In college I discovered Li Young Lee, and thus his poem From Blossoms. Since that first year in college, this poem cycles through my brain in so many circumstances, not unlike the rainy day mantra of Paul Verlaine.
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
- Li-Young Lee
I've wanted to cook a good Southern meal for Schaeffer's Dad, Mr. D, for a number of reasons. He's from Montgomery, Alabama. He's a Southern gentleman who opens every door, insists the lady sit in the front seat and stands when one approaches the table. Needless to say, to this Jersey girl, he might as well be another species of man. So, on our last night in Tennessee, after wandering around the most wonderful farmer's market in Franklin, I summoned the Southern gal tucked way, way down inside myself and cooked up some fixins' I hoped would please even the most Southern of the group: Mr. D.
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| †The glorious Franklin Farmer's Market. |
Menu:
Southern Fried Chicken (#160)
Cornmeal Fried Okra (#161)
Broiler-Cooked Corn on the Cob (#162)
Heirloom Tomato Salad (#163)
Buttermilk Biscuits (#164)
Peach Pandowdy (#165)
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| dusty skin and all. |
Odd as it may sound, I had the morning to myself at Mrs. D's, so I got to making my peach pandowdy. (Which, I should say, I didn't actually know was a pandowdy until Mr. D informed me that's what they call it down South.) The morning was spent with coffee and the most beautiful box of peaches I have ever seen. It had me mulling over lines from Lee's poem almost instantly and subconsciously..."peaches we devour, dusty skin and all".
They were the butteriest of peaches. The kind your knife slides right through without effort, juicy and bright. The kind you eat more than a slice or two as you are preparing a pandowdy.
I've never eaten okra, but the thought of those little green, and as it turns out, slimy, monsters being coated and fried and put on the plate next to fried chicken seemed absolutely right. There were many hands in the kitchen, which was a good thing since I needed as much Southern-by-association as possible.
Schaeffer handled the okra. At one point, he turned to me and said (and I quote), "Do you want me to dip these in the liquid and dredge them in flour?" Pretty much everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up. Then, after a moment of astonishment, smiled and laughed. And so, he dipped and dredged.
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| And then he fried. |
Frying chicken on the stove was quite the endeavor. As I already seemed to have wreaked havoc on this kitchen, what with the oven never having been so hot as when I cooked the cheesecake, the place filling with smoke when I broiled those chickens and the smoke alarm going off every five minutes throughout each and every time I come to Nashville, - I figured, what the heck? Why not bring boil 4 quarts of oil and try to fry whole bone-in chicken drumsticks and breasts?
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| It worked! |
To my absolute 100% surprise, it worked! And it looked just like I wanted it to look, - all crispy and tempting. And, I think it is safe to say...it passed the test of Southern approval.
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| I think this says it all. |
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| Couldn't resist my dash of mozzarella cheese. C'mon, we needed a tinge of Italian. |
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| Talk about comfort food. |
The whole evening was wonderful. The biscuits were sub par in my opinion, but I didn't fret. Having everyone out on the back porch, eating that good ol' Southern meal, just chatting and eating, it was the most perfect way to end the trip. I can hardly wait to get back to Nashville.
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| Peach Pandowdy a la mode |
"O, to take what we love inside,
To carry with us an orchard."
135 to go...
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