Cheese and Choux

Throughout the South, or at least the southern states with which I am acquainted, pale pink t-shirts trumpet one phrase: GRITS.  Even I, at first, thought they were referencing the gruel that has become custom.  But no, it stands simply and proudly and raucously for: girls raised in the south.  I'm not one of those girls, but I always wanted to be one of them.  Instead, I was raised in a mid-atlantic state.  Don't get me wrong - the middle has its advantages.  It's neither hot, nor cold.  Neither winter or summer is longer than truly necessary.  Moreover, its history is decidedly diplomatic - a less pretentious version of Switzerland.  Without the banking, and the good fortune that flows from banking.

The bottom line is that a mid-atlantic upbringing is a mild one.  That's all well and good, except for the glaring bit: I'm not a mild one.  On good days, I'm passionate and fervent; on bad days, I'm hot-tempered and impulsive.  So, setting aside my unabiding loyalty for the Chesapeake Bay for a moment, I was raised in this place where I didn't quite fit.  I might have even wandered away - as I'm also prone to nomadic wandering - for good.

It was the weight of my history that anchored me home.  For all of my family's recent nostalgia for the mid-atlantic, our roots are gnarled deep in southern soil.  And, before you ask, we were absolutely on the wrong side of that war that this country can't seem to shake.  I'm certainly not nostalgic for any of that.  As far as I'm concerned, we were on the wrong side, then.  My nostalgia - my roots - just runs deeper than any of that.  I'll love its surface, its soil, first.  I love its magnolia trees and the shade they give.  I love she-crab soup in Charleston, followed by a walk along the Battery where the lucky ones catch sight of dolphins.  I love the river boats ambling up the Savannah River; I would argue that they still belong.  They make their place in a world that would just as soon forget them.  I love the Piedmont area of Virginia, and the drawl dripping off lips in North Carolina.  I love the sense of belonging that I have when I am there.  And before you write this all off as hospitality, I'll argue that my roots run deeper than a pineapple carved into the molding of an elderly gentleman's front hall. 

Most of all, I love that the south would likely welcome me home.  Indeed, I believe that the south would even deign to remember me.  History is never so far away down there, as it dribbles by with the coating of molasses.  The south is reminiscent of Europe to me, in that centuries seem to be required to fully comprehend.  Time takes time, they seem to understand.  They seem to understand that we must wait to figure out what it all means.  In the meantime, these generations we have never met will linger close.  In the meantime, I hope to live in place like that.  I hope to live in a place where a long walk, presumably under a long line of trees made even more lush with Spanish Moss, requires a steady gait. 

I have said before that I cook for those I love, and that I cook for the memories that it brings me.  In the end, however, my cooking runs deeper too.  I also cook for the life that I want.  So, for as long as I am tethered to our home and studying, I want our home to be bursting with spices when my husband walks through the door.  I want our bodies and minds, our spirits and hearts, all strong.  So, I'll infuse the meals with fruits and fresh vegetables and broth and spice.  In this way, I'll lighten our load.  I'll be certain to keep my chocolate drawer (yes, I have a drawer) full.  I also cook for the life that I live in tandem with my own.  If you're not a traveler at heart, such a notion might not make sense.  I can only explain it with for instance.  For instance, I've been itching to head to India lately (and I've never been); I'll make a curry sometime soon.  I once made a cassoulet for Jordan, before we were married, when I was particularly craving a date (and France).  I cook as a reminder that life is bigger than my own.  Tonight, at least, I cooked for my roots. 

Today, the hours have drifted by gently.  The snow outside was a constant cotton shower; the sky gleamed so white, illuminated entirely from within.  On days like this, afternoon could only be marked by a clock.  The hours were all indecipherable until dusk.  So I cooked a chili, for my mother, because it's her easy standby when there is no leaving the home.  I called her in the instant that the cumin and brown sugar and chili pepper all intermingled.  For my deeper roots, for of all those names scrawled carefully into our large family bible, I made a simple cornbread. 

I've often found that some of my most outspoken friends - friends apt to criticize the south - take aim at its food first.  They call it fattening and rich; they're easily dismissive.  I would disagree, however.  And I'm not disagreeing simply because they've never enjoyed fresh shrimp off the boats of South Carolina.  In this melting pot/utterly diverse/wonderfully colorful culture that we inhabit, it's hard to get your footing into a culinary tradition.  I borrow from all of the other cultures, of course, but the south has offered me a foothold.  Admittedly, some of their dishes are heavy and outdated.  Even as we walk slowly, I would contend that it's important - for the adventurous soul - to keep our eyes on the horizon line.  We must experiment with our traditions, and infuse them with a sensory experience to mirror our changing lives.  At the end of the day, even a cold day in the harshest wind and lightest snow of January, it's not even about the food in the end.  It's the warmth enveloping you, as the wind pounds your windows to point of shattering.  It's the family sharing your meals.  It's the roots.  Maybe, at the end of the day, it's always been about the roots under foot.

Corn Bread with Green Onions and Parmesan Cheese, adapted from Bon Appetit October 2003

Ingredients

Nonstick cooking spray

6 Tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted butter

2 Tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 3/4 cups chopped green onions

2 cups yellow cornmeal

1 cup whole wheat flour

1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

1/3 cup sugar

4 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

3/4 teaspoon coarsely grated black pepper

1 1/2 cups 1 percent or skim milk

2 large eggs

Instructions

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.  Spray 13X9X2 inch pan with nonstick spray.  Melt butter with oil in heavy medium skillet over medium heat.  Add green onions; saute 3 minutes.  Cool.

Whisk cornmeal, flour, cheese, sugar, baking powder, salt and pepper in large bowl to blend.  Whisk milk and eggs in medium bowl to blend.  Add milk mixture and green onion mixture to dry ingredients; stir until just blended.  Transfer batter to pan.

Bake bread until tester inserted in center comes out clean, about 20 minutes.  (Can be prepared 1 day ahead.  Cool.  Cover with foil and store at room temperature.  Rewarm uncovered in 350 degree oven for 10 minutes).  Serve warm.