Southern Hotdish

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

A funny thing happened on the way to the microwave. Carefully sidestepping the dog, guarding the bowl of leftover squash casserole in my hand prompted me to reminisce about the origins of my love affair with the simple southerly nourishment about to be consumed. A story spanning 46 years and counting.

Squash casserole, and its many iterations, became one of my absolute favorite foods, beating out both dark chocolate and wine. The savory texture play of sauteed crooknecks, shredded cheese, and a buttery cracker topping had won my affection as Best. Side. Dish. Ever. Other favorites included such delights as cheese grits, banana puddin’, and all kinds of saltwater friends of fin and claw. But it was also the memories accompanying this delicious journey to the southland that made it ever more satisfying.  

Hailing from Pennsylvania, my family began inching past the Mason-Dixon line with occasional vacations to the shore of Nag’s Head, North Carolina. A week in the sun and surf, riding down enormous sand dunes on cardboard saucers, and expanding our palates was the stuff of our dreams during long, cold winter months. 

Traveling with family friends (before seatbelts and AC) was a hot, bumpy, yet serendipitous ride in the back of a covered pickup truck. We kids pointed out various state license plates along the way and sang LOUDLY into the wind, much to our parents’ chagrin. A routine stop at a Stuckey’s for fresh pecans or a few iconic nut rolls signaled the start of our food-infused road trip as we ate our way to Carolina. Despite the sugar high, full bellies warranted a nap, not to mention well deserved peace for the adults at the wheel.

Chasing fiddler crabs prohibited us from ever wanting to eat such prickly, angry beings with beady raised eyes. Other types of fish were sampled and deemed a huge improvement from the frozen fish sticks back home. A large circus-style ice cream tent near the dunes was a regular dessert stop. Our kid heads exploded at tasting such delicious hand-churned creaminess – on a beach no less!

The week always ended far too soon for our liking. The motel manager’s parting sentiment of “Y’all come back now, Y’heuh?!” would ring in our ears – not only for miles, but years.

And return we did. More coastal vacations, an eventual move to Florida, and attending nursing school in Tennessee cemented my fondness for this region of the country, along with their food culture.

While in Tennessee, the adorable grandmother of an old college boyfriend served a squash bake (along with warm hugs) nearly every Sunday dinner I attended at their home. Asking her once how she made it, she laughed and gave casual approximates – a handful of this, a little of that, don’t forget to add this, and top it with whatever crackers you’ve got laying ‘round. Like most elderly good cooks, she needed no recipe, simply relying on muscle memory to craft the universally appealing and dependable dish made since the early days of her lengthy marriage.

I was a bit – no, make that extremely – skeptical when a nursing school roommate first introduced me to her momma’s collard greens lying drunkenly in a bowl. I ignored the unappealing visual and sampled the foliage, not wanting to be rude. Greeted with a wonderful smokiness, I quickly added this vinegary concoction to my repertoire. Aside from my suspicion that any nutritional value had long-since been boiled out of those leaves, I still felt I was being healthy, not to mention so very southern. And yes, I even added extra vinegar. 

Famous ‘Cue destinations were added to the love list, determining on more than one occasion where a hotel would be booked for the night while traveling to sample the Holy Grail of a particular pitmaster.  

I also found my main dish, my native Floridian husband, who cut his teeth on his family’s freshly caught seafood and homemade pecan pie. As newlyweds back in the Sunshine State, we expanded our proper cooking and entertaining skills with a subscription to Southern Living magazine. 

What struck me in those pages was that my favorites were hardly embellished, if at all. Elegantly photographed spreads for the gamut of occasions preferred the same down-home, delectable fare. A lightbulb moment for me, I realized folks do not prefer fancy, they prefer good, and a pretty vessel was all the gussying up required for these staple foods should the occasion require. And while hubby refrains from waxing poetic over food like I do, he has frequently and adamantly reminded me to keep things simple, even when entertaining.

After all these years, a recent cookbook purge escorted me back to my transplanted roots. Having collected far too many tomes from all over the map, the ones with the most dog-eared, roughed up, and stained pages were – you guessed it – the southern belles. They had been trusted consultants for soirees from bare picnic tables to formal dining rooms, offering up contentment and accolades.  

After repeating to myself for years, “Damn, these folks know how to eat!” I have, at long last, found my culinary identity. Clearing the chef clutter on those shelves allowed me to finally hear the whispers of my true kitchen kin who had been reminding me all along: “Y’all come back now, y’heuh?!”