On the Road to Rhoda's

It was Friday afternoon and my homing beacon was turned on. There were 269 long miles between Little Rock, Arkansas and the rocking chair on my Mississippi porch. The soundtrack in my head played “Six days on the road and I’m gonna make it home tonight….” So, it had been seven days, four towns and three different beds but who’s counting?

Rolling through the flat farmland of the Arkansas Delta the work week disappeared behind me like the cotton fields in my rear view mirror. It was time to shift mental gears, too. It was time to think about road food and I was thinking about Rhoda’s. There’s nothing like the promise of tamales and fried pie to make the miles fly by.

You’ll find Rhoda’s Famous Hot Tamales on St. Mary Street in Lake Village, Arkansas…just about ten miles before the stunning new bridge delivers you across the Mississippi River to Greenville. It was 2:30 by the time I walked in the front door and Rhoda Adams was nowhere to be found. Her husband James was dishing out 3 dozen tamales into a tin can for a customer then much to my dismay sold her the only individual pies left in the case. Rhoda is the only baker I’ve ever known who makes most every pie a “half and half” and these tiny pies are half sweet potato and half pecan. What a concept! It removes the agony of choice.

When it was my turn at the counter, I was relieved to know that the big pot on the stove still held enough tamales for me. Purchased in bundles of three, Rhoda’s tamales are a combination of chicken and beef encased in cornmeal and wrapped in corn shucks. The tamales are boiled to cook the cornmeal that surrounds the spicy meat mixture and meld the flavors. As James packed the can and ladled gravy over the tamales, I inquired about Rhoda and lamented that I was too late for fried pies. To my delight, I discovered that Rhoda was selling fried pies up the road at Paul Michael’s, a huge home décor store that draws shoppers from all over the region.

Heading down the highway to Paul Michael’s, I had a vision of Rhoda in her own little booth in the huge warehouse space selling her pies. I was wrong. Before I was all the way through the door, a woman in a rocking chair abruptly greets me with “Do you want to buy some hot tamales and pies?” I answered “I already got the tamales but I came for the pies.” She led me out the door and into the parking lot and opened her van door to reveal a big pot of tamales and about 20 pies on the floor. The fried pies – peach and apple -- were displayed on the dashboard. Instead of being thrilled to sell me pies, she was totally outdone that I bought the tamales from James. Rhoda let me know that she was ready to go for the day and if I’d bought the three dozen tamales from her, she could have been home by now. We made a deal on the fried pies. I wanted one; I left with four. And somehow she talked me into a large “half and half” – in this case one half lemon ice box and the other half chocolate.

We chatted for awhile and both agreed that it had been a long week and we just wanted to put our feet up. I crossed the big river counting down the last 100 miles to my front porch. Rhoda packed up the van and headed in the opposite direction. It was Friday afternoon, after all. It was time to go home.

Rhoda's Famous Hot Tamales, 714 Saint Mary Street, Lake Village, AR 71653 , Phone: 870-265-3108

For more pictures of James and Rhoda Adams and Rhoda’s, please see my Facebook page or click on

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2050708&id=1086822265&l=fdcbfb57b0

A Feast Among the Ruins

Ben and Mary Lee's House after the storm

In remembrance of the fifth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina August 29, 2010, a story of gratitude and how to make do when you have to.

My family was deeply affected by Hurricane Katrina. We lost the century old family home where thirty seven summers and many of the shared life experiences of our big family took place. My brother Todd’s home was so severely damaged it was uninhabitable and brother Ben lost everything. It was just gone. When the wind and the water subsided, there was only a concrete slab left behind.

Mary Lee and the search through the rubble

Ben has always been the most laid back of my five siblings, and no matter how dire the circumstance he always finds a bright spot. Ben loves people and they are drawn to him. Maybe it’s because he finds his joy in the simple blessings of family, good winds to sail his boat, or a beautiful sunrise to share with his dog. He is my inspiration for “making do when you have to.”

In the days following Hurricane Katrina, those of us who lived in Jackson, three hours away from the devastation of the storm, would load a pick up truck with supplies and head to Pass Christian to dig through the rubble. Sister Helen’s job was to shop for food and supplies. Every night on the long drive home, I would call her with a list. She would go to the market for food and scour the stores for precious supplies then help load the truck for the return trip at the crack of dawn. Our town of Pass Christian was 95% gone and with few houses left, my brother and his friends found shelter with Chuck and Amy Wood whose home was spared the devastation. At one time, there were about 30 of them making camp in the Wood’s home. Since there was no water or electricity, we would make ice chests full of sandwiches and platters of brownies to feed the motley crew that used the Wood’s home as their base camp.

To break up the monotony of sandwiches, one morning I called Ben to tell him I was sending a beef tenderloin. His reaction took me by surprise. He said, “That’s great, but don’t cook it.” I was puzzled by his comment and he went on to say, “That’s something we can do. We can build a fire and cook it.”

After a day of back breaking work, digging through rubble, trying to find even the smallest of possessions, he and his friends would gather on the slab that had once been his home and cook over a fire. They drank mud-caked bottles of wines whose labels have been stripped as they were battered by the tidal surge, wedged in the rubble, then baked in the post hurricane sun. They made a game of guessing the type of wine the now nameless bottles held. When he told me this, I knew he would be ok. In the midst of this enormous tragedy with all their worldly possessions gone, Ben and his friends still took time to be together at the end of the day. They were alive: they had each other and they knew “how to make do when they had to.”

Life goes on...and life is good, isn’t it?

A version of this story was first published in At Home Cafe: Gatherings for Family and Friends (Rodale Publishing), a family cookbook by my sister Helen Puckett Defrance and me. At Home Cafe and At Home Cafe: Gatherings are available from Turnrow Books (and other independent book sellers) at http://www.turnrowbooks.com/.

Shrimp Under the Oaks

1215 East Beach - Before

In remembrance of  the fifth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina August 29, 2010.

There are two ancient oak trees at 1215 East Beach in the little Gulf Coast town of Pass Christian. The old white two-story house set back from the Gulf of Mexico looks cool and peaceful with big screened porches on each side. The massive oak trees that frame the old house have enormous limbs, some reaching down toward the earth as if to offer an invitation to swing or climb on their sturdy limbs. The rustle of the Gulf breeze through the oak trees tells you that this is a very special place, a happy place where family and friends love to gather.

1215 East Beach - After

As you drive up the long driveway made of broken seashells you have an immediate feeling of peace and tranquility. That is until you drive around back and realize that’s where the action is taking place. The swimming pool overflows with children and grandchildren and under the big oak tree my father waits impatiently for the water to boil to cook his shrimp in the butane cooker. The shrimp goes in first, then the corn and potatoes will boil in the shrimp and spice seasoned water. Back at the house my mother is relaxed in a white wicker chair on the screen porch entertaining the grownups.

Whether we had out of town guests or a house full of family, our meals always showcased the bounty of the Gulf. No matter who you are or where you were from, if you paid a summer visit to the Puckett family in Pass Christian you are familiar with this meal.

The tablecloth consists of yesterday’s newspaper, which can easily be rolled up and thrown out at the end of a messy meal. For napkins we use colorful dishtowels in seashell napkin rings. To keep from constant dishwashing when the house is teeming with children and guests, another family tradition is to letter each person’s name on a large plastic cup. This serves as a make-shift place card as well as one’s personal cup for the day. Soft drinks are in washtubs and everyone selects his own.

When the shrimp and crabs are ready, word goes out to our large, noisy family that supper is ready. The swimming pool empties and everyone heads to the house. While the children are getting dressed the grownups gather in the kitchen to eat our favorite seafood dish, Ben’s Barbequed Shrimp. Shrimp is ladled out of the pot into individual bowls with the shrimp swimming in a delicious sauce. The po-boy bread is passed and all conversation stops. Regardless of what your mother taught you about dipping and sopping, all rules are suspended and we dip our bread in the spicy barbecue sauce. After the dishes have been removed, the rest of the group gathers. Big earthenware bowls of boiled shrimp, crabs, potatoes and corn are placed on the table. Sauces line the table in several bowls so there is not much reaching and butter is placed strategically up and down the table for corn. A plate of bright red sliced summer tomatoes topped with chopped basil, sea salt and cracked pepper is passed. Some of the adults are called on to peel shrimp for the youngest of the group, but usually the art of shrimp peeling is taught to Coast children at an early age.

When the bowls are empty and everyone begins to push their chairs back, we wipe our shrimp stained hands. Then a basket of refreshing ice cream sandwiches is passed. After the newspaper table covering has been rolled up and tossed out we are still gathered around the table telling stories of past summers in this wonderful magical house.

The ancient oak trees still stand at 1215 East Beach but our beautiful century old home is gone, a victim of Hurricane Katrina. Most of the historic town of Pass Christian is gone too. Wind and water can destroy homes but they can’t erase memory. And the remembrance of shrimp cooked under the oak trees and my family and friends gathered at the kitchen table will be with me forever.

This story was first published in At Home Cafe: Gatherings for Family and Friends (Rodale Publishing), a family cookbook by my sister Helen Puckett Defrance and me. At Home Cafe and At Home Cafe: Gatherings are available from Turnrow Books (and other independent book sellers) at http://www.turnrowbooks.com/.

Terms of Endearment

"Be Nice or Leave"

It rolled through my brain like a mantra – “Be Nice or Leave”…”Be Nice or Leave.” But I was having a hard time being nice. On this particular day my Viking Life consisted of a mad dash across three states to arrive in Greenwood, Mississippi (Cotton Capital of the World and home of Viking Range) in time for a dinner meeting. Maybe I was road weary: maybe I was just plain grumpy. Or maybe I was right.

When I walked through the door of the restaurant, a chirpy young woman greeted me with this, “How many of you are there, darling.” I looked behind me to make sure I wasn’t dragging in a tribe of gypsies and said (smiling) “just one.”  “OK darling…right this way.” “Here’s a menu DARLING.” And so it began. I was being darlinged to death.

After about five more darlings (“What can I get you to drink, darling”, “Are you ready to order, darling?” “I’ll turn in your order, darling?”) my irritation meter was wavering somewhere around 70 and I was beginning to panic. “Why was she calling me darling? “ I looked around at the other diners and strained my ears to hear if she called them darling every five seconds, too. Was she applying darling equally? She seated two middle aged guys behind me – no darling. She delivered food to another table – no darling. Why me, Lord? Was it because I was alone? And then it hit me like a ton of bricks …”it’s because she thinks I’m really, really old.” The clouds of confusion parted and in that moment of clarity I visualized my future with perky young waitresses patting my hand and saying “Let’s sit you right over here, darling”…or sweetie…or baby.

As she passed the table and said “Your food’ll be up in a minute, darling”, I gritted my teeth and tried to calmly assess the situation. What signal was I giving her that I needed this sugary, syrupy, condescending, patronizing prattle? Did I really look old and helpless…and pitiful? Ok, I admit I looked wretched. I had rolled out of bed and into the car at 6:00 that morning. No make-up. Hair in a braid. Flip-flops. Jeans. And a t-shirt that read “Make Cornbread Not War.” I looked like someone who made a wrong turn leaving Woodstock 40 years ago and was just finding her way home. I may have looked old to her…but I didn’t exactly look fragile.

I weighed whether or not to pull her aside and tell her exactly how irritating it was to be called darling a hundred times by someone I’d never seen before in my life, but decided against it. I had worked in retail and restaurants for too many years and given too many sales meetings trying to coach people to be friendly, perky, and peppy. She had many of the qualities I value and try to instill in others and I certainly didn’t want to be the old curmudgeon who burst her bubble and sent her to the swollen ranks of sullen and snarly waiters. So in my best effort to Be Nice, I began playing the Darling Game. I whipped out my notebook and started counting the times she said “darling” and copied down all the phrases to which “darling” was attached. Believe me, she was just getting warmed up.

I thought about my grandmother, a proud and gracious woman, and remembered when she crossed some invisible line and became “darling”, “sweetie”, “baby” or “precious” instead of Mrs. Todd. I thought about how ironic it is that some of us, in well meaning efforts to be polite and friendly, address those like my grandmother who carry the wisdom of a lifetime like they are children. We talk baby talk to them. While dipping my French fries in catsup in this not-so-fast food establishment in middle Tennessee, I pondered these mysteries of life. I vowed  I would reserve terms of endearment for those who are truly dear to me. I would never toss around “sweetie”, “precious” and “baby” like randomly thrown frisbees. Next time I call someone “darling” it will be a very small child or I’ll be whispering it in a loved one’s ear or looking into his eyes.

I left a big old tip on the table, a thank you for well-meaning service in a most difficult job. I didn’t deduct anything for the irritation factor and added at least a dollar or two for the enlightenment she had brought me along with the hamburger. “Come back, darling,” my perky waitress hollered as I walked out the door. I smiled graciously and said “I certainly will…and I hope you have a real nice day.”

A Peach of A Woman

Carol, Dori and Molly O'Neill

A handsome man on one arm and a basket of perfect Georgia Bell peaches on the other, Dori Sanders knows the art of making a grand entrance.

Awaiting her arrival was a motley gathering of 49 who milled about in anticipation of what promised to be an exceptional meal. The banquet table on the shores of Lake Wylie, South Carolina was set for 50 but not one of the 49 claimed a place at the table until guest number 50, peach farmer and author Dori Sanders, took her seat. At a dinner where farmers were celebrated, she was a rock star.

We gathered to celebrate the upcoming launch of Molly O’Neill’s ambitious new book on American cooking, One Big Table, and the launch of a cross country adventure by Molly and food writer, pit master, raconteur Dan Huntley to host 50 person farm to table dinners across America (see last week’s blog “One Big Table”).

I silently thanked the seating gods that Dori was my dinner partner, geared up for what promised to be lively conversation and even dared to hope that there could be a perfect peach in my near future.

The granddaughter of a freed slave, Dori Sanders and her family operate one of the oldest African-American farms in the region. Her father, a former sharecropper, bought the land around 1915. The 200 + acre farm in Filbert, South Carolina produces fruits and vegetables and specializes in growing Georgia Bell and Elberta peaches which Dori sells at a roadside stand. The eighth of ten children Dori and her siblings were encouraged to read by her father, who served as school teacher and principal. He also encouraged them to write by insisting that his large family write down their grievances before bringing them to him. Dori has often said that this is where she sharpened her fiction writing skills.

The journey from peach farmer to best selling author was one that Dori Sanders never dreamt of taking. First writing stories for her nieces and nephews to pass down family history, she began work on a novel in 1990 that was to become Clover. Clover won the Lillian Smith book award and has been translated into several languages. Like Clover, her second book Her Own Place draws from her experience growing up in the rural South and is fed by the stories and characters Dori has encountered over the years working the family peach stand.

Dori Sanders still works on the family farm, now over 200 acres, and can be found at the family peach stand in Filbert on highway 321 during the summer months. This summer the peaches are abundant – so abundant, Dori said that “the only reason to not have peaches is if you don’t have a peach tree.”

That evening under the light of the Carolina moon, she had lots of stories to tell and questions to ask the rest of us. A chronicler of the human experience, she wanted our stories too. Her delight at each course of our dinner bespoke a reverence for the miracle of the farm – of planting, tending and harvesting the foods. With Dori as our guide, we touched, smelled, admired and ate everything in sight – including the table decorations of artfully arranged fresh vegetables. Dori was fascinated by the Asian bitter melon that graced the table and left with a secret sackfull to take back to the farm and make soup. Her lucky dinner companions left with peaches – perfect Georgia Bell peaches - graciously gifted from the extraordinary woman who grew them. Oh what a night!

Man Food

Men like peach pie - it's true!

It was a blissful domestic kind of day and I was sitting at the kitchen table with my friend Sallye idly flipping through cookbooks, a rare luxury for both of us. We were on a mission. Sal and I had invited three men for dinner. Now keep in mind that these were not just any men. They were friends – old friends, dear friends, friends of our youth. They already liked us; we liked them. They weren’t men we had to impress. They wouldn’t care if the meat was a bit overcooked or the vegetables too salty. It would be a relaxed, joyful and low maintenance evening. It was about being together.

Thinking of the bounty of August gardens, I had tomatoes on my mind when I turned to a gorgeous photograph of Roasted Tomato- Basil Soup in Ina Garten’s Barefoot Contessa Cookbook. “M-m-m-m …look at this tomato soup,” I said. Without looking up from her Sara Foster cookbook, Sallye snapped “Men don’t like cold soup.” “Oh”..I said and considered the very real possibility that she knew some universal secret I didn’t know. In my ignorance I had no idea men didn’t like cold soup. Most of the men who sat at my table over the years – including my ex-husband – seemed to enjoy my cooking. I went back to the cookbooks and before long proposed an outline of a menu. “Eggplant are pretty right now. I think I’ll grill some eggplant.” Guess what she said? Yep, she said, “Men don’t like eggplant, I’d stick with the yellow squash and zucchini.” Sallye’s not a frivolous type who makes such pronouncements lightly so I took her at her word. No eggplant. "Do you think they like peach pie?" I asked hopefully. After agreeing on a menu of comfort food – “Man Food” – we happily began working on a grocery list and dividing up duties. Still, I was perplexed.

Fast-forward 24 hours to the Sunday lunch table where my parents and I discussed the events of the past week and the inevitable question was posed, “What do you have going on next week?” Of course my mother was pleased as punch when I announced that three men were coming to dinner. “What are you cooking?” she asked. I recited the menu of roast chicken, sliced tomatoes with homemade mayonnaise, grilled squashes and grilled sweet corn salad and peach pie. “Men don’t like cold salads,” my mother retorted, “I’d go with creamed corn.”

My confidence shaken to the core, I realized I have no idea what men like…or more accurately, what women perceive men like. I felt hopeless and hapless, bumbling clueless through life. Somehow I had missed a great secret passed down through the history of womankind – and all women knew it but me. I imagined life without cold tomato soup, eggplant and corn salad. I envisioned playing a guessing game every day spinning the culinary roulette wheel to land on just the dish for dinner that “men like.” It wasn't a world I wanted to inhabit.

After thinking it over, I decided that what men like is women who cook. They appreciate the love and intent that goes onto a plate when fresh vegetables are chosen at the market and pie crust is made by hand. They like the smell of food cooking in the oven and the warmth of family and friends gathered around the table. They’re grateful when dinner doesn’t come in a white paper bag or a square cardboard box. They like all the same things about cooking, meals and mealtimes that women like.

An hour before our guests arrived, my mother stopped by to help set the table. After we cut flowers for a centerpiece and gathered all the elements of a proper place setting, I presented  her with two choices of placemats. “Go with this one,” she said, “men like neutral colors.”

One Big Table

Saturday night in the Carolinas. Southern Foodways buddies Elizabeth Sims, Thomas Williams and I piled in the car and headed out for dinner. With Asheville disappearing in the rearview mirror we set the GPS for parts unknown – namely some twisty, turny, windy roads somewhere on some lake outside Fort Mill, South Carolina. We weren’t exactly sure where we were going or how long it would take us to get there, but our collective confidence was high and we agreed that our worse case scenario was that we’d just go somewhere else.

Our destination was a fundraising event billed as a 50/50/50 dinner. There were 50 people paying $50 to dine on food grown within a 50 mile radius. And just to add another bit of synchronicity, we drove 50 + 50 + 50 miles to get there. The 150 mile distance wasn’t a problem for this group because as foodies we agreed that we’d traveled a lot farther for a lot less. And not having a place at THIS table….well, it was unthinkable.

We came to the table on Lake Wylie to celebrate Molly O’Neills epic portrait of America at the table. One Big Table, which will be released by Simon & Schuster in November, is a 900 page tome that includes 800 recipes along with oral histories, photographs and illustrations. Molly’s massive project was 10 years, thousands of miles and 20,000 recipes – mostly gathered from potlucks across the country - in the making.

To celebrate One Big Table and continue to tell the story of America through its cooking, Molly has teamed up with North Carolinian Dan Huntley, food writer, pit master, BBQ joint owner and inventor of the famed “Pig Pucker Barbecue Sauce” for yet another ambitious project. The duo plans to travel the country holding a series of community feasts to support local farmers and markets. The 50/50/50 dinners will showcase and serve as fundraisers for small town farmers markets and cultural institutions. After writing about America’s table, Molly and Dan want to sit down at that table and continue the lively conversation. The first of those tables was literally in Dan’s back yard on the shore of Lake Wylie.

Always happy to offer our opinions and our palates, Elizabeth, Thomas and I eagerly agreed to jump on board for what was labeled the 50/50/50 “shake down cruise”. The stunning table for 50 was festooned with produce and flowers from the nearby York farmers market and lit by paper lanterns dangling from the oak trees. For the first course, we feasted on York County Peaches, Clover Honey & Carolina Prosciutto followed by Cherokee Purple Heirloom Tomatoes, Yadkin County Cheese, Grilled Eggplant & Basil-Lime Vinaigrette. The main course was Roasted Lamb Chop, Parsnip Puree, and Bacon & Field Peas. And of course, there was dessert-- Vanilla & Lavender Goat Cheese with Local Blackberries and Chocolate Sauce. The tasty food, spot-on service, congenial diners, dramatic sunset over the water and moonlit night made for an exquisite evening. The eclectic community gathered ‘round the big table on the lake enthusiastically proclaimed Dan and Molly’s “shake-down cruise” an unqualified success and bid them good luck and god speed on their journey as they create One Big Table from sea to shining sea.

One Big Table by Molly O’Neill will be published in November 2010. Orders are now being taken on www.amazon.com or your local independent bookstore.

One Perfect Day

It was a lazy morning in Healdsburg, a dreamy day where the fog lifted from the valley like a soft window shade rising little by little to reveal the landscape . “Is this the day we’re going to see the sausage man?,” my traveling companion asked. “No,” I said with reverence befitting the occasion, “we’re going to see the Sausage King.”

We were headed for lunch with Bruce Aidells, who earned his exalted title and the adulation of thousands of loyal subjects as an innovator in the gourmet sausage business. While working on his PhD in Biology, he co-founded and was chef of a popular Berkeley restaurant, Poulet. He finally hung up his lab coat and pursued cooking full time. Since Aidells Sausage Company was founded in 1983, he’s earned a reputation as an icon in the gourmet sausage business. Bruce has written cookbooks – a whopping ten of them – including Bruce Aidell’s Complete Book of Pork, which is sacred text to devotees of the world’s favorite meat.

Married to Nancy Oakes, chef/owner of Boulevard in San Francisco and one of America’s most celebrated chefs, an invitation to lunch with the Sausage King is not a proposition to be taken lightly -- especially today when we'll be the beneficiaries of left-overs prepared by Nancy and the Boulevard team for a party at the Aidells/Oakes home the evening before.

The Arts & Crafts style home sits high on top of hill with a 360º view of the magnificent Sonoma County food and wine world below, a fitting view made for a couple who’ve built their lives around the culinary arts. The house is magnificent with both indoor and outdoor kitchens – even a sausage kitchen for Bruce’s work. The outdoor kitchen with Viking grill and appliances is the epicenter of outdoor entertaining and is used for the production of television segments featuring the Sausage King. The indoor kitchen, as one would expect from these two cooks, is a dream kitchen whose center island inspired one visitor to remark, “"That's not an island - it's a continent."

Bruce and family friend Stuart Brinin, a San Francisco photographer, greet us at the kitchen door. We discover our lunch of “leftovers” arranged on the island like a royal wine-country buffet, with fresh mozzarella and heirloom tomatoes, thinly sliced premium porterhouse, fresh-from-the-garden green beans, grilled quail and homemade truffle butter, which to our delight was inadvertently left behind by Nancy as she dashed into the city this morning. Outdoors, under blue skies, ideal temperature and a view of the valley, our table was set. With a glass of perfectly chilled Sancerre, we toasted the cooks who prepared our feast, the food on our plates, the company we kept and the glorious day. It was a perfect day -no other way to describe it. It was a day when the universe conspired to bring life into perfect harmony. It was one of those rare days I’ll relive in my mind some not-so-perfect day in the future when the world is “too much with me.” I’ll remember the magnificent place, the food and the fellowship. And I’ll remember winding down the steep hillside headed back to the “real world”, silent and drinking in the view one last time, when my friend breathlessly exclaimed, “I’ll never call him the Sausage MAN again.”

For more information on Bruce and Nancy’s home, read http://www.artisticlicense.org/blog/2008/09/bruce-aidells-ultimate-craftsman.html.
For copies of Bruce’s books, contact our friends, Jamie and Kelly at Turnrow Books in Greenwood, Mississippi. They specialize in cookbooks and are practitioners of the culinary arts themselves. www.turnrowbooks.com or 662-453-5995.