tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43719000873279737112024-10-24T10:21:23.376-05:00A Yankee goes native in Memphis, cooking with local peaches, okra, catfish--anything she can get her scratchy wool mittens on.Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-31284475456098883032010-02-11T08:51:00.000-06:002010-02-11T08:51:54.066-06:00

Warning: this post is only sort of about Southern food. I'll try to talk you into believing it is a little later, but really, it's not. It might be more about the urge to mother by braising.   Last Friday I cooked a 3-lb. brisket. It was an irrational act--my husband doesn't eat red meat and both of my kids together can hardly polish off a burger. But it was taking up space in my freezer,

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-19029208471795320082010-01-26T13:32:00.000-06:002010-01-26T13:32:51.030-06:00

I don't usually recommend preparing foods that require an entire fluid ounce of red dye to achieve their ideal expression, but there's got to be a first time for everything. The confluence of my younger son's 2nd birthday, a looming deadline for a Valentine's-Day themed column, and ownership of several pounds of cream cheese from Costco got me thinking--not always a good thing--and I thought my

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-80437236011914038892009-12-02T14:04:00.004-06:002009-12-02T22:08:50.024-06:00

Monday Morning Coming Down I just ate lunch.  Not exactly breaking news, but in the glutted days after Thanksgiving, lunch takes on a halcyon character: a turkey sandwich here, a nibble of stuffing there. (By the way, down here in Dixie they call it dressing and often make it from cornbread. I will never do either.) Delight, already cooked, greets me every time I open the fridge. In

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-19317812461833682162009-11-18T16:51:00.003-06:002009-11-18T16:54:04.480-06:00

A Lengthy Cooldown  Here in the Mid-South, fall lasts forever.  It's not like Chicago, my last perch, where the shoulder seasons--spring and fall--are technicolor blips on the way from the pure steel gray of winter to the deep somnolent green of summer. A Memphis autumn is a long slow slide from crippling heat through endless rain to crisp days that remind me of New England but never

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-56916312453228049832009-10-29T10:05:00.002-05:002009-10-29T10:20:01.113-05:00

I really want you to continue reading my blog, so today’s post is a bit of a risk.  But I’m betting that all 8 of you out there are going to hang in there with me.  We can get through this together. This fall, I’m taking a journalism class that’s got me writing all kinds of stuff that’s out of my comfort zone.  Add a husband who’s carrying on like a traveling salesman—no, not that

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-41032125784038170762009-10-07T14:51:00.001-05:002009-10-07T14:53:07.345-05:00

It’s probably too late for you to befriend this lonely little peach, but if there are any like it at your local farmers’ market, consider this.  Once a year, when the straggler peaches—likely the ones stunted in an early frost or just unloved by the elements—hang late on the trees, lovers of the rare and strange can savor a delicacy. I stumbled upon it last year, when we had baskets of

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-10058204066373769032009-09-30T14:13:00.001-05:002009-09-30T14:30:15.642-05:00

Only barbecue is more of a Dixie cliche than catfish, but grits beats them both.  (Yes, I treat grits as a singular noun.  No one eats a grit.  Wanna fight?)  And so the resumption of my blogging activities compels me to enter with all guns a-blazing, or however the phrase goes.  Herewith, a dinner comprised almost entirely of Southern standards, including my

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-26537731813418227092009-09-16T12:41:00.001-05:002009-09-16T13:04:25.684-05:00

Forgive me readers, for I have sinned. It's been one year, three weeks, and two days since my last post. It seems that after a hasty sign-off, I promised to return with tales of canning and pie-making. Gus was having cranial surgery and our then 6-month-old, Solly, was waiting for us in Ethiopia. I thought I'd be back when the fuss died down.  I guess the fuss lasted longer than I'd

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-61111511236716007562008-07-07T19:53:00.005-05:002008-07-07T20:18:59.213-05:00

I wish I could tell you I was biting into a peach right now. I thought I would be; my first tree's fruits will be ripe this weekend. But by Thursday, I'll be on an airplane headed to Africa, so I won't be harvesting them. Fortunately, I have the kind of friends who show up for me when the chips are down, so I can count on them to go up there and feast. And lest you suspect me of irony, I

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-89889981916154370242008-06-25T10:43:00.023-05:002008-06-26T11:39:46.598-05:00

Yesterday morning I got a polite request for a new post from my excellent friend and most faithful reader, Cheryl. Please! I've been out of town and then swamped with my son's birthday party, farmers' market business, and other stuff you don't want to hear about. I'm not one of those intrepid bloggers who posts from her Blackberry--I'm a blogger who eats blackberries. However, it's nice to

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-35227954458553485942008-06-04T21:45:00.010-05:002008-06-04T23:05:44.900-05:00

Some years ago, my dad and stepmom gave me a charming framed botanical illustration of a Lizzie Peach for Christmas. (No one else does anymore, but they still call me Lizzy.) The print hangs on my dining room wall, unmarred by Bill's name. (Unfortunately, I'm not quite savvy enough to get a clean version of the print up here, but you can see her blushing sweetness anyway. ) I was looking at it

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-51503183187048936022008-05-28T21:21:00.012-05:002008-05-28T22:17:35.279-05:00

Yes, that sound you hear is the first of the Great Peaches of 2008 rolling towards a farmers' market near you. Or maybe it was the stampede of otherwise-reasonable people shoving each other aside to get at them. Last Saturday, Jones brought several dozen boxes of Derby peaches to the MFM. (A reminder to all readers: start posting those peach recipes now!) You could just feel the pent-up

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-14813797389095158262008-05-25T21:49:00.011-05:002008-05-25T23:17:01.870-05:00

We had an open house kind of party on New Year's Day and without reflecting too deeply on my hubris (I guess if I had, I wouldn't have committed it), I bought a country ham at Schnuck's, the Memphis grocery store with some local cred. They stock several types, but I went for Tripp's, because I've been to their place and they were really nice. Oh, and the ham is great. Melissa Petersen wrote

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-31127165729797468792008-05-19T20:19:00.015-05:002008-05-19T22:02:55.291-05:00

Once my blog was shipshape, as many of you know I emailed lots of friends and relatives to announce its debut. One of my favorite responses came from my friend Nancie McDermott (whom I met at the Greenbrier Symposium for Professional Foodwriters), mistress of many idioms and genius author of Southern Cakes and Real Thai. She balks at posting comments, claiming a lack of tech savvy. I'm giving her

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-49555038455926595622008-05-17T20:55:00.006-05:002008-05-18T20:44:37.497-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, the strawberries made great jam but not such great snacks. By this Saturday morning, after a good dose of sun, the berries at the Farmers' Market had ripened red and sweet to the core and were perfuming the entire south end of the arcade. I staggered home with a bag full of loot: fresh goat cheese from Bonnie Blue, chicken and Berkshire pork butt from West Wind Farms,

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-4356118039812616162008-05-13T22:06:00.008-05:002008-05-19T19:45:41.056-05:00

Well, tonight's is a kwik-e post, since I spent all my allotted blog time diddling with the photo in my header. Now you're seeing some preadolescent peaches up there, and aren't they purdy? When I drove up to the orchard last week, Mr. Jones, Sr. showed me the difference between a young peach that had frost damage and one that didn't. Look closely:Can you see the center, where the pit will form?

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-68491219528502999102008-05-07T19:42:00.000-05:002008-05-07T21:25:56.793-05:00

Last year, the Easter bunny was cruel. He was cold. Because of his frosty ways, Memphians and their neighbors had to survive the summer without local peaches or blueberries.Here’s what happened: For a few nights in early April 2007, the temperature dropped below freezing, even into the teens in some places. This would have been bad under normal circumstances, but was especially damaging

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4371900087327973711.post-91650472972097144012008-05-05T22:20:00.000-05:002008-05-05T23:06:56.536-05:00

I've seen peach blossoms from the road, I suppose. They don't look much differentfrom apple blossoms or cherry blossoms. Unless they are your peach blossoms, in which case their tender petals swell before your eyes with promise and mystery and parental anxiety. What if hordes of ravening deer come and nibble you? What if a prophylactic rain of volcanic ash shrouds your charms and prevents

Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07745397609840457103noreply@blogger.com0