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♦ WEDNESDAY, JULY 12, 2006
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CHARLOTTE
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Lifestyle Editor
On the Fourth of July, I enjoyed watching my 2 1/2 year
old granddaughter in her first encounter with creatures of
the poultry-persuasion.
Being mostly used to big friendly dogs, and declawed cats,
Hannah Grace was scared out of her wits when a hen sud
denly squawked and ruffled her feathers in indignation over
being disturbed while laying an egg.
Later, though, she had a chance to “pet” a chicken, caught
and held by her mother, so she left the chicken yard, owned
by her other grandparents’ neighbors on Lake Sinclair, with
eyes full of excitement and a hat full of eggs.
I took pictures while the chicken-yard smell and noises
brought back memories of my own childhood.
Not fond memories, I’m afraid. Memories of the world’s
dumbest and most aggravating creatures, that my grand
mother, who was otherwise a very bright lady with plenty
to do, insisted on having by the hundreds.
I could have told Hannah a lot about chickens - about
cleaning roosts, about getting eggs out from under recalci
trant maternal hens, about chasing the chickens that were
always escaping and trying to catch them before the neigh
borhood dogs did. And about being chased in turn by the
meanest rooster in the world. (We called him Ronster)
I don’t think at her age of innocence she made the connec
tion between the chickens she watched with wide eyes and
the chickens we eat, and I didn’t tell her that, personally, I
saw that little brown hen as a fryer.
Fried chicken was one of the great treats of my childhood,
and not an everyday occurrence. It appeared on the table
on Sundays, with other only-on-Sunday foods, like buttered
white dinner rolls, canned pear salads and lemon meringue
pies.
Why was it so special when we had so many chickens?
I understand better as an adult, because if I were sent
by time machine back to the good ol’ days and asked to
raise, catch, kill and scald and clean and cut up chickens,
I’d be the first one to ask, “Why don’t we just have Hoppin’
John??
Do you know about
Hoppm’ John?
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Curiously, even some southerners don’t. I grew up eating
it as a main dish, but even then knew people who never ate
it. They ate peas. They ate rice. They didn’t eat peas and
rice together.
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Ipawhin’ chickens.
Hoppin’ John and
other southern matters
Hoppin’ John, for those of you who’ve never had it, is
black-eyed peas on rice. It is related to bean and rice dishes
from all around the world that sustain millions of people.
Some people cook both together. Some, like me, cook the
rice and peas separately. Any kind of rice will do. Brown
rice is the best bet health-wise. Basmati or Texmati rice are
worth a little extra cost for taste.
You can buy pretty good black-eyed peas in cans, and even
better ones frozen, though you need to cook them about an
hour slowly, instead of following the quickie instructions on
the bag.
I know that some people start with dried peas, but I’m at
loss to understand why, when the frozen ones are as close to
fresh as you can get without shelling them yourself.
You can even use field peas or crowder peas, or mix sev
eral southern peas. You can use ham hock, or you can be
calorie-conscious and use the Goya Jambon seasoning.
In my childhood we added chopped green pepper and
onions before eating it. I’ve learned that adding chopped
sun-ripened tomato is good, too, and that cold salsa on top
of hot Hoppin John is really good.
What you’ve got is a dish that tastes good and is good for
you - since the peas and rice add up to a complete protein,
and the peas are fiber powerhouses.
And besides that, it’s about as cheap as a main dish can
get. If the economy collapses, you can make it on Hoppin’
John and maybe some hoecake, and whatever greens you
can find.
Why is it called Hoppin’ John? Check around on the
Web and you’ll find dozens of theories, but the truth is that
nobody knows, and the closest thing to a credible answer is
that it’s a mispronunciation of the French “Pois Pigeon,”
pronounced Pwah Pee Jon, and meaning Pigeon Peas.
It also goes well with fried chicken in case you want to
pick some up on the way home.
** * *
Com on the cob
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My grandmother grew up
on a farm, and even though
she lived in town and had a
full time job as county school
superintendent, and bragged
that she had never worn an
apron in her life, she was
of the conviction that money
spent in grocery stores for
food you could grow yourself
was money wasted. So in
addition to the infernal chick
ens we had every imaginable
vegetable growing in the
backyard and even a man who
came with a mule and plow to
help with this small “farm.” I
have memories of pulling car
rots out of the ground, wash
ing them under the backyard
spigot, and eating them right
then. As for the strawberries,
I think we ate them as fast as
they got ripe, so they seldom
made it to the kitchen. I also
remember being sent to pick
corn after the water was put
on to boil, and of shucking it,
but never quite getting all the
“hair” off - a job my mother
finished. Then the corn went
into a • large pot filled with
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Hannah Perkihs meets her first chicken, held by her
mother Gretchen.
boiling water.
Some cookbooks will tell you to boil it 5 minutes. I’d say
10 is better, and add a little sugar to the pot along with a
little salt. Finish it off with lots of butter, salt and pepper.
PS. Nobody back then ever threw an ear of corn away just
because one of those little green corn worms showed up dur
ing the shucking.
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478-988-2643
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