Cracklins, Roots and Me

My stepmother thought I wasn’t Black enough. In truth, she would never have approved of me. She had two of her own daughters. She wanted a husband, not another daughter. Everything about me was wrong, starting with my education.

While my mother was alive, I attended private school. These schools were majority-White and didn’t teach Black History at the time. Public schools didn’t teach Black History, either. I learned about the Civil Rights Movement by being alive. I was too young to participate, but I saw photos and TV even before I could read. I listened. As an only child, I got plenty of exposure to adults who talked about Civil Rights and current events every day. I was an avid reader who learned about George Washington Carver and Harriet Tubman on my own. I read, but did not talk about Black History. Outwardly, I never had the veneer of popular Black Culture to match my adult stepsisters. My stepmother saw an opportunity.

When Alex Haley’s book, Roots, aired as a mini series on TV, it was a sensation for the Black community in the USA. I watched the mini series. Afterward, I was allowed to read the book. My stepmother meant the TV show and book to be a lesson in How to Be Black.

That same year, my father and I accompanied my stepmother to a special meeting of her choir or a social group. The meeting was held at a member’s home, to commemorate MLK,Jr.’s birthday or Black History Month. I was the only teenager present in a room of adults who middle-aged or older. The choir sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”, and other spirituals. We were offered a meal of Soul Food. I don’t remember everything that was on the buffet. I lean strongly toward vegetarian dishes. This particular meal was laced with pork and pork fat. I didn’t eat much. The one dish I remember was cracklin’ cornbread. I’d read about this and looked forward to trying it, since my family did not serve it. What a disappointment! I got a square of cornbread loaded with one-inch cubes of pork fat. There was no way I was going to eat that. I didn’t eat much that entire evening. I got nothing out of my stepmother’s efforts at a punitive education. FYI, I’ve always been Black. I’m just not Black the way my stepmother wanted.

This morning, I happened to see a cooking show that brought all these memories back to me. The chef, Kevin Belton, discussed cracklins and demonstrated the final step in how to prepare them. Cracklins are rendered, fried pieces of pig skin, with some fat and maybe meat attached. They are a byproduct from when a hog is butchered.

Historically, farm families kept a hog that would be butchered when the weather got cold enough to store the meat safely. Every bit of the pig could be eaten, no waste. Hams and bacon could be smoked. Other parts could be salted. Some meat was eaten fresh. Scraps were made into sausage. Fat, including the skin, was rendered into lard. Cracklins were the crispy bits of skin leftover when pork fat was rendered into lard. The crispy bits were skimmed out of the lard pot and saved. Some cracklins were set aside to bake into cornbread. Some were seasoned and eaten as a treat at the time of the butchering.

Most people no longer raise and butcher the meat they eat. Properly made cracklins need to have their fat rendered out at low temperature, then get crisped by a second fry at a high temperature. Nowadays, most people buy cooked cracklins at a butcher shop if they are available. You can also buy chicharrones or fried pork rinds, which are the pork skin without fat. I’ve even seen a vegan product offered.

While I was searching for information on the cracklins I saw cooked on TV, I came across some general information. Cracklins are very popular and sold freshly fried, in Louisiana. They are well known in North Carolina, too. They should be known in any area where people raised and butchered hogs on small farms.

There are different variations on cracklins, too. I was served cornbread with big chunks of fat. Those cracklins had not been rendered down and crisped. There is another type of cracklin that is cut into thin strips that are rendered and fried. Those small pieces get brown and very crisp. I also saw mention of cracklin crumbs, which sound like another good choice. Even after seeing photos of properly cooked cracklins, they aren’t for me. I’m never eating them again.

There is a modern version of cracklin cornbread that I WOULD eat. This modern cornbread contains chopped bits of crisply cooked bacon or bacon bits. A vegetarian version could use vegan bacon bits. Even better.

The vegetarian cracklin cornbread would horrify my stepmother. She hated my aversion to meat and believed that eating red meat was essential to a healthy diet. She felt that I should be forced to conform to her idea of a Black child.

I took my own messages from my stepmother’s lessons. I’m never going to be much of a meat eater. I truly do not like most meat and abhor meat fat. My elders grew up in culture that valued pork as a staple food. The entire animal was eaten, with no waste. I can appreciate that without having to eat much pork myself.

I don’t have to sing spirituals to appreciate Black music.

I learned the most from reading Roots. Alex Haley’s book taught me that it is possible for Black people to research their family history and reconstruct personal family trees. We know now that Haley fictionalized some of his story. His work is still instructive and inspiring.

I have a maternal DNA match that is a direct ancestor of Kunta Kinte. I hope to find our common relation so I can add Alex Haley and Kunta Kinte to my family tree. That’s the best lesson of all.

Store Bought

Mable, in a store bought dress.

My mother, Estelle, loved to sew and was well known for her ability. She would buy fabric after work on Friday and have a new dress to wear that weekend. She probably learned to sew from her mother, Etta, who sewed her own clothes and never learned how to use a commercial paper pattern. My paternal aunt, Phyllis, also sewed clothes. I remember them all, but they died before I was finished elementary school.

My paternal grandmother, Mable, lived until I was an adult. After my mother died, my surviving grandmother had a lot to say about how I was raised. Mable had opinions for all occasions. Ironically, my surviving grandmother was perhaps the most combative and the one with whom I shared few interests. I was deeply introverted. Mable was a consummate extrovert.

I remember standing beside my mother, watching her at the sewing machine. I saw every step in the planning and construction of a new garment. Mom would pick me up from school on Friday and we drove to Blank’s Fabric Store. We sat on high stools, flipping through the picture catalogues of patterns by McCall’s, Butterick and Vogue. We walked among the bolts of fabric and she would make her selection. We discussed fabric. Sometimes she let me help pick a color or pattern. I’m not sure how much my opinion counted, because sometimes she bought fabric I did not like, even if the dress was intended for me. At home, I watched her lay out the fabric and cut out the pattern pieces. Then I watched her sew the garments, by machine and by hand. I learned a lot.

My mother died at the end of a school year. My father did not want to leave me alone all day, so I suggested going to Summer School. He jumped at the idea because it was a cheap, easy solution for him. I enrolled in Sewing and Typing classes. I took similar basic sewing classes at other times.

Introductory sewing classes are designed to sell commercial patterns and sell fabric and notions. They don’t teach how to choose the right pattern for your body and how to make clothes that fit well. I think those skills are learned on an individual basis. Since the sewing aficionados in my family were dead, I turned to Mable.

Mable had no interest in sewing. She would be quite pleased if someone made a new dress for her, but was not about to sew anything. Mable loathed sewing. I learned this after asking for her help putting my name on a gym uniform. Never again. That embroidery looked utterly childish. At about the same time, I read about quilting and asked Mable if she had any fabric scraps or old clothes for me to use. She gave me some old pajamas. You can’t do patchwork with a single fabric. My grandmother was just not a maker.

My extroverted grandmother hated sitting at home, for any reason. She went out every day. She needed to be around other people. Mable loved to go shopping, particularly window shopping. Her idea of a good time was to go walk around the stores, do an errand, and get groceries on the way home. Mable bought groceries for dinner nearly every day. That was her experience.

Mable’s shopping experience was an expression of her civil rights. By the time I knew her, my grandmother had lost her Southern accent and adopted airs and graces. She had been born in the small town South during the height of the Jim Crow Period. Her family baked bread and sewed clothes out of necessity. Fancy stores would not serve Black customers when Mable was young. Decades later, Mable thoroughly enjoyed going to Hutzler’s or Hochschild Kohn to buy dresses and gloves.

In my grandmother’s world, commercial dresses, from good brands, were superior to the stigma of homemade clothes. She never said a word, but I wonder if this was a problem when she was growing up? Mable had no skill in sewing and hated to do it. Her older sisters, Bessie and Rose, had no interest in sewing, either. How did my great-grandmother, Lizzie, keep three daughters clothed, if none of them had any interest or skill in sewing, during the Jim Crow Period, in rural North Carolina? My guess is that Lizzie knew how to sew, or perhaps she had a friend who could sew.

Lizzie would have tried to teach her daughters sewing, out of necessity. Bessie, Rose and Mable were born between 1899 and 1908. At that time, sewing was a required skill for most girls. My guess is that Mable had some awful memories of wearing homemade clothes that were not fashionable.

In my grandmother’s mind, store bought was best.

Ladder Up

Mable’s graduation program

I regularly go over branches of my family tree. New records become available or I may reinterpret records I already have. Sometimes I find mistakes.

Since most of the relatives I knew growing up have died, I cannot ask them new questions. I remember what they told me. More importantly, I remember what they did not tell me. Their silence often tells me where I need to search.

My paternal grandparents both came from Rocky Mount, NC, but they did not stay there. My grandmother, Mable Battle, graduated from high school in Spring 1925. She and my grandfather, John R. Hagan, married in Baltimore, MD, in December 1925. Why Baltimore?

Originally, I thought that they chose Baltimore because it was an easy destination by train. In the 1920’s, neither of them had a car. Rocky Mount was an important stop on the East Coast rail lines at the time. They could board a train and go North to their choice of cities, Richmond, Washington, DC, Philadelphia, New York City. Why did they choose Baltimore? What options did they have?

When I reviewed the records for my Hagans great-grandparents, I noticed that I had no Census record for John R. Hagans, Sr. and Ida Hagans in 1900. They got married in 1894 and had their first child in 1895. I found John R. Hagans living in Manchester, VA in 1900. I have never heard anyone mention that location in reference to our family. When I looked at the actual Census form, I got several surprises.

John R. Hagans was living in Manchester at a boarding house. He was listed as being married, but his wife (and child) were not listed. Next, I saw that other relatives were living with John. An older relative, Cicero Hagans, had rented a house in the city. Cicero had a job. His wife and children lived there along with their five boarders. Three of the boarders were not obviously relatives. My great-grandfather and Minnie Wiggins, another relative, were the other two boarders. I don’t know how long John R. Hagans, Sr. worked in Manchester, but by the 1910 Census, he was living with his wife in Rocky Mount. My grandfather was born in 1904 at the address that belonged to my great-grandparents for the rest of their lives. The family connection in Manchester had helped my great-grandfather earn enough to take care of his family. That was the beginning of a long-standing family connection to Virginia. I’m sure my grandparents considered moving to Virginia.

My grandmother had family connections in Maryland. Mable was the youngest girl in a family with two sets of children spanning nearly two generations. In the 1900 Census, Richard and Elizabeth Battle are listed as having been married two years. They are living with FIVE children, ranging in age from eight to seventeen. Elizabeth was listed as being only twenty-two years old. Clearly, she is Richard’s second wife and these are the first set of children. Their names are: Maggie, Rosa Dubose, Gordon, Richard and Alfred. There was also a son, named Frank, who is not shown on this Census. The three oldest children stayed in North Carolina. The three youngest children, Richard, Alfred and Frank, all moved northward. They were approximately 18 years older than Mable. She would have grown up knowing them, at least a little, and she would have seen them move away. She would have heard their experiences through letters and visits back home.

Frank married and moved his family to Philadelphia, PA. Frank Battle abandoned his wife and child, passing into the White community. We never heard from him again, but evidence suggests he moved to New York. Frank didn’t help anyone.

My father and grandmother spoke about going to visit Alfred. I thought that Alfred had a farm in Harford County, MD. Mable maintained that family connection. I have not yet verified that Alfred owned a farm. He lived and worked on farms as a young man in NC, but there is no record to show Alfred in MD in 1925, at the time my grandparents moved north. The only Maryland record I have for Alfred is the 1940 Census, which shows him working as a cook. I have no record to suggest that Alfred was living in MD or in any position to help my grandparents. My theory about Alfred has been wrong, for decades.

At this point, I thought I had run out of records. I thought I had run out of relatives. My grandmother had told me that her family was split into two sets of siblings without going into any detail. At best, she might have reeled off a bunch of names. That was a deliberate omission on her part. Mable famously did not get along with the siblings in her age group. She absolutely knew about them but refused to tell me anything about them. Her father died when she was two years old. She would not have remembered him. She definitely did not tell me that her father had been married to a first wife.

Eventually, I remembered that my father said they had lived on Myrtle Avenue, when my grandparents first came to Baltimore. I took a closer look at the 1930 Census. I found Richard Battle living on Myrtle Avenue in 1930. That was my connection. There is no 1920 Census record for Richard because he was serving in WWI in Europe. Richard must have settled in Baltimore after he was discharged from the Army. By 1925 he would have had a job and a place to live.

As I stated earlier, my grandmother graduated from high school in spring 1925. My grandfather was starting his second year of college in autumn 1925. Mable and John traveled to Baltimore and married in December 1925. The next piece of the puzzle is that my father, Earl L. Hagan, was born in May 1925. My grandparents eloped. Each of them had parents who were known for their tempers. Moving out of state probably looked like a prudent move after learning of a surprise baby.

I’ve been told by another relative that my grandfather stayed in college for his complete second year. That meant the new Mrs. Mable Hagans lived in Baltimore with her brother, Richard, during her pregnancy. By the time she had her baby, I think Mable’s mother, Elizabeth Battle, had arranged to move to Baltimore as well. Elizabeth also rented a house on Myrtle Avenue and the rest of her North Carolina children moved to join her. By 1930, Elizabeth’s family had moved to Edmondson Avenue. Edmondson Avenue was the hub of our family life for the next 60 years. Richard Battle stayed on Myrtle Avenue until his death in 1934. Since he died when my father was a child, Dad had no memories of him to pass down.

I asked Mable, my grandmother, about this when I was a teenager. We were definitely getting on each other’s nerves that day. I confirmed the dates with her, but got no further information. I’m surprised she let me live. Mable probably decided it was prudent to let the matter drop. She had every chance to give me her side of the story. I asked my father about this as well. He just joked about it and encouraged me to do the math.

Richard opened his house to help Mable and I think she never forgot the kindness. My grandmother spent a good portion of her life helping other people make the transition from the rural South to a life in Baltimore. That was her way of giving back after others helped her to move up to a better life.

Mable and John bought a second house on Edmondson Avenue and moved in their children. The bigger house had an extra bedroom that was available to relatives, friends and those who had a recommendation. Some of those people became our extended family, such as my godfather, Elihu Q. Norris. Elihu came from Alabama to take a teaching job. He rented a room at Mable’s house and became part of the family. He was my father’s best friend.

Other people who boarded at Edmondson Avenue included Louis and Louise Bulluck, Ken Thomas, Wilbur Thompson, Norman Wharton, and more. I hope others can fill in more names.

To be clear, my grandmother never ran a boarding house. She offered a room as a way to help someone, not to turn a profit. She expected impeccable behavior from anyone who lived in her house. Otherwise, you needed another place to stay. She treated everyone like family.

Cornbread and Hoecakes, Pt. 2- Cornmeal

In my previous blog post I mentioned that Northern- style cornbread was made with yellow cornmeal. That yellow meal is known nationwide. Old-school Southerners, like my grandmother, preferred to use white cornmeal. Even though she wasn’t a baker, Granny kept a package of white cornmeal in her pantry. At a moment’s notice, she could use that cornmeal to pan fry the little hoecakes that she called hushpuppies. I think she called them hushpuppies because that was a fancier name than hoecakes. Granny was the only person in Baltimore that I saw using white cornmeal.

In my experience, white cornmeal is only available in stores below the Mason-Dixon Line. When I lived in Pennsylvania, I never saw it in the grocery stores. Stores in Maryland and farther South, have more than one brand of white cornmeal, and even have self-rising cornmeal, with salt and leavening included.

There is no nutritional difference between white and yellow cornmeal. I doubt that there is any difference in the taste of the plain cornmeal itself. The difference is in the appearance of the finished product.

My grandmother was born and raised in rural North Carolina, before World War II. In the Jim Crow South, her family had only a general store from which to buy supplies. They bought flour and cornmeal and baked their bread at home. Their staple food was cornmeal, prepared as some form of corn bread. Wheat bread was more of a luxury. White cornmeal was preferred because it made a cornbread that looked more like expensive wheat bread.

Granny and her siblings never told me anything about their childhood in North Carolina. She went so far as to tell me that she didn’t remember much. In reality, when she moved to Baltimore, my grandmother worked hard to erase her Southern accent and adopted as much citified sophistication as she could manage. She erased her childhood memories along with her accent and her first husband. By the time I got to know her, Granny had fully embraced supermarket sliced white bread and bakery cakes and pies. She hated baking and usually found someone else to do it. She kept a bag of white cornmeal in her pantry, but one bag must have lasted far too long.

I hated the taste of my grandmother’s hoecakes. They were greasy and slightly bitter. In retrospect, the bitter taste may have come from stale cornmeal. That bag of white cornmeal had probably been sitting around for some time before my grandmother used it.

It took me years to figure out why I disliked Granny’s hoecakes so much. When I moved to Philadelphia, I was surprised to find only the National brand, yellow cornmeal available in the supermarket. That was how is learned that white cornmeal was a regional product. In addition, I learned that my favorite brand of cornmeal was a local product that wasn’t available in either white or yellow varieties, north of the Mason-Dixon Line.

In Philadelphia, I learned to mix and bake cornbread according to my own taste. I add wheat flour to my baked cornbread. You can absolutely bake cornbread using only cornmeal. The texture of a pure corn cornbread will be gritty if you use a typical recipe for baked cornbread. The cornbread will also be delicate and crumbly. I use equal parts cornmeal and wheat flour in my cornbread. My cornbread rises high and holds together well enough that it can be split and buttered. You can use white flour or whole wheat. You can use white or yellow cornmeal.

When I lived in Raleigh, NC, white cornmeal was available in the supermarkets and I was happy to buy it. Unfortunately, my husband hated the way it looked. My husband grew up in a family that had no cornbread in their culture. He first tasted it as an adult. To him, cornbread meant yellow cornmeal and nothing else. I could not get him to even consider eating white cornbread.

Besides using white cornmeal, old-school Southerners do not sweeten their cornbread at all. That makes perfect sense to me. Sugar used to be an expensive product. It would not have been added to the cornbread that was prepared on a daily basis. My relatives certainly grew up eating unsweetened corn breads.

Remember that I thought my grandmother’s hoecakes tasted bitter? That off-taste could have come from stale cornmeal, or from the use of too much leavening. I don’t know how, or if my grandmother leavened her hoecakes. I do think that a bit of sweetener would have done a lot to correct the taste of poor quality cornmeal or too much baking powder. That may have been the reason why people started sweetening cornbread.

I like my homemade corn bread to be a little bit sweet. Unsweetened cornbread is alright, but a little sweetness is better. I think some sweetness enhances the flavor of the corn. Fresh corn often tastes sweet. There used to be a dried corn product available in the supermarket that tasted as sweet as fresh corn. Grinding a sweet, dried corn would produce a naturally sweet cornmeal. The corn grown to make modern cornmeal is likely to have been selected because it is shelf-stable, rather than for taste alone. In addition, the American palate has shifted toward sweet elements in many foods. We have grown accustomed to far too much sugar.

I use one basic recipe to make my everyday cornbread and hoecakes. I use 1.5 cups of cornmeal mixed with 1.5 cups of self-rising flour. To that, add up to 3 tablespoons of sugar (optional), 1 egg (optional), and enough liquid to make a thick batter. You can use water, milk, or buttermilk.

I bake the batter at 400 degrees F, for 20-30 minutes, depending on the size of the pan. Muffins take 20 minutes. A hot cast iron skillet, or square baking tin takes about 30 minutes. That is for oven-baked cornbread.

The other way to bake cornbread is on a griddle. In modern usage these might be called cornmeal pancakes. My relatives would have called them hoecakes. They are delicious at any time.

My husband and sons do not understand hoecakes. My husband has the excuse of being Scottish. He was born in Scotland and his family came to the USA when he was a child. He grew up without any Southern influence. My kids are just contrary.

We lived in Raleigh, NC when our kids were little. We were there for a hurricane that left us without power and surrounded by water for a few days. During that time, I cooked using a propane grill. The first morning, I used up the perishable food from the refrigerator and made scrambled eggs and hoecakes. My family loved them. I served those hoecakes without sweetening and my husband couldn’t get enough of them. Perhaps he was in shock about the hurricane. It was his first storm and he didn’t take it seriously.

My husband won’t eat *cornmeal pancakes* now. My whole family thinks they are weird. They’ve been ruined by regular wheat flour pancakes. I will have to try serving hoecakes again at dinner. They might like them again.

Cornbread and hoecakes should be served in their simplest forms. I do not approve of adding anything extra to cornbread because the addition usually ruins the result. I hate cornbread that contains lumps of solid food at the bottom of the pan. The absolute worst cornbread I ever had was called Cracklin’ Bread. This bread contained marble-sized lumps of fat that were called cracklings. I just can’t believe that recipe was made right. I’ve seen similar results when you try adding other foods. Cornbread is best kept simple.

Cornbread and Hoecakes, Part 1- Family History

I once read that you could identify a true Southerner by their preference for fried cornbread. That certainly holds true for my relatives. I was amazed to discover that my children had the same preference. I must have raised them right.

I grew up eating most of my meals in three places, at home, my grandmother’s house, and at school. Each had a distinct cornbread culture. My mother’s kitchen produced no cornbread whatsoever. My mother was an outstanding baker and cook. Her cooking (as I knew it in the 1960’s) was strongly influenced by French and Jewish cuisine, even though she grew up and learned about cooking in rural Virginia. My mother baked excellent yeasted rolls. At home, there was rarely cornbread or no cornbread.

I attended private school from preschool through sixth grade. At my school, all students were required to eat the meal prepared by the school cafeteria. No one brought lunch from home. The food was a heavy, bland diet, but they always served cornbread with beef stew. The cornbread served was a Northern or Yankee-type cornbread, that was made from yellow cornmeal and tasted nearly as sweet as cake. That same Northern-style cornbread can be found in many restaurants and supermarket bakeries. A bakery corn muffin is indistinguishable from a cupcake, to me. Cornbread baked from a nationally known brand mix is also a too sweet, Northern type, but a better version.

I’m sure that I grew up eating home baked cornbread, but I think it often came from a mix. When I was a child, we ate dinner at my grandmother’s house every Wednesday. On those days, my grandmother would cook most of the meal, but my mother would often help finish the meal when she came from work. Since Granny hated baking, that task would have gone to Mom. Granny hated baking so much that she didn’t keep the raw materials in her pantry in any quantity. She only had the small bags of self-rising flour and white cornmeal on the shelf. She would also have one or two tiny boxes of cornbread mix. When we ate baked cornbread, it probably came from a mix.

My grandmother made the true, Southern cornbread from scratch. Granny grew up in Swift Creek, North Carolina, which was, and is still a rural area. She spent all of her adult life in Baltimore, but her cooking never completely left North Carolina. Granny taught me about cornbread, by example. My grandmother was absolutely not a baker and she said that up front. When asked, Granny said that her mother made her do the baking, when she was growing up. It was her job to bake the bread and she hated it. As an adult, my grandmother didn’t do anything she didn’t want to do, and baking was top of the list.

Granny made cornbread, as she had been taught by her mother. Her cornbread was always fried and we called it hoecakes or hushpuppies. It was always made with Washington White Cornmeal, and it would have been the self-rising type, if available. Granny made her hoecakes as the last step before serving dinner. The vegetables would be cooked and in their pots at the back of the stove. The meat, perhaps pork chops, would be frying in a large cast iron skillet. While the meat was frying, Granny would pour white cornmeal into a small mixing bowl. Self-rising meal already had baking powder and salt in the mix. She would add cold tap water to make a thick batter. As soon as the meat was cooked and on a platter, she would start frying the hoecakes in the leftover grease. To make a hoecake, Granny would use a serving spoon to scoop up 2-3 tablespoons of batter. She never measured anything while cooking. She would pour the batter into the hot skillet in the shape of an oval, about 3 feet inches long. Granny fried those hoecakes just like they were small pancakes, flipping them once, to brown both sides. Her hoecakes were about 1/4 inch thick, with crisp, lacy edges.

My grandmother’s fried hoecakes were shot through with grease and I hated them. Everyone else, the adults, loved those greasy hoecakes and ate as many as she could fry. I remember her getting up from the table to fry a second platter of hoecakes, which was unheard of for any other dish. I can still imagine them sitting on the blue platter that she used to hold fried food, especially bacon. Granny’s hoecakes were greasy because she placed them directly on the blue platter from the skillet, without using anything to drain away excess grease. That came from my grandmother’s upbringing, where her family cooked using what they had in the country. My grandmother loved fat and greasy food. I do not like food that is too greasy. Granny and I used to bicker about the amount of fat used in her food. I lost that argument, every time.

I lost the arguments with Granny, but I learned a lot. I learned by observation and by tasting. Once I had my own kitchen, I learned from reading and baking my own experimental corn breads. My next blog post will start with cornmeal and go on from there.

Who Made the Potato Salad?

I grew up going to cookouts and helping my parents host cookouts. My relatives loved to socialize and cookouts were the best way to do that during the summer. That goes double for the days before air conditioning became common.

My Mom & Dad would set up the grill in the backyard and cook hotdogs and hamburgers. Our relatives and friends would bring the usual side dishes according to their specialties. I remember seeing baked beans, corn-on-the-cob, tossed salad, Jello salads (ugh), and, of course, potato salad. I don’t remember if my parents were known for serving any specialty meat dishes, such as ribs, or chicken, but it is possible. My mother was known as a baker. She was more likely to have concentrated on making cakes and pies or cobblers.

My Great Aunt and Uncle Louise and Louis Bulluck had cookouts in their backyard in Baltimore. Since they both grew up in North Carolina, the food they served, reflected this tradition. Louis Bulluck was a skilled bricklayer. His backyard featured a large, brick barbecue. I wouldn’t be surprised if Louis barbecued large cuts of pork. Along with hot dog, hamburgers, and other meats, I remember seeing baked beans, corn-on-the-cob, tossed salad, Jello salads (ugh), and, of course, potato salad. Louise was known for baking coconut cakes and pound cakes. Those would always be served. Louis and Louise usually hosted a cookout when Louise’s sister, Jackie Pash, came to Baltimore. I strongly suspect that Jackie brought up a trunk load of Parker’s Barbecue with her. Actually, it would have been an article of religion for the Pashes to drive North bearing cartons of cigarettes, barbecue, and, most likely, moonshine. As a child, I was preoccupied with eating hotdogs and spurned any other meat. I don’t remember if the Bullucks served barbecue at their cookouts, but it is likely, whether home cooked or Parker’s. I DO remember the adults parceling out pint-sized cartons of pulled pork, which my Mom took home to freeze for later. Those parties were like a visit to Rocky Mount.

The big cookout every year took place on the Fourth of July, hosted by my cousins, Rae and Gene Hillen. Rae is one generation removed from NC. Both she and Gene grew up in Baltimore. Rae was one of my Battle relatives, so that side of the family was always represented. The Hagans were well represented by my Dad, uncle, me and Aunt Louise. Gene Hillen’s family was also at these cookouts. The Hillens had an open bar set up in their backyard. My Baltimore relatives were always well-behaved, while being serious about their drinking. The soundtrack for these events was always jazz.

Rae and Gene grilled hotdogs and hamburgers, as an appetizer. After the majority of people had arrived, they brought out the serious meats. The main course was always ribs and chicken. The guests brought most of the side dishes. I remember seeing baked beans, coleslaw, tossed salad, Jello salads (ugh), and, of course, potato salad. There were other dishes and desserts, depending on which family members attended. Rae and Gene were particularly known for their home-churned ice cream, and Rae’s potato salad.

We are all particular about our potato salad. At any gathering, you can hear people whispering, “Who made the potato salad?”. The answer determines whether or not we’ll even put it on our plate. I am firmly part of the group that ONLY eats Rae’s potato salad. Nowadays, that means the dish was made by one of her relatives, using her recipe, preferably taught by Rae. If it isn’t Rae’s potato salad, we usually don’t eat it.

For most of my life I didn’t eat potato salad, period. It didn’t matter who made it, I wasn’t eating anyone’s mayonnaise-dressed salad. That changed when my husband and I got invited to Rae’s house for dinner. She put potato salad on my plate and gave me *that look*. I ate potato salad that evening and liked it. I ate a second helping. It WAS good. Besides, my acquiescence gave my newlywed husband cover not to eat much of HIS potato salad. My husband is Scottish and was getting a culture shock among my relatives that weekend.

Based on that experience, I ate Rae’s potato salad whenever it was available. Years later, when we lived in North Carolina ourselves, I called Rae long distance and got her recipe and method by dictation. Although I have occasionally tasted other potato salads, Rae’s is the only one I actually like.

I am not about to give anyone a recipe. Rae gave me specific instructions regarding the method she used and the seasonings she favored. I will tell about that, so some of her information is recorded. Rae used the following ingredients: potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, celery, onions, pickles/brine, celery seed, salt, pepper, mayonnaise. Mayonnaise brands have their dedicated fans. In Baltimore, Hellman’s mayonnaise was the brand of choice, so that is what we used. I know that Duke’s is the favored mayonnaise further South. It isn’t available in Baltimore, so I haven’t tried it. It may be perfectly fine. Rae chopped the vegetables in her potato salad very fine, which gave the dish a better texture. Beyond that, adjust the ingredients to your taste.

Perhaps it is a family trait, that my relatives settled on one family member to specialize on particular dishes. If they made that dish well, they owned it. That meant we usually knew who made various dishes and that we could trust the food to be delicious and properly cooked. The women in my family had high standards. They didn’t eat just anyone’s food. For that matter, they didn’t really allow me to cook for them. Some of that was due to age differences. By the time I was able to cook for a family gathering, there weren’t many family members left. My dish was a chocolate layer cake just like the one my mother made. It traveled well and no one else baked a similar dessert. If I had chosen a savory dish, I might have invaded the territory of another cook. You couldn’t pay me to do that. My relatives had carved up the culinary territory before I was born. They certainly were gracious to newcomers and welcomed other guests who offered to bring dishes. They might even eat what the new person brought. My guess is that it took a large measure of trust to get to that point. My stepmother was completely intimidated by the cooks in my paternal family. I used to spend hours chopping the ingredients for my stepmother’s potato salad, which she made in competition with Rae’s. I don’t know how good it was, because I never tasted my stepmother’s potato salad. I just remember having do prep work for parties at my house. On those days, my stepmother would be tense and drive everyone around her to frustration because she compared every dish she cooked to what her in-laws cooked. Life would have been easier if she had just let Rae make the potato salad.

A Cookout vs. a Real Barbecue

I grew up attending cookouts. If it rained, we had an indoor picnic. You can have a cookout anywhere you like. You can host a cookout by lighting a fire in a grill and fixing any kind of food that you choose. Don’t ever confuse a cookout with a barbecue. They are not same. In the South, at least, you need to let your guests know what to expect.

Alright, I lied. You cannot host a cookout just by firing up the charcoal or propane. If you are going to have guests, please make the effort to be… hospitable. That means you should actually offer your guests some food and buy some paper goods. When I lived above the Mason-Dixon Line, I attended some cookouts that just seemed lacking.

On these occasions, the host provided a lit grill. The guests were expected to provide their own meat/protein, and a side dish to share. Imagine walking into a yard of near strangers and having everyone stand around watching to see what you put on the grill. There was a gasp as I opened my container and put kebabs on the grill, amongst the burgers and franks and steaks. The other guests talked about how clever I was and gave me provisional acceptance. I was the stranger in this group. The majority of attendees were first-year medical students. The host was married to an engineering grad student, who invited my husband (same department), and I came as the spouse and local color. It was an awkward evening. I spent most of it listening to the *Mini-Docs* boast about the horrible mistakes med students make during training. We could have skipped the entire evening.

I learned my lesson after bringing homemade, from scratch, apple pies to another cookout, only to set them down next to an assortment of supermarket chips and cookies. I still contribute something homemade, but I tailor the effort to the group. My family prides itself on being hospitable. That means you provide for your guests, even in the case of potluck. Even a cash-strapped student should be able to scrape together hot dogs, beans, chips and a salad, with iced tea.,’

My family set a very high standard for cookouts. My cousins, Rae and Gene, held an annual Fourth of July cookout that was the best. Other family members brought dishes, but the main dishes were provided by the hosts.

Typically, guests would arrive at 4 o’clock. We would go straight to the backyard, where Gene had the grill going. There would be a bar cart set up so that everyone could get their own drinks. As a child, my job was to fetch and delivery cold drinks to the adults. My Mom, and anyone else bringing food, would enter through the back door, to drop off their dish and greet Rae. Desserts would be placed on a special table and covered to stay fresh. Savory and hot dishes would be kept in the kitchen. On to the actual menu and service:

Once the charcoal was going and perhaps half the guests had arrived, Gene would start grilling hot dogs and hamburgers. These served to feed the kids and acted as an appetizer for the serious eaters. Next, Rae and Gene would bring out par-cooked spareribs and chicken from the kitchen. These meats would get sauced and finished on the grill. While the meats were being glazed, a buffet table would be set up for the side dishes. Typically, the sides would include baked beans, potato salad, macaroni salad, tossed salad, various vegetable dishes, such as green beans, and deviled eggs, a ham, rolls, or whatever dish someone chose to contribute. The dessert table always featured a carved melon filled with fresh fruit, Aunt Lil’s pound cake, coconut cake, a chocolate cake or brownies, and a churn filled with the host’s homemade ice cream. In my experience, THAT is a good cookout. Everyone I knew during childhood entertained that way.

A barbecue is something different. At a barbecue, the star of the event is slow-smoked meat. No exceptions. I have strong vegetarian sensibilities, but I do not argue about barbecue. I will get back to that later.

Barbecue is a regional, or even local preparation. Texas and the Midwest use beef. My family is from Eastern or the Piedmont of North Carolina, so they use pork. In fact, the specific term for the event is a Pig Pickin’. The common side dishes are called Fixin’s, but my family has changed those. The side dishes are a minor point. The meat is important.

I have seen barbecue cooked by two methods. The men of our church used to dig a pit and lay a fire using wood or charcoal. The whole pig would be roasted, low and slow, in the pit, constantly tended by one or two men. The cooking process took at least 12 hours. The meat would be basted with a “mop sauce” made with a vinegar base, flavored with pepper. The men would dig the pit and light the fire on a Friday. They would sit at the pit all night, in shifts, turning and basting the meat. The congregation would show up on Saturday afternoon, to eat. The pigs would be cooked until it was tender and ready to fall off the bones. The cooked pork would be placed onto a table, coarsely chopped, and served with more vinegar-pepper sauce. The side dishes consisted of beans (probably field peas), Brunswick stew, hush puppies and cole slaw.

The second method of making barbecue was essentially the same, except no pit was dug. Instead, the pig was cooked in a large steel drum that was turned on its side and halved lengthwise. The bottom half of the drum was the fire pit. A grate was placed over the drum to hold the pig. The top half of the drum was attached by hinge and served as a lid. In eastern NC, the entire grill would be fitted with wheels and a trailer hitch. Caterers would tow the entire assembly, hot, with pig, right up to your church or backyard. The fixin’s would be packed in the truck, ready to serve on location.

I got the pleasure of attending pig pickings at both Black and White churches. The actual meat served was identical. The difference was in the side dishes. The side dishes served at the predominantly White gatherings were the standard beans, stew and slaw, etc. I thought they were undistinguished and almost bland. In comparison, at the Black Church, the side dishes were tailored to to be soul food and may well have been cooked by church members. That barbecue featured collard greens and green beans and coleslaw and hush puppies. I preferred this combination. This particular barbecue was hosted by my Aunt Jackie’s Church and therefore had a high seal of approval. Aunt Jackie was very careful where she took us, to show us off socially. She trusted that food and those cooks.

The final category of barbecue that I want to mention is the commercial variety, served in dedicated restaurants. This is my favorite kind of barbecue and the kind my family has eaten the most. Frankly, pig pickin’s are not all that much fun, given the heat, humidity and mosquitoes. My family had the right idea when they go pick up a large order of barbecue and serve it at home, with the sides of their choice. That’s a way of life.

For most of my life, my family has eaten Parker’s barbecue. The meat is moist and tender. The vinegar sauce is tangy, with just the right balance of pepper, salt and a little sweetness. I’m not sure if they chose it due to proximity or for other reasons. I just know that every time we drove down to Rocky Mount, Aunt Jackie would have made arrangements for an order of barbecue *packed to travel*. Someone would be sent to Wilson County and come back with a cooler full of cartons packed to the brim with pulled pork. When we drove back North, the cars would be loaded with barbecue and cartons of cigarettes (moonshine) to be distributed among friends and family.

Parker’s barbecue is absolutely the best I have ever tasted. I give you my word on that as a dedicated meat hater. I managed to avoid eating barbecue all through my childhood, and my relatives were sensible enough to save the good stuff for themselves and throw a hot dog in my direction. One day, as an adult, Aunt Jackie simply served me a barbecue sandwich and I had no chance to refuse. I didn’t even try to say vegetarian to Jackie. I ate most of it and liked it. Mostly. Aunt Jackie pulled that stunt on our first visit after my husband and I moved to NC. I think that was her way of putting us Yankees in our place. My husband is Scottish, so she KNEW he hadn’t had barbecue. Of course, Jackie knew I was a picky eater who didn’t eat meat. She just took care of us without saying a word. My husband and I know power when we see it. Besides, the food was good. Jackie’s training helped me to handle to pig pickin’s I attended while we lived in North Carolina. I needed the preparation.

Even though I missed out on the barbecue as a child, I was still in on the rest of the party. Any meal at Jackie’s, especially when she means to impress, is worth eating.

Whenever we visited Rocky Mount, we stayed at Aunt Jackie’s. We stayed there because a Jackie had the largest and nicest house. We probably also stayed there because Jackie said so. Aunt Jackie was the undisputed head of the family in North Carolina. Once we parked in her driveway, everything happened only with her approval. Like magic, various relatives and friends would appear at the door, often bringing homemade cakes and side dishes. On Saturday afternoon, someone would drive up and start the unloading the Parker’s barbecue. The portions packed *to travel* went into Jackie’s freezer/refrigerator. The rest of the barbecue was Saturday Supper. Usually the whole crowd would be served pulled pork sandwiches with homemade greens, potato salad, cole slaw, green beans and any other side dishes that had been prepared. Dessert would home made pound cake, coconut cake, peach cobbler and ice cream. My family loves their barbecue so much that we have served it as our version of a rehearsal dinner before weddings. Everyone, bridal party and out-of-town guests, gathers for a big, outdoor party featuring pulled pork and lots of sides. We probably cook on the grill, too. It’s a fabulous cook out, but not a barbecue.

Post Script

I’ve never been to visit Parker’s Barbecue in Wilson, NC, as far as I know. When we lived in NC, we attended pig pickin’s about once a year. None of those events served barbecue that matched the flavor of Parker’s. Eventually, I asked someone if there was anyplace I could get good barbecue without driving to Wilson County. I was directed to Barbecue Lodge, with the recommendation that the owners had been trained at Parker’s. We drove about 30 minutes to get to Barbecue Lodge. The place was so crowded we never considered eating inside. We put our car in line for the Drive Up andplaced our orders. The Lodge was nothing to look at, but the whole property smelled of smoke. It was worth the trip. It was worth waiting in line. Everything we tried was delicious. I just wish it had been more convenient.

Streak O’Lean

 

My grandparents, John and Mable

Christmas Past

Most of my life, I have celebrated Christmas a certain way. We did it properly, like good Episcopalians. That meant I helped my father green the church. After his death, I had my own Advent wreath at home. Since my parents and most of their friends worked in the school system, they had Christmas Eve off. My mother always held a brunch on Christmas Eve morning. Our guests were always Grandmother Mable and Grandfather Bruce, and Mr. and Mrs. Watts.  We might also have various other guests, but those four attended every year. Since it was Christmas Eve, I remember being wildly excited and likely driving all the adults nuts. At the time, I could not have cared less about the food. I do know that Mom served up waffles, with bacon and sausages and eggs and maybe citrus fruit. The adults drank lots of coffee, but no alcohol. Christmas Eve was a busy day of preparation.

After brunch, the adults scurried off on their tasks. My Mom spent the day (month) in the kitchen, making her contributions to Christmas dinner. Mom might make a side dish, if needed, but her specialty was “those rolls”. People requested those rolls and when we arrived at Christmas dinner, the first murmur we heard was, “Did you bring the rolls.?” That has become part of my history.

My mother was born on the Middle Peninsula of Virginia, in an area that was colonized in the 1600’s. Tobacco was the cash crop at that time. Maize/corn was grown as the staple food, particularly for the Black population. Most, but not all of the Black people were enslaved. In the late 1700’s, the Virginians stopped cultivating tobacco and brought in other crops, including wheat. The newly available wheat flour was not generally available to Black people. Wheat bread and rolls were a treat, reserved for holidays.

That tradition stayed with my maternal family. I have eyewitness testimony that my great-grandmother, Harriet Lewis Gayle, baked wonderful rolls on Sundays. That tradition got passed to my mother and right down to me. We all spent time in the same kitchen, but I was too young to remember. My mother took her Virginia-style cooking and incorporated her dishes into the North Carolina-style foods of my paternal family. I got to watch and learn from everyone, particularly at Christmas.

Once Mom had completed her prep work for Christmas dinner, she also cooked an early dinner for Dad and me. We had a long night ahead.

My Dad was extremely active in the Episcopal Church. When we lived in Baltimore, we were members of Holy Trinity. Dad was on the Vestry, a Lay Reader, and a Chalicist. That meant he was on duty for major holidays. On Christmas Eve, he would leave right after dinner, to open the church nd prepare for the early service. Some years, Mom and I would get dressed and he would return to pick us up for the service. Once I was old enough to express a preference (not long at all), Mom and I would skip the early service and attend the Carol Singing and Midnight Service. Some years we would attend both services and spend the whole evening at church. We aren’t done yet.

At midnight, we would troop over to the Rectory for a party with Father Powell. Father Powell was single and got treated very well by the ladies of the church. On Christmas Eve/Morning they laid out a cold buffet. I remember being there, but not much about the food. Our next stop was my grandmother Mable’s house. A natural night owl, at 1:00 AM, Mable would have eggnog, cookies and ham sandwiches ready.  This was the moment when I would collapse in a heap, tour thrown over Daddy’s should and hauled home.

My Dad would be up and out the door for a Christmas Day church service most years. Mom and I got to stay home. I would play with my toys, while Mom was in the kitchen, baking rolls and finishing any other dishes she’s made. No lunch was served on holidays, so I was always ravenous by the time we arrived at my cousin’s house for Christmas Dinner. Our first order of business was always bringing in my Mom’s food contributions.

One of the reasons my Mom’s holiday preparations took so long was that she was actually preparing for two Christmas Dinners. During the afternoon, on Christmas Day, my mother would leave the house for an hour or two, loaded with trays of food. It took me a long time to remember that she was taking that food to a Christmas Dinner, held for the Virginia family, at my maternal grandmother’s house, which was also in Baltimore. I only have one memory of going with her. We did not stay to eat, but visited with everyone else. My Dad never went on these visits. Afterwards, we would go home, dress up, and head to celebrate with my Dad’s family.

Christmas celebrations continued along this pattern until we moved to North Carolina. When I had married, my husband and I alternately visited our families for the holidays. This pleased no one, but it was fair. When we visited my family, we fell into the pattern of my childhood. My husband’s family is totally secular, so they did not have a particular routine.

Moving to Raleigh brought us within Aunt Jackie’s sphere of influence. First off, we had to find a church. North Carolina is part of the Bible Belt, where the majority of congregations are Baptist and Episcopalians are rare. When I started asking around for Episcopal churches, people did not believe I was an Episcopalian. They would automatically correct me and tell me I meant AME- African Methodist Episcopal. Apparently Black Episcopalians are not often seen in the South. We did find a congregation, so we could attend services.

My husband put his foot down and refused to go to church on Christmas Eve. We did try it a couple of years, but, by that time, we had two little boys. Taking them to church on Christmas Eve was frustrating. Attending the Midnight service put everyone out of sorts, so that only happened once. Our second year in Raleigh, I tried putting Andrew in the Christmas Pageant, as an angel. Four-year-old Andrew was cute, but clueless. All the other kids trooped through the sanctuary on cue. Andrew watched them all pass and didn’t move until I goosed him. Then he went skittering up the aisle, getting a laugh out of the whole congregation. At least he looked good. The high point of the Pageant came when the sheep brothers got into a brawl and toppled off the dais. That was the end of Christmas church with little kids.

I think we got off easily, our first year in Raleigh. That year, Aunt Jackie and Pash went to New York, to visit their daughter, Wray. The next year, I was informed that we could have Christmas at Jackie and Pash’s house, on the 26th of December.

In Jackie’s world, Christmas Dinner is served on December 26th. December 25th is a Visiting Day. On that day, people spend all their time making “pop calls” around town.  There simply is no time to cook and serve a traditional holiday meal. In my experience, I never saw Jackie go visit anyone except her sister, Arvenia. Instead, everyone came to see Jackie, at HER house. On Christmas Day, Jackie would have prepared a buffet of finger foods such as sausage balls and cheese straws. She would also have cookies and cake and sweet potato pie, all of it homemade, and served with coffee and iced tea. It is no wonder that she had visitors all day long and no time to have a holiday meal.

By the time we arrived, on the day after Christmas, the open house was still in full swing. Jackie would have her designated relatives in the house. These were various Hagan relatives from all over. She might have a dinner prepared, or we might learn that someone else was cooking, in which case, everyone in the house caravanned somewhere else for dinner. We just did what we were told and tried to keep the kids contained.

All through this time, there were other people making calls on Jackie. Make no mistake, we were part of Jackie’s bait. Whenever we were in Rocky Mount, I saw a whole lot of people who knew who I was and all about me and my family. I had no clue who they were, even after they told me. In sleepy small town like Rocky Mount, everyone enjoyed having new faces and something new to talk about. In a way, it was fun. Mostly it was exhausting.

As much as I loved Jackie and my North Carolina relatives, they were exhausting. I’m simply not as social as they were. As the youngest member of my clan, I didn’t know who these people were. My relatives didn’t really help me to understand my family connections. They died with their secrets. It has taken me years of studying and remembering to make sense of their relationships.

Aunt Jackie died a few days before Christmas this year. Her house was decorated and ready for the holiday, and then she died. She lived to be 98 years old. No regrets.

 

Kraut, Turkey and Traction

Kraut with turkey is a Baltimore tradition, as I learned from a cousin. Until that time, I accepted this as normal. My grandmother routinely served sauerkraut for dinner, cooked with pork and often with sweet potatoes on the side. My school served sauerkraut with mashed potatoes for lunch. Kraut was just another vegetable dish, until I went to college in Philadelphia. That’s when I learned to take more notice of cultural differences. Philadelphia has a strong Italian culture. Baltimore has a strong German and Eastern European culture. Somehow, my family combined German and regional Southern influences for our holidays.

My grandmother, Mable, hosted Thanksgiving for as long as I can remember. I started helping her at a young age. I may have started because my private school closed for Thanksgiving before the public schools let out. Here are some of my memories.

My grandmother had household help. Her cleaning lady and an extended family member/boarder would do the bulk of the cleaning. My job was to polish the silverware and help clean the chandelier. That was done early in the week. The night before Thanksgiving, I would set the tables. Every place was set beforehand, tablecloths, cutlery, plates. That may have been my grandmother’s method of checking supplies. Her Thanksgiving crowd topped out at fifty people. That’s a lot of plates and forks to assemble. Sometimes, she also hosted guests, which meant preparing bedrooms.

The Food

My grandmother always ordered her turkeys from a butcher in Lexington Market. She had longstanding relationships with people that probably went back decades. Our family ordered huge turkeys, up to fifty pounds. I remember going with Mable to Lexington Market, but cannot imagine her carrying out a huge turkey by herself. She must have had a man from the butcher shop carry it to her car. Mable didn’t do heavy lifting, if a man was available. 

Mable always cooked the turkey herself. She also did the side dishes of her choice. Other side dishes were prepared by trusted relatives. I do mean trusted relatives. You did not cook anything for a family dinner unless you had known cooking skills. This was the one time I remember Granny baking a pan of cornbread. The cornbread would be broken up and used to make cornbread dressing. We also had wheat bread dressing. Mable usually did a pot of collard greens. Those went on the stove about the same time as the turkey went in the oven, along with a ham hock. Granny also made sauerkraut with pig tails.

Sauerkraut with pig tails is a straight up German dish that made a lateral transfer to soul food. Cabbage is commonly eaten by people in many countries. Fermented cabbage, sauerkraut was just the local variation. I’m not sure how my grandmother came to adopt it. Adding pork to the sauerkraut was a no-brainer. Pork and kraut was a common dish for German gentiles. For German Jews, perhaps beef would have been used instead of pork. Normally, my family cooked sauerkraut with spareribs, as a main dish. For a holiday, as a side dish, the meat was only a seasoning. My grandmother chose to use pig tail and I recently read that Baltimore Germans used pig tail, too. I was a little surprised to learn that. A few years ago, a PTA mom, herself of German heritage, asked my advice on what meat to cook with sauerkraut. I suggested she use a pig tail, and the woman physicallly recoiled. I learned a lesson about the suburbs. 

Authentic or not, you cannot just walk into the local supermarket and pick up a pig tail. My grandmother ordered that from a local butcher or market in advance. It was a sight to see. The pig’s tail was perhaps an inch wide and curved into a corkscrew shape that was about a foot long. I don’t know exactly how it was cooked, but the finished dish was a casserole of mellow, baked sauerkraut, with pieces of browned pork from the tail. 

Worthy family members, with approved cooking skills were allowed to bring side dishes. This was a longstanding family tradition, with details that probably got worked out before I was born. Rae, was Mable’s closest associate and an excellent cook in her own right. In fact, Rae hosted Christmas dinner for most of her adult life. Rae could bring anything she wanted, but I think she often brought mashed potatoes and perhaps a sweet potato pie. Pumpkin pie was not an option in my family. Ernestine brought green beans. My mother was THE baker who made Those Rolls. My mom also made side dishes and desserts, but the rolls were her specialty. After her death, we bought rolls. Some nameless person brought chitterlings, but I won’t disgrace anyone specific. Other side dishes included sweet potatoes, macaroni and cheese, Ann’s tossed salad and my mother’s corn pudding. Louise always brought coconut cake and Lilian made her pound cakes. Rae and her husband, Gene, also brought homemade ice cream. They usually made rum raisin ice cream for the holidays.

That is by no means a complete list of what we ate at the holiday dinners. Mable hosted Thanksgiving for about fifty years. I’m sure the menu varied over those years, at least a little. I find the cultural influences to be fascinating.

My family always serves turkey for Thanksgiving and Christmas. A large roast bird is probably the easiest main meat to cook for a large crowd of people. I don’t know the history of turkey in my family, but I’m not sure when my family started eating that. Mable’s mother, Lizzie Battle, was born about 1875, into a family that had once been enslaved. I just can’t imagine her eating turkey as a little girl. Lizzie married an older man, Richard, who worked on a farm and who had several children with his first wife. They would have had chicken and pork, but I’m not sure about turkey, whether farm-raised or hunted. My guess is that Mable started cooking turkey after our family moved to Baltimore.

My Dad told me that our family bought live chickens, when he was a child. Since they lived in the city, they were not allowed to keep their own chickens. One of the adults would go downtown and purchase live poultry. Lizzie Battle would use an axe to chop off the head of the chicken, before plucking it and making Sunday dinner. I think my Dad had to run around after the live chicken. I can easily imagine my family developing a relationship with their poulterer/butcher, since they regularly bought chickens. It would be natural for the butcher to suggest that they buy a turkey at Thanksgiving. My relatives never bought a turkey anywhere other than from Lexington Market.

Mable also bought Smithfield Ham at Lexington Market. Country ham is an old fashioned product that was originally made in the days before refrigeration was possible. Hams were salted, smoked and air dried. Smithfield Hams were made in the town of Smithfield Virginia and the hogs were fed a diet of peanuts, which gives the meat a particular texture. My grandmother served Smithfield Ham during the holidays, but more importantly, she gave whole or half hams as business gifts. Grandfather was a dentist. On behalf of the dental practice, my grandmother bought a number of Smithfield hams each year. She bought enough that the deli man in Lexington Market gave her a deal to order in bulk and get the deli-prepared hams that weren’t usually sold to the public, except in small quantities.

My grandmother was never happier than when she was socializing. She loved hosting Thanksgiving. As much as she loved it, a big dinner is a lot of work’ even with family help. I grew up thinking it was nearly normal for my grandmother to spent the day after Thanksgiving in the hospital. My grandmother would eventually strain her back on Thanksgiving. She would be taken to the hospital and they would put her in traction, to recover. I remember being taken to visit one year and seeing Granny in bed, with her legs in the air, attached to a framework with pulleys and weights. She said it helped. Even after landing in the hospital, she would not give up hosting Thanksgiving. She liked a party too much to give it up.