or quarters, boil until very tender, drain, and serve. It’s best to cook as many as the pot can fit and season with bacon. Fried cabbage, which is chopped finely and tossed in bacon grease with some pepper, salt, and vinegar, makes a fantastic side for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Never throw away good pot liquor—it makes a great and inexpensive soup substitute on cold days. Heat it up and add crispy bread crusts—if they’re brown corn bread crusts, even better. Pioneer folks relied on pot liquor so much that they had a saying: it was sinful to have too much pot liquor and buttermilk at the same meal.

Fruit Desserts: Fruits have connections just like people do. Take the perfect pairing of grapefruit and rum, for example. Nothing else, not even the best liqueur, highlights the flavor as well. But there are other fruits that, when combined with grapefruit, make it even more delicious. Strawberries, for instance. They need to be ripe and sweet. Wash them thoroughly, pick through them, wash again, and slice them in half if they’re really large. Mix them in a bowl with grapefruit pulp, which has been removed from the skin and seeds and broken down to berry size. Add sugar in layers, then pour over a glass of rum, let it sit on ice for six hours, and serve with or without cream.

Strawberries blended with fresh, ripe pineapple, cut to berry size and sweetened well, deserve the best sherry from the cellar, preferably a drier one. When mixed with thinly sliced oranges and bananas, use a good claret—but only add it just before serving; let the mixed fruits sit with just sugar. Strawberries on their own go great with claret and sugar—add cream if you want. Cream, lightly sweetened and flavored with sherry, rum, or a liqueur, and whipped, gives the perfect finishing touch to a dessert of mixed fruit, wine jelly, or a cup of after-dinner coffee or afternoon hot chocolate.

A peach's first choice is brandy—it has to be real, so it’s expensive. Good whiskey[214] works, and rum is decent too. A good liqueur is even better. Sherry mixes well if the fruit is really ripe and juicy. Peel and slice the peaches six hours before serving, pack them in sugar, add the liqueur, and let them sit on ice until you need them. Peaches cut small, mixed with California grapes, which should be skinned and seeded, and combined with small bits of grapefruit pulp, and all soaked in sherry syrup, are surprisingly delicious. To make the sherry syrup, fill a glass jar with the best lump sugar, pour in slightly more wine than it takes to cover the sugar, add the strained juice of a lemon or orange, a few strips of yellow peel, and a blade of mace, then place it in the sun until the sugar dissolves. It should be almost as thick as honey—no other sweetener is needed. A spoonful in after-dinner coffee turns it into another drink—just as a syrup made the same way with rum, sugar, and lemon juice enhances afternoon tea.

White grapes, halved and seeded, mixed with small-cut bananas and orange pulp, sweetened well and topped with whipped cream—either plain or spiked with sherry—make for another simple dessert. Serve in tall glasses on your best doilies and prettiest plates. Add a flower or a colorful candy on the plate—it greatly enhances the festive look and requires very little extra effort.

A spoonful of rich wine jelly on any kind of fresh fruit makes it taste so much better, in my opinion. You can add cream too—but I’m not a fan of it—I really don’t enjoy it or anything with cream in it. Ripe, juicy cherries, pitted and mixed with equal amounts of banana chunks, then sweetened, create a dessert that I love to remember. Since I'm not into making things like ice cream, frozen puddings, mousses, sherbets, or many jell-o desserts, I’ve tried a lot of different fruits. This book is mainly a collection of my experiences—I hope it has more value because it focuses on the specific rather than the general.

Sandwiches: When making sandwiches, pay attention to your S's. That means having a sharp knife, stale bread, and soft butter.[216] Also, the bread should be specially made—fine grained, firm, not crumbly or ragged. Trim the crusts for regular sandwiches, but if you're using cutters, leave them on. Then you can cut them to the needed paper-thinness—otherwise, that’s impossible. Work at a spacious table covered with a clean old tablecloth and place sheets of clean, thick paper on top. Do your cutting on the papered surface—this way, you avoid damaging your knife against a platter or tearing up an old cloth. Keep your fancy cutters organized and within reach. Shape one type of sandwich consistently—this helps distinguish them easily. Make as many as your paper space allows before cutting any—this saves time and effort. Clear away the remnants from one type before starting another to prevent any mixing or confusion. Place your finished sandwiches on a platter under a dry cloth with a damp cloth on top. They won't dry out, and it's much easier than wrapping them in oiled paper.

The closer the fillings are to the consistency[217] of soft butter, the better. When making sardine sandwiches, boil the eggs hard, then mash the yolks smooth while they're still hot, softening them with either butter or salad dressing—French dressing, of course. It's best made with lemon juice and very sharp vinegar for this purpose. Mix in the sardines, which should be skinless and boneless after draining well, and mashed as finely as possible. You can add a bit of their oil if you like the flavor, but lemon juice is better. Use the back of a sturdy wooden spoon to rub the mixture smooth, and pack it tightly in a bowl so it doesn’t harden.

Pimento cheese should be softened with French dressing until it's similar to creamed butter. The finer the pimento is ground, the better. Spread it evenly on buttered bread, then place another slice of buttered bread on top, and stack them. When the stack is high enough, cut it into triangles or finger shapes, and cover with a damp cloth. Slice Swiss cheese very thinly with a sharp knife, season it lightly with salt and paprika, and place it between the buttered slices. Lettuce dressed with oil and lemon juice, lightly sprinkled with Parmesan cheese, makes a refreshing afternoon sandwich. Ham should be ground finely—it needs to be boiled well, of course—seasoned lightly with mustard, pepper, and lemon juice, softened a bit with clear oil or butter, and spread thinly. Tongue should be prepared the same way, or boiled until very tender, skinned before slicing, and cut paper-thin. Rounds of it inside shaped sandwiches are sure to surprise—and please—men's tastes.[218]

For the shaped sandwich—leaf or star, or heart, or crescent—is typically the happy home of all fifty-seven varieties of fancy sandwich fillings, both sweet and sour, mushy and squishy, that create an honest mouthful of natural flavor, a thing of joy. However, this doesn't mean that new ideas in sandwiches are unwelcome. On the contrary, they’re as welcome as summer rain. For instance, here’s a filling from the far Philippines that, although I haven’t tried it yet, sounds really enticing and comes highly recommended by an excellent cook. Grate as much Edam or pineapple cheese as[219] you need, season it well with paprika, add a few grains of black pepper, mix in some sherry until it reaches a creamy consistency, and spread it between buttered bread. If you use nut bread, that’s even better. Nut bread is made like this.

Nut Bread for Sandwiches: (Mrs. Petre) Beat two eggs until fluffy, then add a little less than a teaspoon of salt, half a cup of sugar, and two cups of milk. Sift four cups of flour twice along with four teaspoons of baking powder. Mix this with the eggs and milk until smooth, then stir in one cup of finely chopped nuts. Let the mixture rise for twenty minutes in a double pan, then bake it in a moderately hot oven. Don’t try to slice it until it's completely cool—it's better to wait until the next day, keeping the bread in a place where it won’t dry out. Slice it very thin after buttering. It makes excellent sandwiches with any kind of good filling.[220]

Brine for Pickling: Use rainwater if you can and regular pickling salt—it’s coarser and much stronger than table salt. If you don’t have rainwater, soften tap water by dissolving a pinch of washing soda in it a day in advance—this helps reduce the mineral content. Put it over the heat in a deep, clean pot, bring it to a boil, and add salt—usually about a pint for every gallon of water. Boil and skim, then add a small pinch of saltpeter and a tablespoon of sugar for each pint of salt—the pinches shouldn't be large. Also, add six whole cloves for every gallon. Remove from heat, let it cool, then drop in an egg—it should float at the height of a quarter. If it doesn’t, that means the brine needs more salt. Dissolve an extra pint of salt in just enough water to do the job, add that to the brine, and test again. Once the brine is cold, pour it into a clean, large container, like a keg or a barrel, or a big stone crock. It should fill the container to just under halfway. Make sure to provide a weight to keep the pickles submerged in the brine. If they’re not held down, the ones on top will rot and spoil everything. Mold may gather around the weight despite the cloves, but it should be less than if they weren’t there. Whenever you add fresh pickles, take out the weight, wash and scald it, dry it, and put it back in place.

Anything you can eat can be pickled—still, there are many items that are better left out of the brine. Cabbage and cauliflower, for example, don’t need it—green tomatoes, onions, and Jerusalem artichokes are also off-limits. The artichokes can make a good pickle, but it should all be done at once. Cut anything meant for the brine with a bit of stalk, being careful not to bruise the stalk. Cucumbers should be small and uniform in size, gherkins about halfway grown, string beans three-quarters grown, crook-neck squash very small and tender, green peppers for mangoes fully grown but not ripening, and muskmelons for other mangoes three-quarters grown. Wash them clean or wipe with a damp cloth. Cut pickles in the early morning so they’ll be fresh and crisp. Never include any wilted pieces—doing so will lead to decay.

Watermelon rind makes great pickles, both sweet and sour—along with citron, the best of all homemade preserves. It should be thick, fresh, and undamaged. The Rattlesnake melon has a good rind for this purpose. The more delicate and thinner-skinned varieties that are sold in stores usually aren’t worth using. Preparing the rind can be a bit tedious. You need to cut it into strips about an inch wide and three to five inches long, then trim both sides to remove the green outer skin and any trace of the soft inside. You should be left with less than half an inch of firm pale green flesh that has the potential for amazing flavors—if you know how to bring them out.[223]

Firm clingstone peaches that aren't fully ripe can be soaked in brine, but it's better to pickle them without it. Anything treated with salt has to be rinsed off by soaking for a long time before it's ready to eat. The soaking process is the same for everything—take them out of the brine, wash them in lukewarm water, and then soak them in cold water with something on top to keep the pickles submerged. Change the water twice on the first day, then every day until there's no trace of salty flavor.

You can make pickles by soaking them in brine for three days, then rinsing them. Next, put them in a pot with clean water, bring it to a scalding heat, then pour off the water. Cover the pickles with vinegar and bring it just to a boil. Drain the vinegar after it has served its purpose, pack the pickles into a jar, seasoning them well with mixed spices whole, not powdered. Cover them with fresh, hot vinegar, let them cool uncovered, then seal the jar, and store it in a dark, cool place.

Watermelon Rind Pickle: Scald the[224] soaked rind in strong ginger tea, let it sit for two minutes at a low simmer, then remove it and place it in another pot, adding equal amounts of cloves, mace, allspice, and cinnamon, half as much grated nutmeg, the same amount of whole peppercorns, several pods of cayenne pepper, white mustard, and celery seed, covering everything with cider vinegar, which is the only type that preserves pickles well, bringing it just to a boil, then packing it hot into jars, sealing them after they cool, and storing them in a dark, cool, well-ventilated place.

For sweet pickles, prepare and season them, then add one and a half pounds of sugar for each pint of vinegar. Boil it all together for one minute, stirring well and skimming off any foam. Pour the mixture over the rind and spices, keeping it hot for ten minutes without boiling, then transfer it into jars. If you prefer it less sweet, use just half a pound of sugar.

Mangoes: You can use either green peppers or young melons as a base—foodies usually prefer the peppers. Start with fresh ones, cut off the stems from the peppers, remove and discard the seeds but keep the [225] stems. Cut a section from the side of each melon and scoop out the insides. Reattach the stems and sections, then layer them in a pot with fresh grape leaves in between, adding a small piece of alum about the size of your thumb. Pour strong, cold vinegar over everything, bring it to a boil, and simmer gently for twenty minutes. Let it sit in the vinegar for two or three days, then discard the leaves. Remove everything, rinse, and drain. To stuff four dozen, crush, soak, chop finely, and dry half a pound of ginger, then add half a pint each of black and white mustard seeds, mace, allspice, turmeric, and black pepper — each half an ounce. Grind everything into a fine powder, add a pinch of garlic, and mix smoothly in half a cup of salad oil. Chop very finely a small head of firm yet tender cabbage, three tender hearts of celery, half a dozen small pickled cucumbers, half a pint of small onions, and one large, sweet red pepper, finely shredded. Add a teaspoon of sugar, a tablespoon of brandy or dry sherry, and the mixed spices. Combine everything well, stuff the mangoes neatly, sew them up with soft thread or tie them with very narrow tape, [226] pack them down in stone jars, cover them with the best cold vinegar, pour a layer of salad oil on top, secure it, and let it sit for two months. If you want them a bit sweet, add moist sugar to the vinegar, about a pound per gallon. Mangoes are generally for men—and men like things hot and sour.

Walnut Pickle: Gather white walnuts in June—they should be tender enough to cut with your fingernail. Wash, drain, and pack them into jars covered in salt. Let them sit for two weeks, then drain off the excess brine. Next, scald the nuts in strong vinegar, letting them sit hot, but not boiling, for twenty minutes. After that, drain them and pack them in jars, placing a mixture of cloves, allspice, black and red pepper in equal amounts, with half as much mace, nutmeg, cinnamon, and ginger between the layers. Sprinkle in a little salt, and a bit more sugar. Combine mustard and celery seed in a cup of salad oil, and add this to the jars after the nuts are in. Scald strong cider vinegar, skim it clean, let it cool, then pour it over the prepared nuts, and cover the top with a film of oil. Leave the jars open for two days—if the vinegar absorbs and goes down, fill the jars back up. Cover the tops with paper, tie them securely, and store them in a cool place until next year. It takes twelve months for pickled walnuts to fully "find themselves."

Preserving Fruit: Peaches, pears, plums, or cherries, the process is pretty much the same. Use the best fruit, ripe but not overripe. There’s no bigger waste of effort, time, and sugar than trying to preserve bland, low-quality fruit. Peel peaches and drop them right into water to prevent browning. Do the same with pears, and pit cherries while saving the juice. Wash and prick large plums—if they’re small, just wash and drain them. Halve clear stone peaches but include a few seeds for flavor. Leave clingstones attached to the seeds unless they’re very large; otherwise, cut them into thirds across the stones. They might look less appealing when cut like this but taste better. Weigh the fruit and use an equal amount of sugar, plus an extra pound for the pot. Very acidic fruits, like cherries or gooseberries, will need six pounds of sugar for every four pounds of fruit. After [228] peeling, pack pears and peaches in sugar overnight. In the morning, drain off the syrup, put the fruit in the pot, cover it with strained ginger tea, and simmer for ten minutes. Meanwhile, cook the sugar and fruit juice in another pot. Drop the hot fruit into the boiling syrup, place the pot in a hot oven, and let it cook there until the preserves are done—the fruit should be clear, and the syrup thick. If it’s not rich enough, remove the fruit, reduce the syrup by boiling it quickly, then pour it over the hot fruit in jars.

It’s only by cooking quinces in ginger tea or plain water that you can make them soft with pear and quince preserves. Quinces don’t need to sit overnight in sugar—instead, heat the sugar and mix it with the liquid they were boiled in, after removing the fruit. They should be cooked without sugar until a fork easily pierces them, but not until they start to fall apart.

Put cherry juice and sugar in a pot over the heat, adding a bit of water if the juice is low. Bring it to a boil, stirring well and skimming off any foam. Then add the fruit and let it simmer for ten[229] minutes. Finally, place the pot in the oven until the preserves are rich and thick.

Fancy peach preserves require white, juicy fruit cut into chunks, but not too thin. Let it sit in sugar overnight—drain off the syrup in the morning, boil it, skim off the foam, then add the fruit a handful at a time, and cook until it's clear. Skim it out, add more fruit, arrange the cooked fruit on platters, and place them under glass in the sun. Let them sunbathe all day. The next day, boil the syrup a little longer, add the fruit, heat it through, then put everything into clear glass jars, and keep them in hot sunshine for ten days, covered tightly. The fruit should be a rich translucent pink, the syrup as rich as honey, but a bit lighter pink. These are much prettier than the gingered peaches, but not as tasty. Ginger tea in syrup always makes it darker.

Plums don’t need any extra flavoring. Make a thick syrup with sugar and a little water, skim it clean, add in the pricked plums, and cook gently until they become clear. Remove the plums, reduce the syrup by boiling it more, and pour it over the fruit,[230] packed in jars. By cooking them in the oven after a good boil, there’s almost no need to stir, so the plums stay mostly whole.

Ginger Pears: (Leslie Fox.) Four pounds of pears, peeled and chopped small, four pounds of granulated sugar, juice of four lemons, and the grated zest of two, two ounces of preserved ginger, finely chopped. Cook everything together over low heat until thick and rich—it should turn into a firm jelly. Store in a glass container with brandy paper on top, just like other preserves.

Tutti Frutti: (Mrs. J. R. Oldham.) Start by getting a large jar with a wide opening, either a well-glazed earthenware jar or thick, dark glass. Clean it thoroughly, fill it with hot water, add half a pound of washing soda, and let it sit for a day. Empty it, rinse three times, and wipe it dry. This will help eliminate any potential molds and bacteria. Do this in early spring. Pour in a quart of good brandy and a tablespoon of mixed spices—whatever you like—along with finely shredded yellow peels of lemons and oranges. Wash and hull a quart of ripe strawberries, add them with an equal weight of sugar to the brandy, and let it sit until raspberries and cherries are ripe, then add a quart of each along with their weight in sugar. Continue this process with all the fruits as they come into season—don’t use force-grown fruits or those shipped long distances, as they won’t have enough flavor. Include halved and pitted grapes, washed gooseberries, blackberries, and quartered peaches. It’s best to leave out currants, but don’t overlook plums. The larger, meaty varieties work best. Add as much sugar as there is fruit and regularly top off with more brandy—there should always be enough to keep the fruit covered. Also, add spices as the jar fills up, and if you like almond flavor, include well-blanched kernels from the stone fruits. Once the jar is full, place a saucer or small plate on top to keep the fruit submerged in the liquid. Seal it tightly and let it sit for three months. This is great for almost any purpose—especially for drizzling over mild puddings.

Green Tomato Preserves: Take medium-sized tomatoes that are smooth, firm, and meaty, just about to turn but still green. Carefully peel them with a sharp knife. Remove any blemishes without cutting into the seed cavity. For every four pounds of fruit, use six pounds of sugar. Soak the peeled tomatoes in clear lime water for an hour, then take them out, rinse, and simmer them for ten minutes in strained ginger tea. In another pot, make a syrup by mixing half a cup of water with each pound of sugar. Skim off any foam, add the tomatoes, and include the strained juice of three lemons for a large kettle full. Simmer for two hours, until the fruit is clear. Cut the lemon rind into strips, boil them until tender in strong salt water, then boil them again in fresh water, and add to the syrup. Simmer everything together for another hour, then remove the fruit, boil the syrup until it thickens to the consistency of honey, and pour it over the tomatoes in jars. The syrup should be very clear, and the tomatoes should be a light, clear green. These preserves are among the most beautiful and also the most delicious once you know how to make them. Ripe yellow tomatoes can be preserved the same way, but they should be scalded for peeling and hardened by soaking in alum water after the lime-water bath. The same method can be used for fresh watermelon rind to make citron.

Brandy Peaches and Pears: These can be made without cooking. Choose ripe, perfect fruit, peel, stick three cloves in each, weigh, and use pound for pound of sugar plus one extra for the jar. Pack them down in a large jar, placing spices between layers and filling sugar into every gap. Stuff in as much as possible, then pour enough whiskey to cover the fruit by an inch. Let it sit—after twenty-four hours, you'll need to add more whiskey. Fill it up, sprinkle a few more whole cloves on top, along with two small pods of Cayenne pepper and half a dozen peppercorns. Secure it and keep it cool. It will be ready to use in two weeks and has excellent shelf life. Using vinegar instead of whiskey gives you a very good sweet pickle.

Another way is to pack the fruit in sugar overnight, drain off the juice in the morning, boil it, skim it, and pour it back over the fruit. Repeat this twice—the third time, put everything in the kettle, cook until a fork can easily pierce the fruit, then pack it into jars, adding spices to your liking, and one fourth the amount of whiskey compared to the fruit and syrup. This can also be turned into a very rich sweet pickle by using vinegar instead of whiskey, adding it to the syrup at the first boil, sticking cloves into the fruit, and adding spices to taste.

Throw washed cherries with stems on into a thick syrup that’s equal to their weight in sugar and mix in half a cup of water for every pound. Let it boil, then put it in the oven for half an hour. After that, remove it, add spices, and either brandy or vinegar in a ratio of one to three. Let it sit uncovered to cool, then put it in jars, cover with brandy paper, seal them, and store in a dark, cool place.

Tea: Coffee: Chocolate: My way of making tea is a bit unconventional, but people enjoy the drink. Bring fresh water to a rolling boil in a clean, wide kettle, add the tea—a tablespoonful for every gallon of water, let it boil for just one minute, then strain it from the leaves into a pot that has been standing for five minutes filled with freshly boiled [235] water, which is then immediately wrapped in a thick napkin to keep it warm. Serve it in tall glasses with rum and lemon, or with sherry syrup flavored with lemon, adding a Maraschino cherry or two, or a small piece of ginger-flavored citron. This is for the unconventional. Those who prefer the traditional can have cream, either whipped or plain, with rock candy crystals instead of sugar.

Coffee should be absolutely perfect and never get cold between roasting and drinking. Since that’s out of the question for most people, we must make do with freshly ground coffee, put in a very clean pot, with a hint of salt—about six fine grains per cup, using fresh cold water, in the ratio of three cups of water to two heaping spoonfuls of ground coffee. Then, place the pot where it will take twenty minutes to boil, carefully watching it so it doesn’t boil over. If it boils over, it ruins the coffee—making it flat, bitter, and lacking aroma. Long boiling ruins it too—just one minute is the maximum boiling time. Quick boiling is also bad—the water doesn’t have time to extract the real goodness of the coffee. Let it sit for five minutes to clear, keeping it hot. Those who drink coffee with milk may prefer it stronger—one cup of water to a heaping spoonful of coffee. I don’t abuse one of life’s great pleasures, so I make my coffee at the strength I like. Adding boiling water ruins the taste for me. So does pouring it into another pot—my silver pot is used only when ceremony is more important than hospitality. In very cold weather, hot water can warm cups for both tea and coffee. Standing on the grounds doesn’t spoil coffee’s flavor like it does with tea.

Coffee from the original pot is completely different from the same thing made in a different way. I firmly believe that many successful coffee-makers owe their success to the fact that cups were filled directly from the urn. I always feel like I taste my coffee mostly with my nose—nothing refreshes me like its clean, sharp fragrance—especially after a rough night’s sleep. It’s pointless to discuss, as so many experts do, using "Java and Mocha blended." All the real Java and Mocha in the world gets snatched up long before it makes its way to the average person. Back in the Dark Ages of my childhood, I experienced real Java—we got it by the sack from New Orleans—and referred to the Rio coffee used by many of our neighbors as "Seed tick coffee," thinking its flavor was similar to the smell of those pests. Nowadays, Rio coffee has practically the entire world as its market. So, the best you can do is to get it sound, well-roasted, and as fresh as possible. Even though I love and do home preparation, I’m fine with letting the Trust or whoever roast my coffee. Roasting is tricky work—hot, tedious, and tiring—and it easily leads to scorching or burning. One last warning—never mess with the salt unless you're sure your hand is light, and your memory is reliable enough that you won’t add it in twice.

Chocolate involves milk, cream, and trouble, so I only make it on special occasions. Still, people say I make it well. Maybe the secret is in the brandy—a little teaspoonful for each cake of grated chocolate. Put it in a bowl after grating, add the brandy, mix it, then add enough hot water to dissolve it smoothly, and stir it into a quart of rich milk that's just come to a boil. Add six sugar cubes, stir until dissolved, pour it into a pot that has held boiling water for five minutes, and serve in heated cups, with or without whipped cream on top. You won't taste the brandy—it just adds smoothness to the mix. If the chocolate is too rich, fill the cups halfway with boiling water, then pour in the chocolate. There are some brands of chocolate that can be made entirely with water—they'll do in a pinch but can't compare to the real thing. I've never made cocoa, so I won’t say anything about it. Like Harry Percy’s wife, at least when it comes to cooking, I "never tell that which I do not know."[239]

When the peach orchard was thriving, it brought happiness to the plantation. Peaches had so many appeals—and there were plenty of ways to preserve those delights throughout winter shortages. Drying peaches was almost a celebration, especially if there was a kiln, which allowed for independence from the weather. It required many hands using sharp knives on ripe fruit to keep a good-sized kiln operating regularly. This was just a setup of flat stones and clean clay mud, with paper laid over the mud, replaced periodically. There was a shed roof over the kiln, which usually sat at the edge of the orchard. Black Daddy managed the firing—with[240] a couple of energetic young men to chop and gather wood when they weren't busy bringing in large baskets of peaches.

Yellow peaches, not too ripe but packed with flavor, made the lightest and sweetest dried fruit. And clingstones were way better for drying than the clear-seed varieties. Some people removed the peach fuzz with lye—but I don't think that saved any effort, and they definitely lost some flavor in the process. Mammy was a master at cutting "cups." That is, she would halve the peaches, skillfully removing the pit. She sat with the biggest bread tray on her well-cushioned knees, in the middle of the peelers, who dropped their peeled peaches into the tray as they worked.

When it overflowed with cups, someone slimmer and more agile took it away and spread the sliced fruit, just barely touching, all over the hot kiln. It couldn’t be too hot—just hot enough that you couldn't bear the back of your hand to it was about right. Dad kept the temperature steady by pushing long sticks of green wood into the flues underneath, lighting them well at the flue-mouths.[241] Cups shrank a lot in a short time—you could push an early trayful until it barely covered the space the size of a big dish, long before dinner time—in other words, noon—drying was in full swing by seven. With fruit in abundance and dropping quickly, the kiln was supplemented by scaffolds. Clean planks laid on trestles and placed in full sunlight did an excellent job. This, of course, was only if the sun shone steadily—in rainy weather, drying on scaffolds was a huge hassle. Weather permitting, it made—it still makes—the finest and most flavorful dried fruit ever eaten.

The Black people picked clear-seed peaches for their drying process. They enjoyed splitting the fruit and laying it out in front of their cabins, whether in the moonlight or by torchlight. They only washed the peach skins a little—something like a fuzzy rind didn't bother their taste. This was fortunate, since peeled clear-seed peaches shrink a lot, turning into small, scrawny lumps that tend to be sticky; although, when cooked, they return almost to their original juiciness. Once the peach cutting was finished, there was usually a watermelon feast. Especially at Mammy's house—Daddy’s watermelons were famous throughout the county. He shared the seeds sparingly and, to be honest, somewhat reluctantly—but no one ever brought melons that matched the caliber of his. Possibly because he planted mainly next to decaying stumps in the new ground, where the soil needed to stay light and clean for tobacco, allowing the vines to get some shade and the roots to thrive on the richness of untouched soil.[242]

It took eight bushels of ripe fruit to make one bushel of dried fruit—this was when the peaches were large and juicy. Smaller, seedier varieties required ten bushels for one. If unpeeled, the ratio dropped to seven for one. But there was usually no shortage of fruit—alongside the orchard, there were trees scattered along all the fence lines, with the corners of a worm fence providing the perfect spot to sit. Additionally, every field had trees that had grown on their own, coming up from random seeds that had been carelessly dropped. These volunteer trees often produced the best fruit—possibly because only peaches of exceptional quality were worth going out to the fields to pick. Soil quality also played a role—the trees in the fields often bent and sometimes broke under the weight of their fruit. It was only when late frosts caused half or three-quarters of the young fruit to fall that we realized how beautiful and delicious these field peaches could be. Our trees, being all seedlings, were in a way immortal. Branches, even trunks, could bend and break, but their roots sent up new shoots the next season, which would bear a limited amount of fruit the following year. Still, these new shoots never produced quite as perfect fruit as those from vigorous young trees that had just reached full bearing.

Here and there, a plantation owner like my formal and dignified grandfather turned excess peaches into brandy. In those good times, excise was just a word in the dictionary, so the fruit from certain trees—very abundant, with small, deep, red, clear-seeded fruit—was allowed to fully ripen on the trees, then crushed into a pulp in the[244] cider trough, and left in bins to ferment, then carefully distilled. After two years in the lumber house, it was transferred into clean barrels, with some of it turned into "peach and honey," a favorite drink among gentlemen. Strained honey was mixed with the brandy in different ratios—the amount depending on personal preferences. Some used one part honey to three parts brandy, others used one to two, and still others blended it half and half, adjusting the sweetness by adding straight brandy when drinking. Peach and honey was properly stored in stone jugs or demijohns, improving significantly with age, and was, at its best, quite deceptive. When freshly mixed, it was strong, but after a year or more, it became as smooth as oil and wonderfully mellow. The quality of the honey played a role in its final excellence. The honey collected by the bees from blooming wild raspberries, being very clear, light-colored, and delicately flavored, was especially sought after.

I believe these peaches from the brandy orchards trace back to those planted by the Indians, [245] including the Creeks, Choctaws, and Cherokees, in the mountain valleys of Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia. They got the seeds from early Spanish explorers in Florida. There was a unique Indian peach, as dark-skinned as its name suggests, blood-red inside and out, very sweet and juicy if allowed to ripen fully—but nearly as bad-tasting as an unripe persimmon if not ripe. There were clearstone and clingstone varieties, and each tree had its own unique flavor, just like the stars in the sky. That was the magic of our seedlings, which also had a flavor unlike any commercial fruit that’s been produced.

August peaches were for drying—in September, early, came the Heaths, for preserves, brandy fruit, and so on. October peaches, nearly all clear-seed, made the best peach butter. Back then, canning, known as "hermetic sealing," was still a lab process. I wonder if anyone else remembers, as I do, the first fruit cans? They were made of tin, tall and straight, with a flaring upstanding[246] tin ruffle around the tops. The ruffle was for holding the sealing wax, into which the edge of the tin top was inserted. They didn’t last long—pretty soon, there were cans in the current shape—but sealing them with wax was tough work and unpredictable. Women everywhere should be grateful to the person who invented the self-sealing jar.

Let's go back to making our peach butter. It started with cider—the cider from fall apples, which was very rich and sweet. Boiling it down properly required a set of brass kettles over a log fire in the yard, just like when rendering lard. Naturally, brass kettles were in high demand, but fortunately, not everyone made peach butter, so borrowing them from neighbors wasn’t an issue. It took more than half a day to get the cider to the right consistency—constantly filling up the kettles as there was space. Eventually, when it was nearly syrupy, in went the peaches—preferably the late, soft, white ones, perfectly ripe, very juicy, and almost as sweet as sugar. After the kettles were filled with the peeled and halved peaches, the boiling continued until the fruit turned mushy. Constant stirring helped achieve this. Fresh peaches were added twice more, cooking until a paddle could stand upright in the middle of the kettle. Then came the spices—adding in cloves, mace, bruised ginger, and allspice—just a little, but enough to give a delicate flavor. If we ran short on white peaches, we might make a second batch when the Red Octobers came in at the end of the month. They were large and beautiful, oval-shaped with rich crimson cheeks, but not nearly as sweet as the white ones. So, sugar or honey was added sparingly at the end of the cooking process. If it had been added earlier, it would have increased the risk of burning.

A six-gallon jar of peach butter was a valuable addition to the household—actually, it was second only to the jar of blackberry jam. It worked great as a sauce, or lightly sweetened, as a spread on crust. For filling roly-polys, it had only one rival—dried peaches that were properly stewed.[248]

Proper stewing involved washing a quart of dried fruit in two rounds of water, soaking it overnight, then placing it on the stove in the soaking water, covering it with a plate to keep the fruit submerged, and simmering for at least five hours, occasionally adding more water to the pot. Once the fruit was soft, a pound of sugar was added. Finally, spices were mixed in to taste. If the fruit was meant to be eaten with meat as a side dish, a cup of vinegar was stirred in after the sugar, making it similar to the best sweet pickle. As Mammy often said, "Dried peaches were good enough for anyone—just by themselves, dried like that."

Apple drying usually started a bit before peach drying. Horse apples, the best and most abundant, ripened in early August. They were kiln-dried or scaffold-dried, and much less labor-intensive than peaches since they were sliced thin. When they got very soft, the drying stopped—by that time, usually everyone had plenty—and the making of apple butter began. The process was quite similar to making peach butter,[249] though the taste was very different—it had a more subtle flavor. Fresh cider was essential for any kind of butter, so the beating took place before breakfast. There weren’t cider mills, but cider troughs were everywhere. They were carved out of large poplar logs, squared on the outside with a broad axe, and smoothed on the inside. Well-washed apples were beaten in these troughs with round-headed wooden pestles and pressed in slat presses, with the leftover pomace laid on clean straw, just like cider pressing in English orchards. The first runnings, which were somewhat muddy, were best for boiling down, while the clear last runnings were delightful to drink—especially after sitting until there was just a hint of sparkle to them.

Winter cider was often allowed to ferment. This was also intended for distillation—apple brandy was only slightly less popular than peach brandy. However, a barrel or keg would be kept sweet for women, children, and ministers—either by thoroughly smoking the inside of a clean barrel with sulfur before adding the cider or by hanging a thin muslin bag filled with white mustard seed inside a nearly full barrel. Cider made from russets and pear apples was particularly excellent, so it was saved for Christmas and other special occasions.[250]

Pear cider—perry—was something we only learned about from books. It wasn't for a lack of pears, but rather a lack of desire to make it. Pears were dried just like other fruits, but they were usually packed in sugar after drying. Because of this, they were almost as valued as peach chips or even peach leather.

Peach chips were sliced thin, packed down with their own weight of sugar, and left to sit for twenty-four hours to harden. Then, the syrup was drained off, boiled, skimmed clean, spiced with mace and lemon peel, and the slices were added a few at a time, cooking until they were sweet all the way through. After that, they were taken out, spread on dishes generously covered with sugar, dusted with more sugar, placed under glass in the sun, and turned daily until they were dry. They were delicious and served like other sweets—passed around with nuts and wine, or eaten instead of candy.

So were cherries, dried in exactly the[251] same way, after removing the pits. When dried without sugar, they were used for cooking. Tomato figs were prepared similarly. Yellow tomatoes that were smooth and even were the best—but red ones worked too—the meatier, the better. After scalding them, peeling, and soaking for an hour in clear lime-water to firm them up, they were rinsed clean, then dropped into thick boiling syrup, a few at a time, simmered for an hour, then skimmed out, drained, sugared, and dried under glass in the sun, or if there was no sunshine, on dishes in a very slow oven. Once fully dried, they were packed down in powdered sugar in glass jars that were kept tightly closed. If not stored this way, they tended to become sticky, which defeated their purpose.

Peach leather might not catch your interest today with so many sweets around, but it was really delicious back in the simpler times. To make it perfectly ripe and soft, you would peel the peaches and mash them up smoothly, working quickly to prevent the pulp from getting too dark. Then, you’d spread it about an inch thick on large dishes or even clean boards and let it dry slowly in the sun or the oven.[252] Once it was completely dry, you'd cut it into one-inch strips. This required a very sharp knife and a steady hand. After that, the strips were coiled edgewise into flat rounds, with sugar placed in between the layers. These had to be packed down with more sugar and kept tightly together to protect them from moisture, which would ruin them.

If you had a loving and extravagant grandmother, you probably also had a clove apple. That is, a nice, firm winter apple packed with as many cloves as it could hold, then allowed to dry very slowly in air that wasn’t too hot or too cold. The cloves prevented decay—their scent mixed with the fruity aroma of the apple definitely enhanced things stored in the drawer with the apple. The applemakers justified their lavishness—cloves were expensive, just like today—by claiming that clove apples were effective against mildew or moths—which might have had some truth to it.

The quince tree is the jokester of the orchard, growing in twisted shapes as if it despises straight lines. Still, [253] its fruit and its uses are a hallmark of homemaking, especially when it comes to making jelly and marmalade. Also, quince pudding is a rare delicacy—very few people have heard of it, and even fewer have made or tasted it. To make it, you need very ripe quinces—start by scrubbing them clean of fuzz, then place them in a deep pan, cover with a tablespoon of water, and bake slowly until they’re really soft. Scrape out the pulp and discard the cores and skin. For every pint of pulp, use four eggs, beating the yolks lightly with three cups of sugar and a cup of creamed butter. Then add the quince pulp, a bit of mace or grated nutmeg, half a cup of cream, and the egg whites beaten until stiff. Bake in a deep pan and serve hot with hard sauce or wine sauce.

Here are some great tips for making jelly learned long ago. To make the best, clearest jelly, cook small batches at a time. A large pot won't give you the same color and brightness as two or three jars. Don’t try to make jelly from poor-quality fruit—avoid fruit that is unripe, overripe, or starting to go bad. Wash it thoroughly and drain it—peeling is just a waste of time and can actually reduce the flavor. Add a little water to the fruit at the beginning of cooking—cook slowly to prevent scorching, and drain the juice instead of pressing it out. Draining works much better if the fruit is spread out thinly rather than packed tightly in a bag. A double layer of cheesecloth sewn onto sturdy wire and placed over a wide bowl makes a great jelly strainer—cheap enough to toss out when it gets discolored. Speaking of which, a discolored bag can make the jelly a bit darker. If there’s no pressure needed, you don’t need flannel.

There was plenty of fruit with us, and Mom made jelly and marmalade from the same quinces. They were washed, peeled, quartered, and the cores removed. Then the quarters were boiled in just enough water to cover them halfway until they were soft. After that, they were skinned out, mashed until smooth with an equal weight of sugar, and seasoned with spices to taste. The mixture was then cooked very slowly until a spoon could stand upright in it. After that, it went into glass jars, and a layer of brandy paper was placed on top.

Cores and peels were boiled until they became mushy in enough water to cover them completely, then strained out. The water was strained again and added to the liquid that the fruit had boiled in. Sugar was added—one pound for every pint of juice. But first, the juice was brought to a boil and skimmed thoroughly. The sugar, heated carefully to avoid burning, was added, and cooking continued until a drop from the tip of the spoon jelled as it fell. Mammy couldn't stand jelly that was runny—it had to slice like butter to meet her standards. Sometimes she flavored it with ginger by boiling the crushed root with the cores, but only occasionally, since ginger would darken the jelly. She also sometimes cooked apples, usually fall pippins, with the quinces, which increased the volume of both jelly and marmalade without significantly changing the flavor.

All of this applies to every type of fruit jelly—apple, peach, currant, and all kinds of berries. My mom never realized it, but I've found that using the oven at a medium heat is really helpful for making jelly. When fruit is properly prepared and placed in a stone or agate pot, covered, and gently baked for a time that matches its size, it releases all its juice. I think this juice is clearer than when it's cooked in the traditional brass kettle. Hot sugar helps the jelly set quickly—and the quicker you are, the lighter and brighter the final product will be. I never use gelatin in fruit jellies—it increases the yield noticeably, but that’s more than balanced out by the drop in quality.

It was no trouble at all to create occasions. In fact, the biggest one, weddings, practically organized themselves. A wedding required an infare—that is, if the couple had their parents' approval. I should probably clarify that infare meant the bride’s transition to her new home or at least her new family. This term comes from the Saxon faran, meaning to go, which is where words like wayfaring and faring forth come from. I'm mentioning this not to be pedantic, but because so many people looked confused when they heard the word, which was as familiar to me as any word could be. In practice, the term had a broad meaning. Usually, the groom or his family would host the infare, but sometimes a generous friend or relative would take over that role. Wherever it took place, it sparked friendly and competitive rivalry—those in charge were especially determined to make the transition more elaborate than the wedding meal. Naturally, that motivated the wedding party to step up their game. Another factor that drove extra effort was the bundles. All guests were expected to take home generous portions of wedding cake in its many forms. I remember once hearing a famous cake baker breathe a sigh of relief as she decorated the hundredth snowball and say, "Now we’re sure to have enough left for the bundles—they’re such a help."

But baking cakes, and cooking in general, although important, weren't the main focus. Setting the table to outshine all other wedding tables was the biggest priority. To achieve this, all the resources of the family and friends within a ten-mile radius were brought in—glass, silver, china, linen, even pots and ovens when needed. Moreover, it was a real oversight if you were known as a great cake maker and weren't asked to help. A skilled paper cutter was also in demand. Cut paper and evergreens were essential for decoration, creating a stunning display by candlelight. Oil lamps were scarce, kerosene was yet to be discovered, and both lard oil and whale oil often had a strong smell, not to mention they would smoke with the slightest disturbance. So, if there was a lamp, it took center stage in the parlor. The long table was lit with candelabras, which were often homemade. The base was made of three stacked wooden blocks, nailed together to form a sort of pyramid, with a hole drilled in the middle for a sturdy round upright, two inches wide. It stood about a foot high and supported cross-arms three feet wide, with a tin candle socket at each end. Another socket was placed where the arms crossed—making each candelabra hold five candles. Arranged down the middle of the table, with tall brass candlesticks holding single candles interspersed, they provided a lovely soft glow. Often, they were enhanced with bronze or brass candelabras, adorned with shimmering hanging prisms. Such decorative items were usually concentrated where the bride and her maids would stand. They were definitely fancier than standard candle holders—but in my opinion, not at all more beautiful—after the paper-cutters had done their work.

Their work involved turning white paper into fringe and lace. Fringed strips wrapped all around and covered the wooden structure. Paper tulips, carefully shaped, held the tin rings hidden—along with clusters of lacy leaves hanging below. Sometimes a paper rose tipped each end—other times, there would be hanging sprays of pea-shaped blossoms. I honestly don’t understand how they made them, using nothing but scissors, pen-knives for crimping, and the palm of their hand for shaping—but I know they were amazing. Making these wonders required a special skill, of course—along with a lot of time and patience. So, those who had it would practice during their free moments whenever paper was available, saving the results for the next wedding even if none were coming up soon. It was easy to keep leaves and the round lace-edged pieces for under cakes. Flowers, roses, tulips, and the like had a habit of losing their shape—plus, even though they looked impressive, they were actually much simpler to make.

It took some clever planning to create space at the table—but double layers of damask draping to the floor on either side concealed all the roughness underneath. The shape depended a lot on the size of the dining room—if it was just a closed-in porch, a straight line was essential. But in a large square or rectangle, you could easily create a nice H—or maybe a letter Z. Z was quite popular since it required less elaborate decoration but offered almost as much space. A heart cake at either end, a stack at each corner, with the bride's cake in the middle of the stem, and bowls of syllabub and boiled custard on both sides made a great display. A letter H required four heart-cakes—one for each end, along with four stacks, which crowded the[262] bride and her party along the connecting bar.

Heart cakes were essential for any wedding of significance. Local tinsmiths created the molds for them—they had deep grooves and weren’t perfectly classic in shape. But, once baked correctly, they were frosted a shiny white, then decorated with intricate patterns and edges made from more frosting, carefully drizzled from a piping bag; they were definitely pleasing to the eye. If the bride’s cake was entirely white, the heart pans were usually filled with yellow cake batter—so both the whites and yolks of the eggs were equally honored. More commonly, however, most wedding cakes started as pound cake—the richer, the better. Baked in deep, round-bottomed coffee cups without handles and iced, they created delightful "snowballs." When baked in shallow square pans and cut into bars, crisped, frosted, and stacked like a cobhouse, they formed "pens." Sliced crosswise and layered with jelly, they turned into jelly cake. To enhance the selection, there were marble cake, spice cake, plum cake, and many other varieties—but those were just extras.

Cakes were either round or square,[263] baked in pans of different sizes, stacked on top of each other after cooling completely, then frosted and layered with frosting until they looked icy. If they were round, there was usually a hole in the center, where a small, wide-mouthed glass bottle was placed to hold the stems of the evergreen decoration on top. Nestled among the greenery were paper roses or starflowers, and around the base, a wreath of paper tulips, lilies, and larger roses. Sometimes, trailing myrtle that had been well washed and dried was added around the stacks just before they were arranged. If the heart-shaped cakes weren’t decorated with a lattice, they also got a myrtle garnish. The bride's cake was left pure white, but it always sat on a pedestal and was adorned with a wreath of evergreen and paper flowers, resting on a lace-cut paper at the base.

Baking was an art. So many things had to go into it—the darning needle, thimble, picayune, ring, and button. The makers would have completely scorned the modern trick of baking plain and inserting the tokens of fate before frosting. They mixed the batter a bit stiff, cleaned everything thoroughly, closed their eyes, dropped in the items, and stirred them well. This way, nobody had the slightest idea where they ended up—so the cutting was bound to be fair. It was a lot of fun—the bride herself cut the first slice—hoping it might include the picayune, symbolizing good luck. The ring foretold the next bride or groom, the darning needle represented lifelong singlehood, the thimble indicated many people to sew for or feed, and the button symbolized fickleness or disappointment. After the bridal party finished cutting, other young people took their chances. Bride's cake wasn't meant for eating—instead, pieces of it, wrapped and placed under the pillow, were believed to make the sleeper's dreams come true. Especially if the dream involved a sweetheart, whether real or potential. The dreams were supposed to be shared the next day at the infare—but I doubt they always were. Perhaps the magic worked—and in this way—the person dreamed about took on such new significance that the difference was quickly felt. But this is a cookbook—with nostalgic attachments, not a psychology treatise.

The table only held the snacks—cakes, candy, nuts, cream, and custard. Large, attractive plates stacked high with tempting slices of cake lined the length of it, with glass bowls of colorful candies in between. In colder weather, wine jelly often replaced cream. There were no napkins or service plates—everything came from the side table, which was loaded with turkey, ham, fried chicken, or grilled meats, along with some type of jelly or relish. People ate standing, with their partners acting as waiters until they were completely satisfied. Hot biscuits, hot egg bread, and freshly sliced salt-rising bread were passed around by skilled Black servers. The side tables were managed by family friends, each specially trained in serving. Carving, of course, had been done beforehand. Occasionally, if a wedding crowd reached the hundreds, there was barbecue in addition to the other meats. In that case, it was cut outside and brought in on large platters. But it was more typical for big daytime gatherings than for wedding receptions.

Wedding salad is presented in its designated chapter, but the turkey hash, which some considered the best of the dishes, is not included. It was served for breakfast—there was always a crowd of relatives and distant friends staying overnight, sleeping on pallets spread across the floors, even in the parlor and ballroom once they were empty. The hash was made from all the leftover turkey—after roasting a dozen birds, there’s plenty of scraps. All the giblets, which were cooked the day before and chopped while still warm, were also added. They created heaps of rich gravy to mix with what was in the turkey pots—no real wedding ever just cooked entirely on a stove. Large pots were set beside a log fire outdoors, with a little water at the bottom and coals underneath and on top of the lids, producing beautifully browned, tender, and flavorful turkeys, not to mention the gravy. It complemented the hash like nothing else could—but such enhancement wasn’t particularly necessary. Hash paired with hot biscuits, strong clear coffee, hot egg bread, and thin-sliced ham made for a breakfast you could count on, even with a long drive ahead.

Harking back to the dinner table—syllabub, as far as I remember, was made of thick cream lightly mixed with stiffly whipped egg whites—one egg white for each pint—sweetened and flavored with sherry or Madeira wine, then whipped until very stiff, and piled in a big bowl, with goblets arranged around it, just like snowballs were placed around the stacks and the bride's cake. Flecks of red jelly were dropped onto the white cream—sometimes there were crumbled cake and chopped fruit underneath. So, it was similar to the trifle from cookbooks. It had just one downside—you couldn't eat it slowly—it almost disappeared at the slightest movement of the spoon.[268]

Far differently from boiled custard—which was much more popular because it was easier to make and just as impressive. To prepare it, you beat the yolks of twelve eggs with four cups of white sugar, then mixed them with a gallon of milk and a quart of cream in a brass kettle over the heat. Stir the mixture continuously, keeping a close eye to take it off just before it starts to boil. Let it cool, then flavor it generously with either whiskey, brandy, or sweet wine. Meanwhile, beat the egg whites with a little salt until they stick to the bowl, then quickly pour boiling water from a kettle over them. They hardly lose any bubbles in the process—the water drains well, and the egg whites are ready to be placed on top of the custard in either bowls or goblets, and decorated with crimson jelly or bits of cherry preserves. Like syllabub, boiled custard required spoons—so borrowing small silver ones was usually essential. Plutocrats hadn’t been invented yet—but tradition mentions one distinguished gentleman who was self-sufficient. The[269] fact served him well later—when he was darkly accused, the woman who baked cakes for all his celebrations firmly said: "The Colonel do such things? Lord in heaven! Don’t you know, in all the years I’ve known him, he never had to borrow a single silver spoon—and I’ve seen five hundred people there for supper. I wouldn’t believe those stories even if the Angel Gabriel came down and told them to me."

Is there anyone left, I wonder, who can cut oranges into flowers? They really did look beautiful when cut this way. The peel was evenly divided into six parts, the sections loosened but not completely pulled away at the base. Instead, the ends were curved back like flower petals. The fruit, divided into eighths, barely showed the cuts. These orange flowers sat flat on the tablecloth, either in rows, like square arrangements, or wrapped around larger items, or standing upright down the center of the table. They weren’t always available—best around Christmas, but they could be found until the end of winter.

Cheesecakes, baked in patty pans[270] topped with coconut frosting, also added to the wedding indulgence. In fact, guests came together to enjoy the rich and sweet treats, as well as the drinks. Now, looking at it from a broader perspective, I can’t help but wonder if there was meaning behind the fact that these wedding tables were so lacking in color—only displaying green and white, with just a few hints of red?

Party dinners had no such restrictions—often the table was alive with autumn leaves, the centerpiece a burst of small, ragged red chrysanthemums, or ragged pink or yellow ones, with candles glowing from beautiful pumpkin jack-o'-lanterns down the middle, or from the walls on either side. There were frosted cakes—loaves decorated brightly with red and white candies, or maybe the frosting itself was colored. Instead of syllabub or boiled custard, there were bowls of ambrosia—oranges in sections, peeled and seeded, and covered in grated fresh coconut and sugar. Often the top of the bowl was decorated with leaves cut skillfully from the skin of deep red apples, and alternating, other leaves shaped from orange peel. Christmas party dinners[271] had touches of holly and cedar, but there was no attempt to match the elaborate wedding tables. Hog’s foot jelly, red with the reddest wine, was conveniently available—since almost every plantation had a special small hog-killing after the middle of December, so there could be fresh backbones, spare ribs, sausage, and souse to help create Christmas cheer. Ham, spiced and sliced wafer thin, was a staple for such dinners—chicken and turkey appeared most often as salad, hot coffee, a variety of hot breads, crisp celery, and plenty of pickles came before the sweets. Punch, not very strong, hardly more than a fortified pink lemonade, often accompanied the sweets. Grandfather's punch was reserved for very late dinners, hot and hearty, set for gentlemen who had played whist or euchre until dawn.

These are just signs. The food varied just like households and occasions did. But everywhere, there was a shared spirit—which was a true expression of hospitality with good vibes. There wasn't a lot of luxury—we lived in a simple abundance, making use of what had no market value. I clearly remember times when you could hardly give away fresh eggs or young chickens, and other times when eggs sold for five cents a dozen—if the seller would "take it in trade." Young chickens then sold for forty to fifty cents a dozen—often with an extra one tossed in for good measure. Back then, chicken cholera hadn’t been discovered—at least not in the Tennessee bluegrass region. Neither had hog cholera—or railroads. All three arrived shortly before the Civil War began. Steamboats operated almost half the year, but flatboat traffic had dwindled as the prairies became populated, producing much more corn and thereby many more hogs for labor. Money came from wheat and tobacco—not in abundance, but enough for our needs. All of this is shared in hopes of explaining, to some extent, the cooking I’ve tried to faithfully record—since with so much available, it would have been wrong to hold back.[273]

There was barbecue, and once again, there were barbecues. The dish is said to get its name from the French phrase a barbe d' ecu, meaning from tail to head, indicating that the entire carcass was cooked whole. This origin might be an early example of making the punishment fit the crime. As for that, I don't know. What I do know is that lambs, pigs, and kids, when barbecued, are split in half along the backbone. The animals, butchered at sundown and allowed to cool off, after being well washed down, are laid on clean, split sticks of green wood over a trench two feet deep, a little wider, and as long as needed, in which green wood has previously been burned to coals. The meat stays there for twelve hours—from midnight to noon the next day, typically. It's basted constantly with salt water using a clean mop and turned over just once. Live coals are added as needed from the log fire kept burning a short distance away. All of this sounds simple, easy-peasy. Try it—it's really an art. The plantation barbecuer was a significant figure—besides, few plantations could boast a[274] master of the craft. Such a person could act with a sense of grandeur—their services were an act of special friendship—always beneficial to the one who borrowed them. Back then, just like now, there were free barbecuers, mostly white—but somehow, their work lacked a bit of perfection. For one reason, they never figured out the exact secret of "dipney," the sauce that enhanced the meat when it was perfectly tender and brown all over, but without the slightest bit of burning.

Daddy made it this way: Two pounds of sweet lard, melted in a brass kettle, with one pound of beaten, not ground, black pepper, a pint of small fiery red peppers, chopped and cooked softly in just enough water to barely cover them, a spoonful of powdered herbs—he never revealed what they were—and a quart and a pint of the strongest apple vinegar, with a little salt. These were simmered together for half an hour while the barbecue finished cooking. Then a fresh, clean mop was dipped lightly into the mixture and gently smeared over the top sides of the meat. Not a single drop was allowed to fall on the coals—it would have created smoke and clouds of light ash. Once the tables were set, the meat was placed, sizzling hot, into clean, tight wooden trays, deeply gash-marked on the side that had been next to the fire, and drenched with the sauce, which the mop-man generously spread all over it.

Hot! After eating it, you’d want to lie down by the spring and let the water flow into your mouth. But in terms of flavor, taste, and deliciousness, nothing else on Earth comes close. It might not be food for the gods, but it’s definitely fit for men. Women loved it just as much—just look at how they begged for a quarter of lamb, piglet, or goat to take home. The perfect sides for barbecue are sliced cucumbers in strong vinegar, sliced tomatoes, lots of salt-risen light bread—and even more cool, ripe watermelons for dessert.

So much for barbecue food. The event has yet to be planned. Its main purpose was often political—people in the old south enjoyed speeches even more than those in the new south. Newspapers were scarce and had low circulation. Plus, reading them was hard work—also boring and bland. So the influential and those who wanted to be influential would ride around, mingling with the masses and sharing their insights. Each gathering felt it was their duty to bring the masses together so they could listen comfortably. Besides, they wanted entertainment—a big barbecue was like a social event, bringing together people from several counties and letting them hear and share new, strange, and shocking things. Additionally, it was easy to find meat—having fifty to a hundred pigs was not unusual. Everyone showed up—men, women, children, all of them. The women brought bread and tablecloths, and often much more. There was a speaker's platform draped with flags—my young eyes first saw the Stars and Stripes flying above images—so-called—of Fillmore and Buchanan during the campaign of '56. That showed the barbecue was a joint event—both Whigs and Democrats working together, each eager to cheer for their own speakers. Naturally, in that area, Fremont wasn't even mentioned. No court outfit with a three-yard-long tail could make me feel half as good as the white fabric and green sash I wore back then.

It was said there were a thousand people at the barbecue. The cheering, at its loudest, could be heard two miles away. To me, it felt like everyone in the world had gathered in that shady grove—I remember wondering if there could really be so many watermelons that some would be left for the children. Four big wagonloads were bobbing in the coolness of the spring branch. It was a very cold spring with mint growing nearby, which is common for springs in that area. Early settlers planted it close to the water—they built their houses high, and the water got warm while being carried uphill. Lacking ice houses to make cool juleps, they had to mix them right at the well. Sugar, spoons, goblets, and the jug were easy to carry down there.

Juleps weren't mixed openly that day—but the speakers had pitchers full of something that seemed to boost their energy just as much as it did their eloquence. They[278]enthusiastically debated with each other, cheered on by raucous supporters, from nine in the morning until six in the evening. Luckily for them, there were four of them, so they could take turns "spelling" each other—and the audience. I didn't mind them—not at all. How could I—when right in front of me was a woman with the most stunning flowers on her white chip bonnet, and one next to me who insisted on me wearing her watch and chain until it was time to go home?

The watermelons held up—we took two big ones home for Mom, along with a bunch of amazing Indian peaches and a front quarter of lamb. Mom rarely went out since she was sick, so people competed with each other to send her things. I mention this just to show that there were still things to be sent, even after feeding a crowd. The Black folks left well-fed and with plenty—no one who carried a basket felt like taking home any of its contents.

Our countryside cooking really came into its own for the bran-dances—which[279] I think started because the pioneers loved to dance but didn’t have big enough floors. So, in a green shaded spot by a spring, they built a gazebo out of green branches, leveled the ground underneath, packed it down hard and smooth, then covered it with an inch of clean wheat bran. They set up seats all around, including a stand for fiddlers, hired the fiddlers, printed invitations that spread far and wide to women of all ages, ensured there was plenty of barbecue, relied on the Lord and the ladies for the rest—and got ready to dance from nine in the morning until two the next morning. Men weren’t specifically invited—anyone with a clean shirt, dancing shoes, a good horse, and a solid reputation was warmly welcomed. The prominent men, whose names were listed as managers, paid for everything—they left the actual planning to the younger guys. But they showed up in droves at the bran-dances and often had the nerve to steal away some lovesick youth’s favorite partner. Sometimes, many of them even crowded out all the prettiest girls, dancing a special set with them. In this way, they delivered the young men into the hands of the polished—the guys struck deals with the fiddlers and caller to play fast and furious—to call out figures that kept the older crowd moving. It was a test of endurance—yet victory didn’t always go to the young men. Plenty of older gentlemen were still spry enough, and had enough wind, to dance through Money Musk double, Chicken in the Bread Tray, and the Arkansaw Traveller, no matter what time it was.

All dances were square—quadrilles and cotillions. The Basket Cotillion was actually considered quite bold. You see, at the end, the ring of men joined by hand-holding outside a ring of their partners lifted their locked arms over their partners' heads, and thus intertwined, the circle held together before breaking apart. Other times, other dances—now we have the day of the trot and the tango. But they lack the energy, the excitement of the old dances, the old tunes. To this day, when I hear them, my feet tap[281] against my will. You couldn't dance to them consistently, with gentle breezes blowing all around, leaves fluttering in the sunshine, and water rippling nearby, without developing an appetite equal to the feasts waiting for you.

One basket from a plantation was enough for bran-dances that ended at sunset—those that lasted past midnight needed two. It wouldn't be appropriate to serve just small bites for dinner. Barbecue, if there happened to be any, was just an addition to the meal, not the main event. Some of it was saved to contribute to dinner. The same went for some of the melons and a lot of the fruit. Apples, pears, and peaches were plentiful in good years—the nearby plantations sent them by the wagonload—they also delivered ice cream by the freezer-full and boilers to make coffee. These were generously shared, but no one would take them without an invitation, just like they wouldn't help themselves to someone else's money. Everything in the baskets was laid out on the communal tables, but no man thought about eating until all the women and children had been served. After that, the old men typically got the best of everything, with the women insisting they take it.

Such a feast! Broiled chicken, fried chicken in large amounts, whole hams just begging to be sliced, barbecue, pickles in a huge variety, drained and sliced for easy eating, beaten biscuits, soda biscuits, egg bread, salt-rising bread, or rolls raised with hop yeast—only a few dared to try them—all sorts of pies, tarts, and tartlets that didn’t make a mess, every type of cake in the book of good homemaking—with, now and then, new ones created just for the occasion. Even more than a wedding, a bran dance demonstrated and validated your skills as a cake maker. Cakes were admired in broad daylight, enjoyed not with overly fussy appetites, but with genuine enthusiasm. Woe betide you if a loaf of pride showed up with a "sad" streak, being not fully baked. The unmeasurable joy for a young housekeeper if their cake was praised by both tasters and critics.

Mammy and the other Mammies moved[283] around proudly, each serving as a sort of oracle to the friends of her household. They kept a close eye on items that could be returned—plates, platters, knives, spoons, and tablecloths—handling any disputes that came up due to similar patterns. They were the final authority. Spoons and similar items are easy to identify—but one decorated saucer looks a lot like another one with the same design. It was the Mammies, rather than the masters and mistresses, who ordered the carriage drivers and stable boys around with authority. But no one minded their commanding presence—it wasn’t a day for arguments or foolishness. It would definitely have been unwise to upset those who were the Keepers of the Baskets at the very end.

After dinner, people went to the dressing room, a spacious area open to the sky, surrounded by green branches stacked up, and fully equipped with buckets of water, towels, basins, pin cushions, combs and brushes, face powder, and even needles and thread. After about half an hour, everyone emerged feeling refreshed—to dance on and on until the musicians played a fast finale and took a break for their supper. Then came a time for conversation and laughter, for making new friends or subtly jabbing at old enemies. Plus, there was a lot of primping in the dressing room. Dancing steadily in 98-degree heat can be tough on certain kinds of beauty. But as the dew fell and lanterns were lit around the arbor and throughout the grove, supper was very welcome. There was hot coffee for everyone, as well as milk and lemonade, alongside buttered biscuits, chicken, ham, and barbecue. The chicken-loaf was particularly good for such occasions. To make it, several plump, tender, full-grown chickens were simmered in just enough water to barely cover them, with a few peppercorns, half a dozen cloves, and a blade of mace, until they were very tender. Then the meat was picked off the bones, chopped while still hot, packed tightly in a deep container, seasoned to taste with salt as it was packed, and dusted with more pepper if needed. After that, the broth, which had been kept at a vigorous boil, was poured over everything and left to cool. No need to skim off the fat—we liked our loaf rich as well as flavorful. It emerged as a nicely mottled solid that could be sliced thin and eaten delicately between the halves of a buttered biscuit. Sandwiches were known, but only in books. Which was a good thing—they would have dried out so badly, as this was before the era of wax paper. Since everything was packed in baskets whole, there was plenty of work for mothers and Mammies during the unpacking and setting the table.

Tarts, especially those filled with cheesecake or jelly custard, were highly regarded among desserts, particularly by both young and older men. One manager, who had been running around since eight in the morning, asked Mammy at suppertime to, "Please save him one more dozen of those little pies." In reality, those little pies were just a bite for generous appetites. Full-sized pies were never in short supply and were usually cut into quarters at the least. Frosted cake—what the guys called "white-washed"—was typically saved for the supper baskets. It stayed moist, while without the frosting, a long summer day might make it tough.

After dinner, older men drove home—unless they had daughters among the dancers without other chaperones. Usually, an aunt or cousin was ready to help out. The chaperones would dance from time to time—young men eager to impress their charges practically dragged them onto the dance floor. To their credit, they danced almost as lightly as the youngest. Occasionally, you could see a mother and daughter, even a young granddaughter, moving together in the same set. And so the fiddles played, the stars shone, the water babbled, until the lanterns flickered and went out, and the banjo player held up fingers raw and bleeding. Then, with one last swing and flourish, everyone scattered to head home, happy about the day's fun—and tired enough to be relieved it was over.

The most special occasion was a meal. Not on any major holiday, like Christmas, New Year, Jackson's Day—the eighth of January—Easter, or Whit-Monday, but as Mammy used to say: "A meal just like that." Usually, the pride of homemaking inspired it—so it had to be a triumph. The hour was two o'clock, but guests came around eleven or twelve—and spent the day. They sat down to tables that could very well have groaned under the weight. Twelve was a favored guest number—few tables could fit more than twelve plates. There were only two courses—dinner and dessert—unless in very cold weather, when a person who would be seen today as someone who liked to add extra touches might serve steaming bowls of soup. It had to smell really good, or it would just be tasted—people didn't want to lose their appetite unnecessarily, with so much food available. The table was fully set—a stuffed ham at one end, a chicken or partridge pie at the other, side dishes of smothered rabbit, or broiled chicken, at least four kinds of sweet pickles, as many jellies and sour pickles, a container full of sauces, including tomato and walnut, plain vinegar, pepper vinegar, red and black pepper, and mustard, all the seasonal vegetables—I’ve seen corn pudding, candied sweet potatoes, mashed and baked Irish potatoes, black-eyed peas, baked peaches, apples baked in sugar and cloves, cabbage boiled with bacon, okra, stewed tomatoes, sliced raw tomatoes, cucumbers with young onions, beets boiled and buttered, and green beans, all on one table.

Only food lovers dressed their lettuce at the table. One cranky old family friend had it served to him in a water bucket, set beside him on the floor. He shook it free of water, cut it into wide ribbons without bruising, covered them thickly with finely mashed hard-boiled egg yolk, then poured clear ham gravy and strong vinegar over it, added salt and pepper, both black and red—then ate his fill. But, of course, he didn't do that at formal dinners. When lettuce appeared there, it was cut up, dressed with vinegar, salt, sugar, and pepper, but without oil, garnished with rings of hard-boiled egg—and very often, and rightly, [289] neglected. Still, the hostess felt satisfied that she had offered it—that she had actually offered more than could have been reasonably expected.

There was water to drink, cider in season, and both sweet and sour milk, along with the best homemade wine. Decanters of it were lined up all along the table—you could refill your glass whenever you wanted. The only downside was that it was hard to eat properly with all the interruptions from other food being served. If there was one thing our old cooking was lacking, it was variety. I think the hosts who organized the meals felt uneasy if there was space for even one more dish.

Dessert was also an overwhelming selection. There were different kinds of cakes, two types of pie, along with ice cream or sorbet, or fresh fruit, which didn't seem excessive to those generous ladies. There was no coffee served after dinner. In colder weather, coffee was served in large cups, with cream and sugar, often accompanying the main meal. Hot apple toddies would come before it during those times. In warmer weather, the drink beforehand was an ice-cold mint julep.[290] Yet we weren't a group of people with upset stomachs or alcoholics—through the generous use of nature's plentiful gifts, we learned not to misuse them.

Birthday Barbecue: (Dorothy Dix.) Just like fine gold can be enhanced, barbecue, whether simple or classic, can be elevated with extra touches. Here’s how: Quickly kill and prepare a young wether in prime condition but not overly fat. Rinse with cool water, then dry both inside and out with a soft, damp cloth. While it’s still hot, stuff the carcass generously with fresh mint, preferably the tender and more lush kind. Close it up, then wrap it tightly in a clean cloth that's been wrung out and is very dry from cold salt water. Next, place everything into a bright, clean tin lard stand with a snug lid, secure the lid, and submerge the stand completely in cold water, preferably a spring. Do this around dusk and leave it in the water until very early morning. Build a fire in a trench using hardwood logs by two o'clock. Let it burn down to coals, and keep a log fire nearby for fresh coals as needed. Lay a piece of galvanized chicken wire with large mesh over the trench. Remove the carcass and split it down the backbone. Place it flesh side down on the wire grid, making sure the coals are evenly spread to avoid scorching. After an hour, start basting with "the sop." Here's how to make it: Melt one pound of the best butter, add a quarter pound of ground black pepper, half a pint of finely chopped red pepper pods (stalks removed), a scant pint of strong vinegar, and half a pint of brandy (peach if possible, but apple or grape works too). Cook everything together over very low heat or in boiling water for fifteen minutes. The sop shouldn’t scorch, but the seasonings should be thoroughly combined. Use a big soft swab made of clean old linen that isn’t so old it frays or strings. Baste the meat constantly. By around four in the morning, the barbecue should be perfectly cooked by just after noon. There should be enough sop left to serve as gravy on the portions after it’s served. The meat, turned once, will have a nice crispy surface and be infused throughout with the mint and seasoning.[292]

Dip-candles were never really common, but Mammy showed me how they were made back at Ole Marster's, back in the days when you couldn't buy candle molds. Whether dipped or molded, the candles were made of different materials. Tallow was the main ingredient—both mutton tallow and that from our cattle. It was rendered fresh and hardened with alum during the process. The alum was dissolved in a bit of water and mixed with the raw fat as it heated up. Eventually, the water evaporated, leaving the alum fully integrated into the clear fat. If we didn't have alum, a little clear lye was added—Mammy believed that the lye absorbed the oil in the tallow, making it firmer and whiter. However, lye and alum couldn't be used together because they would cancel each other out, as one is alkaline and the other is acidic.

Great care was taken not to burn the tallow—doing so would result in smelly, poorly colored candles. After straining out the cracklings, it was packed away and placed on the highest shelf in the lumber house to wait for molding time. Cakes of beeswax were stored in the Jackson press, so that children, both white and black, couldn’t take bites for chewing. It was next to native sweet gum for such uses—but Mammy believed it was better saved to mix with the tallow during melting. This made the candles firmer, improved their light, and changed the tallow color to a nice, very pale yellow. Beehives, like much else, were somewhat primitive—the wax was extracted from the comb crushed during honey straining. It was boiled in water to remove any remaining sweetness, then[294] allowed to cool on top of the water, taken off, and remelted over clean water to eliminate impurities, then molded into cakes. One cake was always set aside for the neighborhood cobbler, who melted it with tallow and rosin to make shoemaker's wax. Another portion was turned into grafting wax—with it, one orchard tree produced twelve types of fruit. And another, a small, pretty cake from a scalloped patty pan, found its way into the family sewing basket—when sewing by hand with flax thread, unless it was waxed, it would lose strength and quickly fall apart.

We bought our flax thread in skeins, but Mom loved to share stories about spinning it when she was younger and the best spinner on the old plantation. She still spun shoe thread for her friend the cobbler, who provided her with the raw flax he had grown, rotted, and processed in his little piece of bottom land. There was still plenty of spinning and weaving happening at our house—Mom made jeans, linsey, carpets, and more every year—but our plantation wasn’t entirely covered in homespun like it had been in her father's house.

Let's return to our candle-making. It was work for the coldest weather—even though we had two sets of molds, the candles had to harden quickly if we wanted to keep the process moving. Molds could be filled at the kitchen hearth and then set outside to cool. For dipping, the tallow pot had to be placed over an outside fire, next to a ladder laid flat on trestles with smooth boards underneath. Mom spun the candle wicks—from long-staple cotton, drawing it out thick and twisting it just enough to hold together. It couldn't be too rough since it had to be doubled over reeds at the top, whether for molding or dipping.

The molds were shaped like candles, arranged in groups of six or twelve, with a small handle on one side and tiny holes at the tips for inserting the wick ends using a long broom straw. Once positioned, the wicks were pulled tight, with the reeds arranged to keep the wicks centered. Then, tallow mixed with beeswax in the right proportions was poured in until the molds were full. After that, the molds were quickly plunged into a tub of cold water outside to prevent leaking from the tip—hot grease can leak out easily. Only in freezing weather would the first leaks harden quickly enough to seal the opening. When the candles had set properly, the mold was either held over the fire or immersed in hot water for half a minute, then the candles were pulled out using the reeds. They were allowed to cool a bit to preserve the softened exterior, then trimmed of excess wick and placed on a dish outside. Careless or clueless candle makers would sometimes add soft candles to the pile, creating extra work for themselves.

Tallow for dipping was kept just fluid by placing it over embers a short distance from the fire. The pot needed to be deep so that the wicks could be fully submerged. They were dipped stick by stick, then quickly lifted and hung between the ladder rungs[297] to let them drip. Half the tallow dripped off—after the first dip, they barely resembled their original form, looking more like clotted shadows. In very cold weather, three dips were enough—otherwise, four or five were needed. Since the dip resulted from cooled layers, it was always top-heavy—much larger at the tip than at the base. However, a quick and skilled worker could dip a hundred candles in the time it took to mold two dozen. They burned out so fast that it was a blessing—half a dozen candles was the average for a long winter night. They melted down in large quantities—so saving the drippings was important. Even molded candles produced enough to make re-molding worthwhile, unless they were discolored by the brass of candlesticks—in which case, their final use was as soap grease.

Rush lights were dips—I'm saying this based on what I've heard because I've never actually seen one. Also, based on what I've learned, people in the remote areas where wicks were hard to find used splinters of fat pine, known as light wood, instead of wicks. To prove this, consider Candle Wood Mountain, which is said to have gotten its name from this particular fat pine, noted for its excellent quality. I think the pine splinters must have provided a better light than real wicks—my father, in Tennessee, always longed for the lightwood that brought such a bright glow during his childhood in a Carolina home.

Every type of waste fat eventually turned into soap grease. Bones were even tossed into vats of lye, which stripped them of all their richness, leaving them dry and suitable for burying around the grapevines. This led to the well-known saying among the Black community to express strong disdain for a suitor: "My Lord! I wouldn't have that guy, not even for soap grease." This always struck me as a kind of classic condemnation.

Soap making happened twice a year—the big event in March to dispose of leftovers from hog killing, and a smaller one in September or October to use up summer savings. Each was preceded by the process of dripping lye. This required wood ashes, specifically from green wood, with oak or hickory being the best options. They were kept dry until they were placed in hoppers, where they were softened by gentle wetting for several days. Then, water was dripped through, resulting in a dark brown caustic liquid that smelled clean but was dangerous to handle—it would burn a careless fingertip to the raw.

But even so, it wasn't strong enough for proper soap-making, so it was boiled and boiled until it would eat through a feather just drawn quickly through it. Grease was then added gradually, stirred in well, turning the black-brown lye into a light-brown, bubbly mass. Anything the lye wouldn’t break down from the grease was skimmed off with a big perforated ladle. Beyond just candle-making, soap-making was an art. Mammy would never touch it until "the right time of the moon." Furthermore, she used a sassafras stick for stirring, inserting it in her[300] right hand the first time and always stirred the kettle the same way. If a left-handed person came near the kettle, she was really upset—convinced her soap would go wrong. She kept a smaller kettle of clear lye on the fire beside it, ready to add when needed, without stopping the boiling.

Boiling down lye took a day, boiling in grease took another. On the third morning, after the fire was blazing, she tested the soap by making a bit into lather. If the lather was clean and clear, without a greasy film on top, she knew it was just a matter of cooking the soap down thick enough for the barrel, or shaping it into balls with the addition of salt. But if a film appeared—then there was definitely trouble. The first step was to add more lye, strong enough to eat feathers—next was a fresh sassafras stirring stick, and last but most important, she had to walk backward as she put the stick in the kettle, even though she would never admit she did this on purpose. Like most people like her, she was incredibly shy about acknowledging her beliefs in charms and magic.

Soap that didn’t thicken properly[301] was lacking in grease. It was a careful balancing act to add enough without overdoing it. Tallow didn’t blend well with lard. So, it usually had its own smaller pot, producing a hard, lighter-colored soap meant for hand use.

Since our laundry workers really preferred soft soap, most of the spring batch went straight into the barrel. The barrel had to be really tight—soap can creep through seams almost as well as hot lard. One kettle of soap, though, would have salt mixed in, then be allowed to cool and be shaped into long bars, which were placed high and dry to age. Old soap worked much better for washing delicate fabrics, such as prints, lawns, ginghams, and so on—in fact, anything that needed cleaning without fading.

Various talented soap makers poured their salted soap into shallow pans lined with cloth, just as it was about to harden, and shaped it into balls the size of two fists with their bare hands. They did this with the entire batch, claiming that hard soap was much easier to store and saying it was no trouble at all to soften a ball in a little hot water on wash days. But Mammy wouldn’t have any part of that—she insisted on having good soft soap and sand rock, saying she could clean anything with them. Sand rock was a type of limestone that became crumbly when burned but didn’t turn into lime. Mammy collected it wherever she found it, ground it up fine, and used it on everything—shelves, floors, pots, milk pans, and cedar water buckets—it made their brass hoops shine like gold. While she cleaned, she told us stories from the pewter era—about when, as a barefoot child, she went with her mother to the Rush Branch to come home with a bundle of rushes, which were used to polish the pewter. It still hurts to remember the fate of that pewter. As glass and pottery became more common, the boys—my five uncles—melted it down to make rifle bullets when they ran out of lead. But who am I to judge them? Didn't I also melt down a fine Britannia ware teapot for a less noble purpose, just because it had a tiny leak? Now I would value it more than silver and gold.

Thinking back to candle-making—we didn’t have candle-berries in our area, and only a few wax-berries as decorations in our gardens. But from what I’ve learned through observation and experience, candle-berries, or bayberries, can be melted in hot water, just like honeycomb, and the wax can be strained away from the seedy leftover parts. Then, it’s allowed to cool on top of the water and can be clarified by melting and cooling it again in water. When mixed with paraffin, it can be shaped into real bayberry candles that smell much better than the ones you find in stores. It’s important to remember when buying paraffin that there are three qualities, mainly differing in the temperature at which they melt. Choose the one that melts the hardest for candle-making. You might want to experiment with bayberry wax and the drippings from plain paraffin candles before getting serious about candle-making.[304]

A final note. If anyone feels like challenging what’s been presented here, please keep in mind that just like one star shines differently from another, each family and region has its own unique ways of eating, drinking, and cooking. I’ve written honest observations, but I don’t claim they apply universally. In fact, some may think they contradict common wisdom and experience. To those people, I suggest trying these ideas thoughtfully, with effort and patience, and regarding the outcomes, stick with what you find beneficial.

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