M:  I’m a pork man. I mean, I love a good cut of beef and you can’t really go wrong with chicken, but there’s just something about pork. Maybe it’s because North Carolina is the second largest pork-producing state. Maybe it’s because the nation’s largest retail pork producer, Nahunta Pork Center, is not far from here and they have an outlet store attached to my farmer’s market. Or maybe it’s because moving South exposed me to the joys of barbeque and pig pickin’s and the all-but-ubiquitous pulled pork. Whatever the reason, pork is my “go to” meat these days and if you’ve got a recipe I haven’t tried, count me in.

This recipe, with its bold “a.k.a. Liquid Pork”, brought high expectations from a guy who stops at every single church, social club, or neighborhood pig pickin’ he sees.

How was it? Not to shabby, I must say, but it left me conflicted. What separates this roast from one that might be destined for a good ol’ NC pulled pork sandwich is the addition of a fairly traditional gravy. The submitter says that he prefers to pull this roast instead of slicing, but his extended family prefers it be sliced. To the slicer, I say good luck.

That is not a criticism.

This is one tender hunk of meat. Cooking it in that gravy made this roast so moist and succulent that “Liquid Pork” is pert near literal. In fact, when I lifted the roast from the pot so I could show you how nicely it had cooked, the bone slipped out cleanly through the bottom without provocation. I suspect the only reason it didn’t fall to pieces immediately was because I hadn’t stripped the skin off yet. That makes for some good pulled pork.

And the gravy? It was fine. Good even. If this were sliced, this gravy would have been just the thing. But once the roast became pulled pork, willingly or not, I kind of wished I had a little Eastern Carolina barbeque sauce instead. This is not the recipe’s fault. Call it regional conditioning.

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M: There is an art to making biscuits. Cold butter. A narrow window of consistency in which to mix wet and dry ingredients, all pressed and folded oh so carefully. Some are born with it and scratch their heads when neophytes repeatedly miss the mark. Others develop the skill with a whole lot of practice, willing to eat their way through many a sub-par biscuit until getting it just right. For those don’t fall into either of those categories, there is the drop biscuit.

No careful folding involved and that window of consistency opens pretty wide. Mix the dough, scoops globs onto a baking sheet and toss it in the oven. It ain’t always pretty, but the results are generally more delicious than the effort should allow and if I’m in a hurry or just can’t be arsed to make a proper biscuit, my sloth is rewarded with an effortless gravy sopper. It’s funny just how often that happens.

So what’s the miracle here? Look at that list of ingredients. I don’t know about your drop biscuits, but mine generally have at least half a dozen ingredients. Flour, buttermilk, butter, salt, baking powder and baking soda. I didn’t think you could get much simpler than that, but I stand corrected. For those who cannot be arsed to make a drop biscuit, I give you the Miracle Drop Biscuit.

Two ingredients. Two.

It certainly isn’t beautiful and it’s far from the best drop biscuit I’ve ever had. You know what though? It’s not bad. Pretty good, in fact. Did I mention it only has two ingredients? I wasn’t even sure it would hold together.

This is not the biscuit I’ll be making when company comes to call. If I’m scrambling to put dinner together on a busy day, though? You betcha.

I don’t know if this biscuit quite qualifies as a miracle, though. We’ll see what the new pope has to say.

Still. Amazing.

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M: Paul Bunyan may get most of the giant lumberjack press in the Northwest, but in the South, similar giant lumberjack Tony Beaver had his own thing going on. He may not have had a blue ox or dragged his axe on the ground to form the Grand Canyon, but he did pretty well by 19th century candy lovers.

It seems the townsfolk were in terrible peril. Flood waters were rapidly rising, sure to destroy the town and drown its residents. Thank goodness for Tony.  Using the town’s fortunate surplus of molasses and peanuts, Tony was able to dam the river. The heroic act of this legendary figure I’d never heard of before today not only saved the townsfolk, but also resulted in the creation of a treat beloved from that day forth. Dam that’s good peanut brittle!

This recipe produces exactly what I look for in a good peanut brittle. It is certainly sweet, but the peanuts still manage to remain part of the profile. Not all brittle recipes call for baking soda, but I haven’t met one yet that didn’t benefit from its presence. You’ll immediately notice some of its impact when stirring it in the at hard-crack stage as the candy become opaque and foamy. Not only does it look lovely, the brittle will become airier, meaning it will break, but not shatter as you sink your teeth into it. I vote yes.

This recipe yields about 5 pounds of candy. I like this stuff as much as the next guy, but that’s a lot of brittle.  Next time around I may consider a half batch. What am I, Tony Beaver?

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M: Not the liqueur, but rather the cucumber and cream cheese blend served as a dip or filling for finger sandwiches.  Ever hear of it?  I hadn’t, but the submitter of this recipe declares it to be to Louisville, KY what “pâté is to Paris or baked beans are to Boston.”  Given the many recipes found online and its long history, there may be some truth in that.  When I asked around about this one, several people started by telling me that it’s green.  This one is not, but it turns out green food coloring is a commonly used ingredient.  Since I have no history with this spread, I didn’t miss it one bit.

This is just a lovely thing.  Cucumber, cream cheese and a bit of onion whipped together.   It’s light, flavorful and spreads well.  Do, however, believe this recipe when it says to let the cucumber drain for a couple of hours.  It is amazing just how much water is in a cucumber and we just won’t abide by a soggy finger sandwich, now will we?  I served mine on slices of Sunbeam bread, made pretty by the use of a scalloped biscuit cutter.  Benedictine my new go to when prepping for a garden party.  Yeah, I’ve never actually thrown a garden party.  But if I do, I’m all set.

A word about recipes and measurement.  Unless I’m cooking (or especially baking) something that requires very specific amounts to be successful, I’m content with a recipe that says, for example, “one medium onion” instead of 1/2 c.  I never have half cups of onion sitting around, but the medium onions in my pantry are plentiful.  And yet, when I’m unhappy with the results, I’m quick to blame an imprecise recipe.   What can I say?  I’m complex.

In the case of this recipe, it may surprise you to hear I took pause for a moment at “1 Large Cucumber”.   I used to think I knew what a large cucumber was. In the Midwest, that’s, what, twelve inches maybe?   Down here, home gardeners keep telling me once you get up over six or eight inches, that’s not good eating anymore.  It’s chicken food.  I dismissed the first guy who told me that, but I have heard it enough times now that I wonder if Southern (or at least NC) cukes meet a different measure.  The cucumber I used for this one was of Yankee length and the results were more than satisfactory.

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M: The Romans considered cabbage a medicinal crop, curing any number of ailments. Egyptians ate it before a night of drinking, believing it warded off hangovers. And Ancient Chinese texts cite it as a cure for baldness.

Cabbage is good for the treatment of ulcers, constipation and has shown a positive effect toward controlling blood pressure.

Sometime in the 16th or 17th century domestic cultivation grew in popularity, as it reaches maturity in only three weeks could be planted weeks before the last frost date in the spring or in the fall after summer crops began to wane.  It is versatile in use and pound for pound is one of the most prolific crops, especially considering it’s off-season prowess.  For that reason, it was long considered the food of the poor. Silly rich people.

Medicinal value. Crop efficiency. Cure for baldness. This is one magical vegetable. Yeah, so I’m living proof that that last one may not hold water. But me and my bald head still can’t get enough.

I like cabbage pretty much any way you’ll give it to me.  Kim Chi? You bet. Coleslaw? No pulled pork sandwich is complete without it. Corned beef and cabbage? Erin go bragh. And a sandwich topper or soup ingredient, it adds a nuanced flavor and texture that makes everything just a little bit better. Even now, sauerkraut is happily fermenting in my pantry. And now I have this lovely dish to add to my cabbage oeuvre.

Such a simple recipe. And that just fine by me. Smothering is a low-heat method of cooking that allows the cabbage to soak up the flavors of the onion, meat (in my case, pork) and the spices beautifully. It is hearty, comforting and just the thing as the weather begins to cool down. Throw in some crusty bread and you’ve got a meal fit for a peasant. A happy, well-fed peasant. Don’t change a thing.

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M: The first time a ever had a pickled egg, I had just seen the movie Barfly. If you haven’t seen it, it’s a fairly depressing movie loosely based on a time in Charles Bukowski’s when he was drinking heavily. It stars Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway as people lost in a haze of excessive drinking and seedy bars.

Nothing about the film makes drinking glamorous and I’d never been much of a drinker, yet somehow walking out of The Movies Repertory theater in downtown Cincinnati, all I wanted to do is find a seedy bar and have a drink.

I may have my details wrong here, but I think we ended up in the lobby bar of the Milner Hotel just a block over. The Milner is now long gone, but at the time it was the kind of place you could get a room for less than 200 bucks a month and the accommodations reflected that. Perfect.

I ordered a shot of JTS Brown Kentucky Bourbon, because that’s what Paul Newman drank in the movie The Hustler (yeah, I was a huge movie geek. What’s your point?). I may have even been underage, but the bartender didn’t even glance up as he poured the drink. I was feeling more like Mickey Rourke every second. What else you you do in run-down bars? There wasn’t a pool table, so I had my eye on that jar of pickled eggs at the end of the bar. Bright pink in a way that should appeal to no one, and yet it beckoned.  One please.

The drink was awful. But nothing compared to that rubbery crunchberry pink atrocity that was my pickled egg. Everything tasted terrible, the place was filthy, poorly lit and just as depressing as anyplace Mickey had stumbled into. Awful. Just awful. But exactly what I was looking for and an absolutely great night out.

I took a few things from that evening. First, sometimes the worst places make for the best times. Second, I did not like whiskey. And finally, pickled eggs? No thanks.

Well, some 25 years later I still manage to have the best times in the worst places. That part has held true. But somewhere along the line I’ve developed a great affection for the the occasional whiskey. I’ll even order JTS Brown now and again (here’s to you, Fast Eddie). And that pickled egg? Didn’t touch another one for twenty years. I had established I didn’t like them and that was that.

Until I started raising chickens.

When you’ve got dozens of eggs piling up in the fridge, anything you can think to do with them is a good idea. And so the pickled egg came back into my life.

And here’s the thing. The bright pink pickled egg one might buy from a dusty jar at the end of the bar is not the best pickled egg in town. Turns out I’m a fan these days and they commonly live in the door of my fridge. I even include some pickled beet brine when I have it on hand to get some of that pink in there. A tip of the hat to the good people at the Milner Hotel, bless their hearts.

This recipe is a good place to start. It’s a solid brine and works very well just as it stands, but tweak at will. I tend toward skipping the mace and throwing in some sliced onions.

Best served with a shot of JTS Brown.

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M: Origins in the exotic Caribbean? Nope. Total fake out. So often, the origin of a recipe sits in dispute? Did Brunswick stew come from Virginia or Georgia? Are fried green tomatoes a creation of the Midwest? Well, for once, we know exactly where this one came from. With a name like West Indies salad it can only be from…  the gulf coast of Alabama?

When Bayley’s Steak House opened in 1947, owner Bill Bayley had an idea. With a steady supply of crab meat available in the area, he was looking for a new way to serve it that would distinguish his restaurant from the others in the region. Thus was born the West Indies salad.

Why West Indies? Nothing more than a fleeting thought to make the menu item sound more exotic. The offering was a smashing success and restaurants throughout the region copied his tangy creation. The name stayed with it.

The original Bayley’s Steak House closed in 1986 (Bayley’s son reopened in the iconic restaurant in the mid-90s in a new location), but the regional favorite has persevered.

So simple. So good. The tang of cider vinegar and subtle bite of chopped onions brightens beautifully, while still allowing the fresh crab meat to lead the way. I don’t care what some Alaskan Whiting might tell you, the flavor of fresh crab is inimitable.

The ice water is an elegant way to keep the crab meat uniformly chilled and supple. Make sure to heed the step in which this is to be chilled for some hours be serving. it makes a difference.

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M: It’s a good recipe. Nice balance of savory with a bit of sweet and a touch of heat. “Country” in “Country Sausage” generally seems to be sausage code for including sage and here that is no exception. This is an excellent starting point for homemade sausage. Works well as is, but is also wide open for tweaking to taste. I’ll probably bump the heat and take the sweet down a little, left to my own devices. No small benefit of making sausage at home. Which brings me to what should be the headline here. Go get yourself a meat grinder.

I held off far longer than I should have. I always figured that for a single use appliance, I’m unlikely to do enough grinding to make it worth my while. Of course, it isn’t really single use. Grinders can be used to process vegetables, cheese or nuts. You can make bread crumbs or grind whole grains into cereal. And I bet a bunch of other stuff too. But you know, I’ve only had it a week.

This recipe was a great excuse to pull the trigger. I did shop around a little. There are a lot more choices than I’d have guessed. Hand crank or electric. Small or large batch. Free standing or counter mount. I ended up going with my first instinct, which is a surprisingly effective attachment for my KitchenAid.

I’m sure the bloom will come off the rose, but for now I am enthralled. Not only is it shockingly easy to use, my (sometimes unreasonable) desire to take things to “scratch” level as much as possible is well fed. And not for nothing, I like knowing exactly what’s in the sausage I’m eating.

And there is no arguing with the freshest of meat in sausage form (straight from the Nahunta Pork Center outlet, in my case). The difference between fresh ground and pre-ground is as good as it seems like it’d be. I’m hooked. Today pork, tomorrow the world. If I can get it to fit through that little hole.

I also got the sausage stuffer attachment.  This is going to be fun!

One last comment on this recipe. As published in the book, it calls for fifty pounds of pork. I decimated that. Fifty pounds is kind of a lot. I had so much fun doing it though, I may not hold back next time.

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M: My partner here at the Skillet mentioned to me that when attending a 4th of July picnic, she brought both Carolina Coleslaw and Shout Hallelujah Potato Salad. Both are recipes from the The Southern Foodways Alliance Community Cookbook and both had been requested. They have become “go to” recipes for her. Comparing notes, it turns out that, for both of us, many of the dishes we’ve prepared as part of this project have been so good they have become standards for us, sometimes replacing longtime favorites. Cheerwine Barbeque Chicken was like that for me. Creamy Corn Pudding was another. And now I may have to add this fried chicken recipe to the ever-growing list of recipe usurpers in my kitchen.

I like fried chicken. A lot. I’m always pleased to be served fried chicken and I make it at home now and again. But I’ve never really had a recipe that knocked me out. Most often, my complaint has been crust that is either too soggy, not flavorful or doesn’t hold to the chicken as well as I’d like. This recipe has none of those problems and also delivers some of the juiciest chicken I’ve had the pleasure to prepare. What makes this one special?

I’ve got to credit evaporated milk, which is the component of which I was most suspicious. My concerned is that it would be too sweet. Not condensed milk sweet (condensed milk is more or less evaporated milk with a lot of sugar added), but still. I like my savory savory. To be fair, I haven’t done much cooking with evaporated milk, but I immediately think of custards or pies. I’ll leave that attitude behind now, because this really works.

The density of evaporated milk, as opposed to, say, buttermilk, holds the crust together in a spectacular way. Not only does it produce a crunchiness so often missing in my fried chicken, but it holds together beautifully, has terrific flavor without buying the flavor of the chicken itself, and seals in the juices like nobody’s business.

I thought the garnishes (pickle slices and “confetti”) were more about plate appeal, but boy do they work to taste.  Don’t skip either. If the pickles are home made, so much the better. Also, parsley is underrated. It really pulls its weight here in a way I didn’t expect. Hooray, says me.

How about that? Another “go to ” dish from the SFA Cookbook. In fact, I am likely to go to this one again very, very soon.

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M: In early 1800′s Virginia, our beloved cornbread wavered briefly out of fashion when musty cornmeal was linked to a number of diseases. Enter the beaten biscuit. Generally considered a luxury food of the time due to the cost of wheat flour and the time investment needed (compared to simple cornbread), a hard push was made to encourage mountain folk to leave their beloved cornbread behind as a matter of public health. Efforts were moderately successful and soon the beaten biscuit could be found in kitchens and chuck wagons throughout Virginia and into Kentucky.

So what’s with all this beating? It’s all about air.  In the last half of the 19th century, baking powder would resolve the issue of producing a lighter biscuit, but until then, it was all about working the dough. The longer these biscuits (really something between the traditional biscuit and a soda cracker) are beaten, the lighter the result. Every day biscuits might do fine with a couple hundred mallet strikes.  Up that to four or five hundred for Sunday company biscuits. On the trail, this labor intensive task was often left to unsuspecting trail neophytes.

As for me, I had a great time pounding out this dough. Swinging a meat tenderizer repeatedly and with great force turns out to be a grand ol’ time. Sometimes a beating is just the ticket to administrate your will. Focusing that attitude on a pile of dough seems like a good way to work that out.

But did I like these biscuits? I did. But I had to reset my expectations a little.  These are not the fluffy buttermilk biscuits I’ve come to love. Think hard tack beaten to civility. With a little attitude adjustment on my part, this crispy little wafer has some personality. Served up with some country ham with red-eye gravy, I was ready for a day’s ride on the dusty trail.

OK, so come Sunday morning I’m much more likely to serve up some traditional biscuits or perhaps some fluffy angel biscuits. Still. Respect.

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