Photo - Eliot Landy
Sly George, Little Mo, Lean Frank and several of the always straggling unnamables came to my doorstep, naturally, calling out together in a most unavoidable voice.
“We need direction!” they shouted.
“We need inflection!”
“We need our compasses re-magnetized!”
“We need meat!”
“And perhaps some bread…”
Little Mo nodded when they asked for bread. I was busy studying Galileo’s backwards handwriting, which looked pretty normal to me.
“I see you got the door already open,” I answered.
They fell inside like a Marx Brothers scene and it was lively for a while, but the conversation died down until only the grumbling of stomachs was heard.
Lean Frank was leaning against the wall, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife.
“Bread and meat,” I mumbled. The maid was out protesting in solidarity over the treatment of hotel workers, so I went to the kitchen to see what I could find.
First rule of cooking is, of course, steal a recipe from someone else and change it slightly, then call it your own. For instance, call it your great aunt’s cobbler or your ma’s pot pie.
I got this recipe from a Civil War time cookbook, out of Appalachia, and added my special ingredients.
Bob’s Special Country Ham and Red Eye Gravy
Slice ham. You have to get a country ham first, or get the maid to get one, which luckily enough she did before she went off protesting. I’ve been meaning to talk to her about my own experiences with the whole protest thing. Anyway, get the pan hot. The best kind of pan is a black cast iron skillet that’s at least twenty years old and is as seasoned as Charlie Patton’s voice. Take the old dented can that’s got bacon grease in it down from the shelf and put one tablespoon into the pan. Watch it sizzle. Cook the ham on both sides. Remove ham from pan. Add yesterday’s coffee to drippings, with small palmful of flour. Salt and plenty of pepper. Stir until it’s gravy. Serve over ham, with grits and hot biscuits. While I myself can’t make grits or hot biscuits, a Southern dark-eyed beauty who I met a few days back and thinks my name’s Bobby Darren and I own the town shoe store was gracious enough to step in for that part of the recipe. You’ll need to find yourself your own dark-eyed beauty.
All the unnamables slurped up the ham, gravy and fixin’s like there was no tomorrow. Which there probably isn’t. Little Mo, always watchful, said, “You know, Bob, I’ve had country ham and red eyed gravy my whole long, sweet life, and while I have to say this is some fine eatin’, it don’t seem to me to be all that different than the country ham and red eyed gravy I’ve had before. What is it makes yours special?”
“Astute observation, Mo,” I said. “Secret’s what I slipped into the coffee. In about forty-five minutes, you’ll see what I mean.”
Bon appetit.
P.S. - When you hear the first lonesome whippoorwill of the season, lay down and roll over three times. Make a wish first, tho. What’ll happen, I can’t say, but it’s a time tested tradition.