Behold! A pixie prances in the Bacon Forest!
(Photo: Pableaux "Paul" Johnson)
I just spent half a week in a bizarre alternate universe. There, a ham maker can be accorded the respect due a head of state. There, the parsing of barbecue's savage and cannibalistic undertones is an intriguing line of conversation. There, "frying chicken" can be presented as a slang term for sex…and it somehow makes sense.
If you think you're ready to be in such a world, then I welcome you to the annual Southern Foodways Alliance Symposium. (A little bit of background, because he's a little too modest to write about it himself, but the SFA is where our very own John T. Edge is Director.) And while for 361.5 days out of the year it's a collection of Southern food lovers, scholars, writers, anthropologists, cooks, farmers, artists, artisans, and philosophers, during the half-week that is the Symposium, it's more like a roving gang of whiskey-fueled catfish eaters terrorizing the poor town of Oxford, Mississippi. For the second year in a row, I counted myself proudly among that godforsaken group. If you dare, click through for some of the highlights.
I arrived a little late, at the end of the first panel discussion, but just in time to greet Allan Benton on his way out the door. Allan's been curing hams and smoking bacon in total obscurity for decades, until all of a sudden he became a pork star and now he gets mobbed by adoring chefs everywhere he goes. I introduced myself to him, but he remembered me from our first meeting—two years ago, at his smokehouse, when I was one of 20 folks on a field trip. He smiled warmly, and I couldn't help but think of the cliché of him being all "aw shucks," but it's for real. All the hero worship hasn't gone to his head.
Jessica Harris, as part of an illuminating talk on race and food, told a story of Hercules, perhaps the first American celebrity chef. Commander of George Washington's kitchens, a fashionable dandy in Philadelphia, Hercules garnered so much fame there is a painting of him in Madrid. He was also a slave. One day, as Washington was out chopping cherry trees or something, the superstar slipped into ether and was never heard from again. Turns out freedom smells better than fame.
At one point, during his talk on fried chicken, Bill Addison described an example he once saw, starting with the phrase, "They boned the chicken…" There was, I swear, audible gasping in the audience. It may have been irresponsible of him to keep talking, lest someone faint and hit their head.
The fabulous Sara Roahen, while describing a series of meetings with makers of boudin, the Cajun pork and rice sausage: "Boudin…doesn't photograph well."
More on fried chicken: the inimitable Eugene Walter once described Northern fried chicken. A reading: "…an ancient fowl, encased in cement, and tormented in hot grease for an eternity." Do I agree? Not necessarily. Do I tip my hat? Absolutely.
Taylor Grocery serves, by their estimation, the best catfish in the South. I had to try a piece to be sure. Then I had to try the other. And then I had to try some hush puppies, to cleanse my palate before trying a third. Then I went to dinner. True story.
There was much revelry, fried food, and whiskey. Frankly, it was all a blur of fried food and whiskey. Sandy Oliver, Yankee and food historian, was right in the thick of it. "My inner Calvinist is deeply disturbed," she said.
Holy shit! Holy shit! I met Roy Blount Jr.! I met Roy Blount Jr. and, wracked with guilt over not paying for my subscription to the Oxford American, this is the first thing I said to him: "I owe you money!" I met Roy Blount Jr. and he thinks I'm a jackass!
There, but by the grace of God, go I.
Still more on chicken: John T. Edge lives down the street from a Chevron station. In this Chevron station, you can buy chicken-on-a-stick. This chicken-on-a-stick is not an acceptable food. And yet, EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN OXFORD, MISSISSIPPI DRUNK ENOUGH TO LOSE THEIR INHIBITIONS BUYS THE CHICKEN-ON-A-STICK. I found evidence to this the next morning.
Here's an unusual moment: watching the Mayor of a small deep-south town, who also happens to own the best bookstore around for a hundred miles, giving the key to the city to a restaurateur from California. Incidentally, is Alice Waters the most beautiful woman in America? I wouldn't bet the farm on it, but maybe a couple of gorgeous heads of baby lettuces.
Find yourself the best, crunchiest, saltiest peanuts you can get. Find yourself a glass bottle of Coca-Cola. Drop a few peanuts in the bottle. Eat a bunch of peanuts, chewing them until they're peanut butter. Wash it down with the Coke. Don't be afraid to try it for breakfast.
Professor Charles Joyner, while giving an historical interpretation on what it means for Southern food to be Creole, actually taught me about something else. While digressing to tell the crowd about an OUTLANDISH day wherein he ate barbecue three—THREE—times, I realized that there's this thing that some people do called "getting full." And that "getting full" is a reason to stop eating. Fascinating. I'll have to look into this.