My southern identity was put before the court of public opinion today and I was found guilty, guilty I say by a biased jury of one. I was wrongfully questioned, and thus accused of being a foreigner in God’s country, where fried fare, whole hog bbq, sweet tea, and nanner puddin’ are always on the menu. 

While shootin’ the Bojangles’ breeze with an older gentleman in overhauls, probably rollin’ in cash, like the hogs he owns in mud, he quipped, “where you from, son”? “You ain’t got much’uvah suthin’ accent”. I thought, “Lawd have mercy!” With just a few words, like the call of a concrete jungle, my adopted accent betrayed my heritage, and like a wayward foreigner in a far away land, my vernacular visa had just been revoked.

I was offended. My down home proclivities I hold dear seemed somehow tainted. Was I suddenly an imposter? Had I betrayed my upbringin’? Would Sweet’N Low become my preferred sugar substitute? Is kale now my new sausage gravy? After all these years of living amongst suburban folk, had I become citified sophisticated? It was if Junior Samples had waved his magic tire iron and turned my camo pants into skinny jeans and the Cabela’s sweatshirt on my husky sized back had shrunk to that of a J. Crew slim fit dress shirt. It was a low moment.

After all these years of living amongst suburban folk, had I become citified sophisticated?

So, I’m just over hear ponderin’. Ponderin’ on what dues I need to pay or good deeds that need doin’ to earn back my fried chicken and collard green credentials. Maybe I’ll move to some rural NC county, like American Spanish students who immerse themselves in Latin America to learn the language. I dunno, but sumthin’s got to change. 

I need more syrup in my drawl, y’all!
The rural South, a place where old Live Oaks flourish, dirt roads seem endless, corn fields are as big as whole oceans, and little pink houses dot the landscape. Diners, where “honey”, “darlin’”, and “dear” are honorary nicknames. A small place where porches are for sittin’ and lemonade is for sippin’. “C’mon over and sit a spell” is a Sunday afternoon tradition and dinner on the grounds is prepared and served as if church royalty had been invited. But I digress.

Though the South has its dark corners and times of the past we loathe, when our behavior was less than who God created us to be, we still like to think our cotton is high, we’re always fixin’ to do somethin’, dinner is supper, and “bless your heart” is not always a term of endearment.

Rick Bragg once wrote, “If you cannot eat what you want in the South, life is not worth living here.”

Any culinary fare with the forename, “fried”, is considered atop the southern food pyramid. Our bloodlines course with Dixie Crystal, Duke’s mayonnaise, and Old Bay. Sweet tea is our beverage of choice, pork BBQ is the other white meat, and good chicken salad is worth the hunt.

I like my chefs to be full-bodied and sturdy. Ones who create broad flavors with brawny undertones of sausage, bacon, and catfish.

– Steve Wade

Those who trod across the kitchen as if dragging a pig cooker, not flit, like the hostess of the evening, are those I choose to dine with. The best southern chefs should look as if they enjoy their fare as much as bubba does sitting over in the corner booth eating it.

To me, a skinny chef is suspicious. Someone not to be trusted. Unlike a robust robe of pork rib royalty, which hangs best on a fattened whole hog, the cloak of uncertainty I see through the kitchen saloon doors draped over the rawboned gentleman preparing my biscuits and gravy, makes me wonder if he truly believes in the goodness that simmers before him.

Not to baste the Thanksgiving turducken with a broad brine of pejorative rhetoric about skinny people, in particular skinny chefs, but my proclivities beg me to at least ask. I am certain if those who stir the culinary delights which typically befall my plastic plate, they too would carry a little extra ballast. But hey! We all need a little grounding so our ships don’t list.

I’ve met one or two bakers, chicken breaders, and holy hog handlers who live the “one for you and two for me” lifestyle while frying hushpuppies. Though somehow they maintain their girlish figure, trust me, it’s genetic, cause ain’t no southern comfort food chef worth their weight in buttermilk, bacon grease, cornmeal, and pecan pie if they buy skinny jeans from J.Crew and have accrued any reward points from Happy and Hale.

So, in this world of kale salads, avocado smoothies, and beyond beef, whatever that is, pull up a chair at the next checkerboard table cloth you can find and sit a spell. If the waitress comes over and calls you “honey”, “darlin’” or “dear”, you’ve found the honey pot of good southern cookin’.

Bon appétit, y’all!