A Plate Full

My mother is a Southern woman.  She moved with my Dad to the Northeast, but has always remained a Southern woman.  It has been my experience that people in the South know how to cook.  And eat.  She comes from a long line of good cooks. She grew up with her mother trading recipes with her friends and relatives, always trying to outdo one another.  It occasionally got so competitive that they would leave an ingredient out, or alter the measurements in a small way so that the resulting recipe was never quite as good as the original.  They were women who wore house dresses and aprons, who got dressed up, hats and gloves, matching bags and shoes, to go to town in the afternoon.  Elizabeth, Inez, Snooks, Dorothy and Avanelle, women who took pride in and were known by their sour cream pound cake, fried chicken, or particularly light biscuits.  They cooked with the seasons, from the gardens, according to the weather.  They were locavores before there was term for it.  They passed their expertise to their daughters, who taught their daughters, and so on, and so on, and now I’m telling you about a favorite.   A simple dish, perfect for the hot sultry days of August, when the produce is rolling in from the gardens but it’s just too hot to cook.

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