Potlikker

diy strawberry soda

Thinking about strawberry soda for Juneteenth made me realize I've never tasted it. Sure, orange and grape sodas were staples of my childhood, but never strawberry. Short searching brought me to use real butter who shared a strawberry syrup recipe from the food in jars cookbook. I know, so many links and layers: Like going down the rabbithole in Alice in Wonderland--all this for strawberry soda?

It was worth it. 

And so simple, too. 

The recipe was 2 pints of strawberries, 3 cups of water, and 2 cups of granulated sugar. For the recipe, refer to the use real butter website.

But I had 2 quarts of strawberries. I doubled the water and sugar.

I'm not scientific. I didn't train at any culinary school. Doubling usually works for me. It worked this time. use real butter's recipe yielded a quart/liter of syrup, while mine yielded almost half a gallon (the photo below is much less than half a gallon, I've made a LOT of strawberry sodas). 

I poured it into a glass gallon apple cider jar I couldn't throw out. I'm old, but not terribly old. Yet, one set of my grandparents lived through the Great Depression. I learned recycling and resiliency from the examples they modeled vis a vis their frugal lifestyle.

Confession: I hoard glass bottles, but maybe not because of why you think. When I find a framework I like, or construct one, I'll mount a bottle tree in my yard. Haven't decided whether front or back, yet. Bottle trees, if you don't know, are associated with the southern US. Empty bottles are stuck on limbs of a tree in a yard and they trap evil spirits around the perimeter so they don't enter your home. It originated in the Kongo and came to the US with slaves who were captured and sold. And, its practice spread with the African-American diaspora. It's a Hoodoo folk-magic belief.

I'll spare your eyes with my awful photos of processing the strawberries. user real butter's are better. 

Once your syrup is made, it keeps in the fridge for about two weeks. To made soda, mix sparkling/carbonated water, syrup, and ice in a glass at a ratio that pleases you. I do about half syrup to sparkling water, but Ian likes more carbonation. Plus, he really liked it. Reminded me of that old Life commercial. He likes it, hey Mikey!

As for the experience of drinking this strawberry soda. Well, it's simply delightful. I can't think of a better use for strawberries when they come into season. It's the most refreshing summer drink I've ever had. Other than a fruity cocktail. Homemade strawberry soda is a sweet taste that satisfies all your senses. 

Strawberry syrup opened my eyes to the possibilities of other fruit syrups and their use in drinks. Not thinking beyond drinks at this point. Mostly just sodas, cocktails, maybe a frozen-ish liquor drink, etc. I'm a thirsty woman. 

two nights in baltimore (food content at the bottom)

Work took me to Baltimore a few weeks ago and I spent a short minute calculating how many years passed since my last visit to my mother's birthplace; at least twenty years. The Inner Harbor was rehabbed then, but not quite as fancy as it is today. Deciding between taxicab and light-rail into downtown was short work. Hadn't researched the city properly before touching down, so my decisions were impromptu.

Urban life fascinates me. The walking. The public transportation. Food trucks. The homeless. Buskers. People who don't/can't drive. Once I got that light-rail in my head, and knew it cost less than two dollars to transport me from the airport to downtown, I bought my ticket and hopped on. And that was perfect because it saved me the $30 + tip cab fare that's the flat rate. On the ride, I thought of Ian. Wondered if we lived in Baltimore whether he'd like driving a passenger train rather than a coal train. Then I thought about my mom and her childhood and whether she rode trains when she lived there in the 1950s and 1960s. Naturally, thoughts turned further back to my grandmother and when she lived in Baltimore and whether she and her mother rode a train from Tennessee to Baltimore when they moved there in the 1940s.

Exited the light rail kind of where I thought I should, but not really. Ended up wheeling my carry on behind me along Eutaw Street. Bad idea. Wish I'd known to stop in at Lexington Market where the best Lump Crab Cakes are had at Faidley's. Oh well, missed out on that. They ship. No photos of any of that travail because I wasn't whipping out my camera. Oh heck. I was so out of my element. Everybody knew I was in the wrong place. Several men asked if I needed a ride somewhere. I declined.

My grandparents met in Baltimore after Marie (my grandmother) and her mother, Ada, moved north as part of the Appalachian Diaspora in the 1940s to find work because there was none here. At one time Marie worked at a Planter's peanut plant in Baltimore. Mom and her family returned to Tennessee in the 1960s after Ada died. Thanks to all the years they lived in Baltimore, they developed an everlasting love of crabs, which they shared and cultivated in me by teaching me to eat them and love their taste, and their mess.

The bit of food prep I did prior was thanks to Laura Lippman. If you read mystery, then you may know her work. Lippman writes a series featuring Tess Monaghan set in Baltimore that usually features stake outs in restaurants. The worst part is that Monaghan has shellfish allergies. Terrible thing, that. Lippman also writes other mysteries as well and splits her time between Baltimore and New Orleans, where I'm headed in--oh, let me count the days--six days. I like her on Facebook and she asked what she should blog about. I requested food in Baltimore, because I'm all about food and think everyone else should be too. She and the folks who commented gave me pages of names of restaurants to consider. I kept them accessible in my Droid.

So even though I never lived in Baltimore and had only visited there once before I have a fondness for the city because my mother grew up on High Street, Little Italy, I think. Reading Lippman's books is one small way I pay tribute to my mother. And always carrying a warm fuzzy feeling for Baltimore is another, despite it being quite possibly the dirtiest city I've ever visited. There was trash everywhere. Oh, and a love of John Waters' films.

That initial visit some twenty years ago cinched my love affair with Baltimore and linked the city forever in my mind with drinking because of the city's nonchalant liquor laws. I was twenty but appear younger than my age, which was the bane of my younf life. At thirty-nine, I still get carded and boy howdy it makes me feel gooooooooood. When my ceramics professor took my classmates and I to a crab shacky kind of place near the Inner Harbor for dinner, we sat as a group and ordered drinks, but my experience with mixed drinks was mostly vodka and orange juice, so I was clueless about what to order. Millie, a server at The Peerless, suggested I try a gin & tonic. I loved it. It's been my signature drink ever since for two reasons: It was my first illegal drink, and, as a quasi-Druid who loves all tree-products, (this is how one of my husband's friends described me to him when we first dated "She's a tree hugger. Don't buy her flowers. Buy her a plant") naturally, juniper berries are divine.

Strolling the Inner Harbor after dinner, we entered a shopping area and ordered beer. Again I was not carded. We walked around carrying open containers of alcohol. Just simply unheard of in East Tennessee in 1991 at the time. So, you see, Baltimore had it going on. 

Of course, there was the time, the second time, actually, when I worked as an historical interpreter at Rocky Mount. It's one of those historic places that does first-person interpretation where you become the person and lead tour groups around the cabin and grounds in character. I used my name, Rebecca, and worked with the director to develop my character. She was a Catholic woman from Baltimore who wore very fancy costume. Along with her husband and children, she visited the Cobbs because her husband sought trade opportunities along the Great Wagon Road/Southwest Territory, because believe it or not, East Tennessee was, at one time THE Southwest Territory of the US. But she kept her religion secret and they worshipped secretly because if you know much about religious history in 18th century America, Catholics were persecuted. So there's that whole Baltimore connection going on, too.

This trip I chose my hotel for its proximity to the Enoch Pratt Free Library because I am a librarian. And after the dicey stroll down Eutaw street and a rest in my room, I spent a few hours soaking in the loveliness that is the EPFL, doing a little genealogy research, chatting with the homeless, badgering the reference staff to dig up books on WACS out of their stacks, etc. I've dreamt of visiting its environs for years. It is one of the oldest established free libraries in the US. I am the ultimate library geek. I love books. When I vacation, or travel for business, I learn where the libraries are, and I make point to visit them. 

Thank goodness for Yelp! Luckily Tio Pepe was less than a block from my hotel and so dinner the first night was Spanish. The architecture in Baltimore, at least in the Mt. Vernon district where I stayed, reminded me of Boston how so many businesses and residences were at basement level. Tio Pepe was recommended by someone who commented on Lippman's blog post. Spanish food is not something common in East Tennessee. The sangria they served was the best I've ever had. Most sangria I order is bland, but I was amazed. Good bread, nice butter. 

There's something about Spanish restaurants and their interiors. At least the ones I've been to. They remind me of dungeons. I like them, but they scare me. Lots of white plaster or brick work. Thick-plank black wooden doors. Dangerous ornamental sconces and light fixtures. Like, if you can't pay the bill or undertip, they'll take you to a back room and strap you to a torture device. Tio Pepe's was understated, lots of photos at their website. I took no photos. Didn't seem like the thing to do. Was a fancy, pricey place. I felt odd enough dining alone.

The Tio Pepe in Tampa, FL was over-wrought, more reminiscent of Ripley's Believe It or Not. At the one in Baltimore, the servers were male and were native speaker of Spanish which made me wonder about Baltimore's ethnic enclaves. I know about Little Italy. That's where my grandfather grew up, even though he was German-Irish.

Since I didn't get the lump crab cake at Lexington Market, I ordered a grouper special topped with crab and champagne. Vegetables and potatoes accompanied it. The grouper was light and delicious, and I mostly ate the crab because I was quite full from snarfing the bread and butter. Too bad there was no fridge in my room to take my leftovers to. Nor were there any homeless between the restaurant and my hotel to foist my leftovers onto, either. Sadly, I find Spanish desserts somewhat lackluster and with a full stomach, there was no quibbling.

I dined at Sascha's 527 Cafe the second night, again because of it's proximity to my hotel. I was carless and walked everywhere. I spied it the previous day, noted it's location, and when my stomach grumbled on Wednesday I walked down the brick-paved sidewalk past the lovely verdigris cafe tables and chairs outside their windows and inside their soaring sixteen foot ceiling space for a very early dinner. Having the dining room to myself was lovely. Bright acrylic portraits limned the walls and someone brought bread-sticks and a green olive thingy (how else to describe it?) for me to snack on while I browsed the menu. Their playlist was lovely: Dolly Parton, Nora Jones, and some other homey feeling tunes that segued into jazz, believe it or not.

Went for the Duck confit ravioli because there aren't enough opportunities for me to eat duck in my real life. It was divine. Here's their description: "Homemade Ravioli w. Duck Confit and Mascarpone, Black Pepper Honey and Sage Brown Butter." I didn't expect sweet. Sascha's serves tasting plates, so I also ordered the cheese plate. It was so-so. It's description outdid the reality. Not outstanding, but it didn't fill me up, and that was my goal. The shame is that I've forgotten the name of the Excellent cocktail I drank. It was all gingered up. Perhaps a ginger martini? Simply delightful and refreshing. Who knew Baltimore could be so hot and humid in mid May? No dessert there, either. I browsed their menu, nothing inspired. Is Baltimore known for carrot cake? It was touted as a special or Baltimore's finest, or some such.

Oh, and to not have the air conditioning at Salamander Used Books? Bad Form. There was a box fan. The man selling books said he was waiting to turn it on later for a book group. Why antagonize your customers and add to their misery? 

Actually, I'm eager to return. I didn't visit the art museums. I'm sure there are many more eating adventures I missed out on. There's a cupcake establishment receiving good and bad reviews. There's a pie or cake place featured on the Food Network one Laura told me to visit, but without a car and with no impulse to try the bus system or hop in a cab, I didn't. And another Laura raves about it and so I think I should give it another go for her sake and maybe focus on more nautical pursuits. Or a cocktail tour.

Okay, I got over my fear of taxi cabs about eight years ago and manage them okay. Watching the Bone Collector made me fearful of stepping into strangers' vehicles. I talk to strangers all day, but trusting them with my life is another thing.

cracker kitchens & diasporas

It's rare that I put a cookbook aside to seek other books the author wrote, but that is what happened with The Cracker Kitchen. I found My Brother Michael at the public library and had to finish it before I felt up to reading through Cracker Kitchen--that on top of having a 6 month old baby keeping me busy. Pat Conroy's introduction should have clued me into Owens's fabulous writing. But it didn't, although he described it so:

 

Janis Owens's cookbook is a love letter written to celebrate the poor white people of the American South who were my mother's people and my own.

 

Owens says it a bit better though:

 

We are the working-class back that colonial American was built upon, the children of its earliest pioneers, who have lately tired of hiding our light under a bushel, and have said to hell with subterfuge.

 

It's written colloquially. If you've read that Paula Deen biography that came out a few years ago, then you know what I mean: the style is easy and the plate is greasy. Often she goes into asides in parentheses by hypothesizing one of the Tarleton Twins's--of GWTW--reaction to being served Baked Armadillo.

 

 

Owens limns her Cracker credentials by providing colorful family history within the context of all that Cracker symbolizes. The fabulous piece here, is that Crackers are inbred cousins to the Hillbilly, my people. And so, naturally, I am at once at ease with Owens's festive and engaging storytelling.  Crackers are notorious for telling yarns; the men, especially.

 

Her goal is admirable: To introduce readers to all things Cracker despite the diaspora that drove them out of Florida. Economy got you down? Yeah, it's always a fact of life for the working class/rural folk. She calls them Crackerlings, makes them sound good enough to eat; crunchy, crackly, and good with dip. And the three pillars of Cracker life, you ask? Food and laughter and food. 

 

Recipes are ordered according to season. The glorious Cracker spring is first up. She talks about her childhood for a spell. Every menu and recipe includes a good deal of context. Then she offers a menu fit for spring including Crab Bisque, Easter Ham, Potatoes au Gratin, Green Bean Bundles, Mama's Cornbread, Cracklin' Cornbread, Easter Bunny Cake, Iced Tea, and Light Lemony Iced Tea.

 

Spring menu does not disappoint. When I saw the Easter Ham recipe I hoped, I wondered, I grew quizzical. Will it be a coca-cola ham? It was! It is! Somehow I escaped childhood in the Mountain South, having never eaten a coca-cola ham. Leave it to a Brit to get me to try it. Nigella Lawson offers a recipe in one of her books. I've followed it several times and end up with a truly delicious bit of ham. Scoff not!

 

Her Mama's Cornbread recipe uses yellow cornmeal. There is great debate about cornbread in the South centering on whether to use white cornmeal or yellow. As I recall, if it's not yellow, it isn't southern. The same holds true for sugar. If it has sugar in it, it's due to some Northern intervention. Alas, I prefer cornbread made with white cornmeal and sugar and that's an anomaly I attribute to my Baltimore-born mother--due to the Great Migration/Appalachian diaspora.

 

Next up Owens provides recipes for bridal and baby showers. Recipes are what you'd expect: chicken salad, dill dip, candied pecans, punch. Her recipe for Cold Coconut Cake caused me to take a second look for two reasons. First, I love coconut anything. And second, she uses a cake mix. Peculiar. Very peculiar. However, the pound cake recipe following is made completely from scratch and thus has somewhat redeemed herself in my eyes. I rarely use cake mix. It's just a thing with me. You know, cake mix snob that I am.

 

After reviewing her Pecan Pie recipe I knew immediately that I wouldn't try it. I like my own best of all, and the problem with hers-- in my estimation--is that she doesn't cook the corn syrup, sugar, and butter together in a saucepan first or go through several other steps that make ingredients in my pecan pie coalesce, and thus, truly divine.

 

But come summer, you bet I'll try her Peanut Butter Pie recipe. I'm a sucker for them. I used to seek out the best Key Lime Pie recipe ever, but since I found that long ago, I'm on to PBP.

 

For the most part the recipes in Cracker Kitchen are what you expect to find in a Southern or Coastal cookbook. However, once the leaves turn gold and brown and fall comes to the Panhandle, hunters provide all the wild game meat a gal--or guy--could dream of. Owens has recipes for Venison Roast, Fried Rabbit, Fried Cooter, Fried Frog Legs, Baked Armadillo, Rattlesnake, Roast Possum & Sweet Potatoes, and Stewed Squirrel. 

 

One of the problems with most cookbooks is that to find a decent game meat recipe, you must buy a very specialized book. And while Ted Nugent may be a musician and hunter, I have my doubts that Kill It and Grill It: Ted and Shemane Nugent's Guide to Preparing & Cooking Wild Game and Fish is anything other than a novelty. So pick this book instead, for it's southern standards and game meat recipes.

 

A last surprise was Velveeta Rocky Road Fudge. Velveeta in fudge? While it's not as shocking as Baked Armadillo, I suppose it comes as no real surprise.  Inventive ingredients doesn't always trickle from the top down via those molecular gastronomists and such. 

 

Many of Owens's recipes are standard fare that you'll find in most Southern cookbooks. She seasons her deviled eggs with dill, something I don't do and haven't tried. But I shall. Hands down that bit of dill has got to be an improvement over deviled eggs stuffed with a mixture of boiled egg yolk and 1000 Island dressing that I was instructed to make for Christmas Eve dinner. Tried it. Didn't like it at all. 

 

You want this book for Owens's delightful stories, her impressive turns of phrase, and her edification of Cracker culture. It's a necessity for understanding the people who proudly call themselves Crackers.  Say, for example, if Katie Lee Joel did something as narratively rich with her Comfort Table to uplift West Virginians, then I would have kept my copy rather than selling it to the used book store in town.