It's the Simple Things

I'm thinking about cornbread right now. In fact, I'm kind of obsessing about it. The best kind is moist in the middle and crunchy on the outside. Where you get the oven super hot, pour in the oil and then almost fry that stuff. My Mama made it really thick and Yankee-like, but it was still pretty good and she didn't put sugar in it like some Yankees do. I always put a lot of bean juice on hers, to soften it up. I remember the first time I ate collards. I didn't want to. Those things stank up the kitchen something terrible. Daddy told me "Take a bite of collards, then a bite of that buttered cornbread. Let it marinate together in your mouth." Earthy, warm, rich, the salty butter mixed with the bread and greens. There is nothing quite like it. I still do not understand when I go to a restaurant and they give you this little tiny bowl of collards. They are the cheapest thing you can make, but they parcel those out like an old stingy miser. I was raised eating half a plate full, then a couple chunks of cornbread and some black-eyed peas to go with it. It's the thriftiest way to eat and also the best. (And after you're done with supper, crumble up another piece into a bowl, throw some salt and hot milk or buttermilk on it and try not to explode into next week).

Back when I was painting murals for rich folks, I did a number of jobs for a dear lady in Buckhead. She and her husband were loaded, but had the most fun, hospitable home. Every time I worked there, which was many times, she insisted that I eat with them. There was no caviar, no filet mignon. It was pure country cooking, with beans and greens. And the best cornbread I ever put in my mouth. She'd pull out this fancy grain mill that sounded like an airplane taking off. Then she'd haul out a sack of corn, apparently straight from the feed store. After whirling it through that contraption and heating up her oven way high, she liberally poured oil in her cast iron skillet and stuck it back in there to heat up. After mixing up her special ingredients, the concoction was carefully poured into the skillet, rather thinly. You could hear it frying across the room. In short order, she'd pull it out of the oven and call us to come eat. They were lean, healthy people, but they slathered real butter all over their food. I learned that she always made the cornbread, no matter what else she made. Her husband told me he couldn't wait to get home every night, just so he could get another helping of that delicious stuff. I think he still had a crush on her, after all those years. How could he not?

One day, a couple of years ago, I had had a grueling day trying to get a house to closing. I met up with the husband at Uncorked in Villa Rica. We decided we were just going to have appetizers and something to drink, rather than a full meal. Someone mentioned the cornbread, so we ordered it. My expectations were low. I was hungry but didn't want to commit to four courses. It took awhile, but it finally arrived, steaming and looking well-done. I was worried it might be dry, like my Mama's. But when I bit into it, it was another one of those culinary wishes come true. Crunchy on the outside, moist on the inside. There were bits of bacon baked into it. They recommended butter and some fancy jelly on it. I thought that was strange, until I tasted it. No wonder I'm fat.

I'm on a strange diet now. They say it's supposed to fix my gut biome, whatever that is. I'm drinking bone broth, taking supplements and making fresh juice every day. I couldn't bear one more bowl of broth tonight, so I just drank green stuff and started dreaming of cornbread, collards and beans (don't forget the butter). Maybe if I'd have just stuck with that all these years, I'd still be lean and my guts wouldn't be giving me fits. Country roads, take me home...