My uncle always says that down here, we eat with our hearts, not our mouths. And I believe it.
Much more goes into our cast-iron pots than just those ingredients that recipe calls for — sometimes it’s blood, sweat and tears. One thing is for certain: What begins with the heart ends in the heart.
Thursday will be the grand parade of turkey and cranberry, cornbread dressing and dirty rice, succotash, green bean casserole and maybe some squash and zucchini. There will be gravy to drown in, buttered bread rolls and other vegetables you didn’t know existed but are so dang delicious, all to be washed down with gallons of ice tea minted from mother’s courtyard and her murderous congealed strawberry salad for desert.
Food is a way of life down here. There’s a proper way to do food as well as plenty of improper, lousy ways to do food. Usually our best educators, as with anything else, are age and experience.
The spread will have started well before the strike of noon on Thanksgiving Thursday. For my family, my mother usually wakes at the same time my father, brother and I do for our morning hunt, but that’s only to tan the bird. The rest had begun days in advance.
Through my adolescence in Louisiana kitchens, I’ve been learned in the ways of spices and sauces by a few different patriarchs, and one particular matriarch. However, there are a few rules I’ve acquired from them that I like to follow when taking to black-iron.
The first, being the cardinal rule, is that no man should touch another man’s pot. What is in that pot is either that cook’s glory or demise; no credit or blame should go to anyone else’s hands. Only offer suggestions or recommendations when prompted. Otherwise, let the master work, or let the novice cook and learn.
The second thing I stress is time. Although my grandfather would disagree by saying a drink of scotch is the most important, ensuring all the time you need to prepare your dish is the most important call of the recipe.
Time may be of the essence, but why rush to cook and eat when you know you’ll be back at it — nose in the scented steam — in a couple of hours?
You must take your time. Anything rushed on the stove is nothing worth eating.
And when living in a world like this, we need all the therapy we can get. Appreciate your time cooking like it’s therapy, and stare into that gravy like it’s the ceiling of a psychiatrist’s office.
Especially during the week of Thanksgiving, that local trend of having an intermission from the kitchen to get something done — rather than breaking to get into the kitchen — serves as a peaceful opportunity for time to reflect on all the things to be thankful for. One thing that calls for reflection is the ability to spend time in the kitchen.
The last, from which I’ve learned from my grandfather’s recipes and cooking in the kitchen he frequented, is that you should always maintain a drink and good company to keep the atmosphere light.
If you’re doing it right, you should be spending most of your time patiently waiting. A little talking music never hurts, but nothing passes the time like shooting the shit with a buddy over a drink of whatever you fancy.
But along with that drink comes responsibility. Don’t give the bottle too much attention — you could lose focus and possibly put sugar on that steak instead of salt.
If the bottle needs that much attention, let it entertain your guests. Your culinary ego will certainly be stroked by inebriated taste buds.
Now I hope my three culinary commandments have left you with a sense of famine today, because I know around two o’clock in the afternoon Thursday, I will dip into a turkey-induced coma that should hold me over until the end of finals week.
Enjoy, and always give thanks.
